Saying good bye to Pop Pop

Ginny sat perfectly straight and still, her little hands neatly folded in her lap. Eyes never leaving the hypnotic pendulum of the antique grandfather clock in the corner, she seemed oblivious to her surroundings. Only if you looked closely could you see a smidgen of emotion with the slightest tremble of her lower lip.

Celia stole a glance at her daughter, and in retrospect realized that this was no place to bring a seven year old. But Ginny had thrown a tantrum, insisted she was a big girl, and demanded to see her beloved Pop Pop one more time.

Getting ready this evening, Ginny had played the part of child mature beyond her years: choosing what to wear herself (a navy dress, appliquéd with pink flowers and matching ribbon for her long blonde hair), telling funny stories from her day at school that made them both erupt into nervous  giggles, and even consoling Celia as they walked hand in hand to the front door of the funeral home. But the strange smells, hysterical crying, piped-in somber hymns and intonations melted her bravado.

“Oh you poor dear,” a stooped, white-haired and heavily wrinkled woman said, patting Ginny on the head with her bony fingers.  “He was so fond and proud of you. Do you know you look just like your mama?”

Celia crossed the linoleum-floored room in three steps and swooped Ginny into her arms.

“It’s time to go honey,” Celia said. “Are you sure you don’t want to say goodbye now?”

“No,” Ginny said, her eyes downcast and shaking her head slowly from side-to-side. “No, I don’t think so.”

Celia turned slightly and nodded once.  Holding Ginny’s head against her chest, she covered Ginny’s  exposed ear with her hand as tightly as she could as the coffin lid thudded shut.









 

Creative Copy Challenge - How Fun!

Great new writing challenge from www.CreativeCopyChallenge.com. Use the 10 words they give you to write a short story ... here's my first attempt.Required words are in bold.  Enjoy!

The first bedroom had an ethereal quality about it.  Wispy, gauzy curtains fluttered in the summer breeze and everywhere you looked you saw a unicorn.  On coffee mugs, as stuffed animals, appliquéd on the bedspