The time had come to live again

This week's Red Writing Hood Prompt asked us to write about a season of change. I decided to revisit my prior short fiction piece, The Runaway. I gave you the end before; here is a bit more to her story:

- - - -

The aches pulsing through her back were nothing compared to the lightning stabbing her brain.

What happened? Where am I?

She surveyed the small dark room. The furnishings were old and small. The thin and scratchy linens lay rumpled on the bed. An old clock ticked and tocked on the wall. As the moments passed, the fog within her brain cleared.

The priest. My bags.

He was kind. He listened. He picked her up, literally, from the depths of filth. He awakened her fighting spirit. He helped her to grasp her self-worth that had been long gone for all those months.

She had agreed to follow him, simply for the promise of a warm shower and clean clothes. She trudged through the open doorway and let out a gasp as a smiling, chubby woman made a beeline towards her.

“Welcome! We are so glad to have you here!”

What have I done?

The gentle clergyman remained by her side and placed a hand on her shoulder as she signed her name with a trembling hand. Her body was screaming to run, far and fast, back to the street. Only the slight pressure of human contact kept her moving forward.

He is right. I need this. I don’t want to die.

Once the ink was placed to paper, the chipper woman nimbly snatched her tattered bag.

“We have to keep your belongings, hon. Any substances we find will be destroyed.”

No! Okay. No! But I need them!

She shook her head and forced aside the greedy pleadings inside. She remained silent, eyes cast downward, and simply nodded.

Shower. Sleep. Eventually… home.

The time had come to live again.

Remorse - and forgiveness?

This week's Red Wrtiting Hood prompt (via the Red Dress Club) asked us to revisit a former post and give it an overhaul:

"Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul. Change the point of view. Write it from a different perspective. Try dialogue. Make it a narrative. Play with tense or organizational structure. You know, kill those babies. Oh, and by the way? Trim it down to 400 words or less."

I revised my first blog fiction piece, titled "Runaway". It's a story of remorse and the hope for forgiveness. The original can be found HERE.

RUNAWAY (take two)

The sun emerges above the horizon; her aching body begins to wake. Her ears heed the cacophony of sounds: humming car engines, squeaking brakes, rubber tires hugging the bridge deck above. A groan from her own lips, as she wills her miserable body to a sitting position. Grimy blankets are tossed aside. She is thankful for the greening of the trees and the hearty sprouts of wild daffodils. Never again will she take for granted the warmth of spring. Struggling to run her fingers through her matted hair, she reflects on the path ahead. How slowly will the hours pass? Will her abused sneakers survive the - hopefully final - journey? Her stomach gurgles… will she get to eat?

Perhaps today will bring the miracle she so desperately needs.

She is taking a risk, bringing only what fits in her battered backpack and leaving the rest. Come tonight, if she is forgiven, she will wash away the evidence of a life gone wrong.

“I hope this nightmare ends today,” she mutters as her feet met the sidewalk for the nineteenth day in a row. She whispers to the sky, “Come on God, give me a break. I screwed up, I get it. I’m clean now. You know how much I need this.”
-

The widow wakes, as she has for the past two years, with a heart full of loneliness and a mind full of questions. Where is my daughter? Is she alive? How did it come to this? Her brain understands she is not to blame; she did everything in her power to pull her only child away from the demons of addiction. But with each passing day, guilt prevails over logic.

Determined, she locks away the hurt and pleads for strength. “Please, Lord, help me make it through today. Bless her, wherever she may be.”
-

The younger woman walks. Eats a lunch someone else deemed as trash. With each purposeful step, her future nears.
-

By the time the sky turns to dusk again, the widow is sunk into her 20-year-old easy chair. Television her only companion.

A noise breaks through the fog of loneliness. The doorbell. Startled, but starving for human interaction, the woman shuffles her slippered feet towards the door.
-

Two pairs of weary eyes meet over the threshold. The face outside, a dirt-covered image of remorse. The older woman, at first confused. Then recognition… trembling. She gasps.

“Mom…”, whispers the younger woman. “Mom… I’m home.”

- - - - -

Mama says

Trying my hand at fiction again for The Red Dress Club! This post is pure fiction. It is not about me, my past, or anyone I know. Nor does it represent pageant enthusiasts as a whole.
- - - - - -

I don’t like that sound. That hissing sound from too many spray cans in one place. I don’t like the smell. Fumes, Mama calls them. Just fumes. Nothing to worry about.

I cannot remember a time without the fumes.

Fake tan. Hairspray. Body glitter. Even more hairspray.

I am a five-year-old beauty queen.

Despite being six months away from Kindergarten, I am already considered a pro. My Hello Kitty bedroom is full of ribbons and trophies. I was two years old for my first pageant. My walk is sassy and confident. My smile is white, bright, and big. My hair? Even bigger. Mama has a passion for hairspray.

Mama has a passion for pageants. She is always pushing. Practice more. Stand up straighter. Don’t squint.

I never asked to be a beauty queen.

Mama told me I would be a beauty queen. She always said it was something she couldn’t do. She always said it was important. It was what I was meant to do. Because I’m pretty.

No one asked me.

Today is my best friend Audrey’s birthday party. She turned five on Thursday while we were at school. Our teacher, Ms. Linda, gave her a birthday hat and we all sang “Happy Birthday” during snack time. We had cupcakes for our special snack that day – pink cupcakes with sprinkles on top. My birthday was last month. Mama didn’t have time to send in a special snack, but at least I got to wear a birthday hat.

I did not have a birthday party. We had a pageant that weekend. Instead of playing with my friends and eating cake, I pranced and posed and shimmied. Mama said it was a really special weekend – such an important competition for me. She sculpted my hair into a big poof and snapped a hairbow on to hold it in place. The hairbow pulled and hurt a little. I wanted to cry, but Mama told me there was a price for beauty.

I wish I could have had a party.

It was hard to fall asleep last night. Thoughts of Audrey’s birthday party swirled through my mind. But when Mama shook me awake early this morning, she was wearing her big button proclaiming “Pageant Mom. I (heart) my daughter!”. It was good I hadn’t had breakfast yet, because my tummy did a sad little flip. That button could only mean one thing; we were going to a pageant. Mama smiled and picked at my hair. She always complains that I sleep on it funny. I cried – silently, because Mama doesn’t like the sound. How could she forget about Audrey’s party? Mama said parties are for babies, we have a good chance to win today. And why would I want to miss that?

Crying makes my eyes puffy, so I had to stop.

In the car, we listened to my song six times. Mama said I will sing better tonight after the hot tea. I think hot tea is gross.

We crossed the state border and arrived at the civic center by 11:05.

Audrey’s party started at 11:00.

I wonder if she’s having fun?

- - - - - -




This week's prompt:

Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait.

All he could eat

Today's post is inspired by The Red Dress Club prompt: gluttony.

The post is fictional (I don't have three kids!), but if you've ever been on a cruise, you know the "Bobs" do exist!

- - -
The minivan was packed. Two large and two medium-sized suitcases proudly displayed colorized tags. The three kids, ages 3, 6, and 11, chattered happily as we merged into the flow of traffic and ventured down I-95 towards the port. We could barely contain our own excitement; we cranked up some summer tunes and smiled.

This year’s cruise? Was going to be memorable. Thanks to savvy saving and a chunk of inheritance from a dearly departed loved one, we were cruising in style. No cramped, tripping-over-luggage, fighting-for-the-tiny-capsule-shower stateroom this year; we were going to enjoy paradise from a family suite. It was going to be fabulous; we would remember our luxury trip for years to come.

Fast forward a couple years. We are still talking and laughing about that vacation. It was memorable, all right; the suite was perfect, the weather was divine. We took great pleasure in awaking each morning to a new, picturesque island view.

But the most memorable? Not exactly what we expected.

Over seven days of cruising, our dinner companion earned a place in family vacation history.

We were assigned a table for eight in the main dining room, which meant our family was joined with another traveling party of three. The two ladies were nice enough; we chatted briefly at the start of each meal, comparing our adventures from the day. We did not speak much to Bob, the man occupying seat number eight. He was not one for talk - he was one for eating.

His eyes were glued to the menu the instant his large behind spread into the chair. “Gotta get my money’s worth”, he often said. (In fact, that may have been the only thing he ever said.)

Night after night, without fail, Bob selected a soup, two appetizers, an entrée, and two desserts from the ship’s featured menu. And he ate it ALL. Every drop, every morsel, every crumb found its way into Bob’s seemingly bottomless belly. My children stared in astonishment as plate after plate of food was presented, cleared, and sent away. They stifled giggles when Bob dripped soup down his shirt (often). Thankfully, they held back giggles when, at the end of each epic eating event, Bob pushed back his chair and loosened the button on his pants.

“Gotta get my money’s worth!” he chuckled, making my stomach churn.

I wish we had a photo of Bob. He was the star of our vacation. The kids insist on mimicking him at the dinner table, frequently shoving food in their faces as quickly as possible, laughing together as they remember how much he ate – and with such fervor.

They are already asking when we will go on another cruise.

I think, perhaps, I’ll insist on a private table for five.

Fallen star

(This is a work of fiction for The Red Dress Club)

She was on her way to the Walk of Fame.

My childhood friend.

Actress. Singer.

Superstar.

You didn’t just watch her; you could feel her. Her presence captivated every being in the room. A fly buzzing around a warm spotlight? It too, probably stopped and fell silent.

She achieved greatness – reveled in ever-glowing Broadway lights and eventually made it in Hollywood. Yet I still felt her friendship. She maintained a private connection between us somehow, the only true confidante I had ever known. My best friend.

I was afraid when she faltered. I was shattered when she crashed.

She lashed out at paparazzi. She couldn’t sleep. She turned to negative influences in a feeble attempt to regain the comfort she used to know. This shining star? Squandered her light. My poised friend? Lost her grace.

Eventually, I forced myself to tell her goodbye.

A ringing phone burst through my dreams around 2 a.m. on a rainy night. I heard the sobbing even before I croaked out my semi-conscious hello.

“She’s gone. She’s dead!”, her mother managed through tearful outbursts. My friend who had it all was no more. She pushed the limits on her life – and the prescription bottle of Valium on her nightstand.

Her funeral was simple. Elegant. I glanced out the church window and glared at the photographers with disgust. I prayed for the anger and pain to release through the tears that rolled down my face. For days afterward, I struggled to get out of bed. I nourished myself with the few staples remaining in the pantry. I cried. I beat myself up. I cried more.

The phone rang incessantly. Friends, neighbors, and reporters wanted to talk about the now-sensationalized news story. I yanked the cords and vowed never to answer the phone again.

Mail was overflowing on the side table where I haphazardly tossed it each day. I sighed. It was time to take a small step towards life again. There, in between a utility bill and flyer full of coupons, was a pink 4x6 index card with no postage, my name scrawled on one side.

I collapsed onto my knees. My blood pressure spiked. Was this a joke? No... I‘ve seen that handwriting for 22 years. It was her.

Later, with shaking hands and vomit rising in my throat, I pushed open the door to the pizzeria. Except for one table with three sauce-covered children, the place was quiet. I scanned the room – there she was. Now a blonde in a baggy sweatshirt.

“What the hell?!?” I demanded in an angry whisper. I slid into the booth, relived but trembling with fury.

She looked up, her face still gorgeous but her eyes filled with tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I tried to call sooner, but you never answered. What happened to your phone?”

“You have no idea,” I said through gritted teeth. “I… I don’t know if I’m ready to face you. Just talk. Quickly.”

She tried to stifle her tears by pressing on her eyes with a napkin.

“I ordered a deep-dish pizza.”

I glared at her.

“It takes a while to bake,” she blurted out quickly, “so the waiter should stay away for a bit.”

I continued to stare as she chewed on her bottom lip. She closed her eyes, held her head in her hands. I was losing patience. Finally, she looked me in the eye.

“I was lost… I had it all… but it was… wrong.”

My walls began to crack. “The pressure?”

She sighed. “Pressure, yes. Suffocation. I missed…. life. Me. I know what I did was totally screwed up. I’m so sorry. But… I... needed to start over.”

We stared out the greasy window, unspeaking. The pizza was placed on our table. Drinks remained untouched. She sobbed. I turned to her tear-streaked profile, saw her shoulders shuddering.

I made the first move. I stretched across the table and gently retrieved her hand from her lap. I held it in mine. Eventually, she broke her stare out the window and looked at me.

I smiled.

Tentatively, she smiled back.

I asked for the pizza to go.

Prompt #2: One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in the mail with the words, 'I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.'


 

Fiction Friday: Hop

Happy Friday!

Today is April Fool's Day. I'm not feeling clever enough to come up with an exceptional practical joke, so I decided to dedicate today's post to the other exciting thing about today.


Today is April 1st - and the release of Universal's new movie, Hop! It's an adorable work of fiction, and fits in perfectly on this Fiction Friday.

Thanks to a local preview event, I was a super cool mom and took my family to see the movie two weeks ago. To be completely honest, I thought it was going to be cheesy. A movie only kids would find entertaining. But, luckily, I was wrong! Hop was quite cute and made me laugh out loud on several occasions.

I don't want to spoil any surprises, but here's a quick overview of the film:

The Story:

E.B. is the next bunny in line for the honorable position of Easter Bunny. But he doesn't want the job - E.B. has a dream to be a drummer. The current Easter Bunny, E.B.'s father, does not understand his son's reluctance to claim his birthright. On the eve of the coronation ceremony, E.B. runs away to Hollywood where he meets Fred, a jobless slacker (played by James Mardsen), who hits the Easter-Bunny-to-be with his car. E.B. convinces Fred to take him in, and wreaks havoc on Fred's already messed-up life. Meanwhile, back at Easter Island, a manipulative chick tries to stage a coup. 

My Favorites:

• The Easter Island factory -- I want one!!!
• Feeding the dogs
• The school play
• The dancing chick

(Don't worry... you'll know what I'm talking about once you see the movie!)

Go see this movie with your kids! You will have a great time. If they are anything like my child, they'll be talking about the "bunny movie" for a long time. One word of caution, however... you will most definitely have "I Want Candy" stuck in your head for hours. Maybe even days.

Visit the official Hop website, IWantCandy.com for videos, images, games, and more!

(Disclaimer: I was granted access to a free screening of the movie. There was no requirement to post or tweet about the film, and all opinions stated here are solely mine. Photo Credit: images from IWantCandy.com)

Fiction Friday: She replied!

I can't have a Fiction Friday without a dedication to one of my favorite children's authors, Judy Blume. I wrote a post back in October about my little brush with this famous icon:

OCTOBER 24th, 2010

A Favorite Email

Do you have childhood books you remember vividly?

Do you remember these?

 

My heart broke for Ramona Quimby when she misunderstood a school fad and cracked a raw, gooey egg over her head. And when she overheard her teacher calling her a "showoff" and a "nuisance". And as she fought off pestering from Yard Ape. I identified with Margaret's desire to grow up and away from her life as an "underdeveloped little kid". These girls were so... real.

Several years ago, I read a grown-up Judy Blume book titled Summer Sisters. I liked it. I visited her website to see if she had any others, and came upon her email address. A real, live email address for this writing icon. I just had  to email her - Judy Blume!

So I emailed one of my writing heroes. I told her how much I enjoyed her new book and explained that my childhood years would have been missing something if she hadn't written about Ramona, Beezus, Margaret, and Superfudge.

Guess what? She wrote me back!

Dear Julie,

Thanks so much for your warm note. I'm touched by your feelings about Summer Sisters and how well you remember my other books. Wish there were time for a longer, more thoughtful response, but I'm overwhelmed right now and trying (desperately!) to find the quiet time necessary to write. Hope you understand. Readers like you have made my career and I can never thank you enough.

Come back and visit my website again. Hope to get some new info up soon.

Love,
Judy

I've saved this email ever since. This was before Twitter, before social media, before most blogs. Actually interacting with a famous author was a very special treat for me.
 
I wonder what parts of Amelia's childhood will stick with her? She is already a bookworm, I wonder what books will forever remain a piece of her childhood? Which characters will she identify with?
 
I'd like to keep my girl little forever, but watching her grow up will be mesmerizing.

I wonder who she will be?

Fiction Friday: Laughing Stars

It has been an emotional week. A dear mom friend of mine has been strugging with a serious heart condition and a difficult pregnancy. On Monday morning, she learned that her unborn son (30 weeks) no longer had a heartbeat. They expected to meet him soon, likely inducing labor as soon as she reached 34 weeks. Instead, her little angel was delivered last night. Today, they are grieving and planning a funeral.

For today's Fiction Friday, I am turning to a book that is dear to my heart. I've read it both in the English language and in French during my school years. It is a sweet and thoughtful little story, and this excerpt makes me think of my friend. She will ache because she can't hold him in her arms, but she will see him in the stars.

Now she has her very own star that laughs.

The Little Prince
by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

(Excerpt from chapter 26)

"Dear little man," I said to him, "you are afraid..."

He was afraid, there was no doubt about that. But he laughed lightly.


"I shall be much more afraid this evening..."

Once again I felt myself frozen by the sense of something irreparable. And I knew that I could not bear the thought of never hearing that laughter any more. For me, it was like a spring of fresh water in the desert.

"Little man," I said, "I want to hear you laugh again."

But he said to me:
"Tonight, it will be a year... my star, then, can be found right above the place where I came to the Earth, a year ago..."

"Little man," I said, "tell me that it is only a bad dream-- this affair of the snake, and the meeting-place, and the star..."

But he did not answer my plea. He said to me, instead: "The thing that is important is the thing that is not seen..."

"Yes, I know..."

"It is just as it is with the flower. If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers..."

"Yes, I know..."

"It is just as it is with the water. Because of the pulley, and the rope, what you gave me to drink was like music. You remember-- how good it was."

"Yes, I know..."

"And at night you will look up at the stars. Where I live everything is so small that I cannot show you where my star is to be found. It is better, like that. My star will just be one of the stars, for you. And so you will love to watch all the stars in the heavens... they will all be your friends. And, besides, I am going to make you a present..."

He laughed again.

"Ah, little prince, dear little prince! I love to hear that laughter!"

"That is my present. Just that. It will be as it was when we drank the water..."

"What are you trying to say?"

"All men have the stars," he answered, "but they are not the same things for different people. For some, who are travelers, the stars are guides. For others they are no more than little lights in the sky. For others, who are scholars, they are problems. For my businessman they were wealth. But all these stars are silent. You-- you alone-- will have the stars as no one else has them--"

"What are you trying to say?"

"In one of the stars I shall be living. In one of them I shall be laughing. And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing, when you look at the sky at night... you-- only you-- will have stars that can laugh!"

And he laughed again.

"And when your sorrow is comforted (time soothes all sorrows) you will be content that you have known me. You will always be my friend. You will want to laugh with me."

Introducing Fiction Friday

Today, I'm excited - and nervous - to share a piece of my own original fiction.
--------------

RUNAWAY

As the sun rises slowly above the horizon, she stirs. The sounds of the outside world drift to her ears. She hears the drone of car engines, the sounds of squeaking brakes, the wind blowing through a nearby patch of trees. She hears the world going by without her.

She sits up, brushes off her grimy blankets. She is not cold this morning, happy that spring is on the way. As she tries to run her fingers through her matted hair, she reflects on her day ahead. How slowly will the hours pass? Will the kindness of a stranger allow her to quiet her hungry stomach?

As the sun lifts higher in the morning sky, the traffic thickens on the roads. It is time to get moving… about nineteen more miles, if she remembers correctly. It is time to hold her head up high. It is time to give in to that glimmer of hope. Perhaps today will finally bring the miracle she so desperately needs.

She is taking a risk today. Bringing only what fits in her battered backpack and leaving the rest, hoping that she will not need these grungy things anymore. That, come tonight, she will have washed the harshness of the past two years from her hair, her body, and her heart. She has been traveling for nearly two weeks, but her long journey began in what feels like another lifetime.

She knows she screwed up. Her heart is burdened each day with guilt for the hurt she caused. Her tears have fallen night after night since she realized what she had done. She is thankful for the priest who cared enough to sit and talk with her. Who fed her when she was hungry. And who directed her to the clinic where she could finally free herself from the demons of addiction. She has put a lot of miles on her tired feet lately, but today she walks with an extra spring in her step. She is walking towards the hope of forgiveness, the promise of love, the comfort of home.

At the end of the long day, as the sun begins to sink again towards the horizon, she reaches the neighborhood she once knew so well. Her heart is pounding and her hands begin to shake. There is no turning back now. Turning back, she knows, would lead to disaster. This is where she should be. This is the place she never should have left. Never again will she take for granted the tangible love that resides in the house up ahead.

With a repentant heart and a trembling finger, she presses the doorbell. She hears the faint tune of the chime inside the home. She waits, staring down at her thin body. A sound at the door makes her look up. The lock clicks and the door is opened.

The older woman’s look of confusion is instantly washed over with astonishment as recognition dawns upon her.

“Mom…”, whispers the younger woman, “Mom… I’m home.”

A gasp, and the mother drops to her knees. The daughter drops down to her, they embrace. Tears flow freely. Healing tears, the kind that will begin to wash away the dirt of the past. As they cry and stare in wonder at each other, mother and daughter cautiously open the doors to a brand new day.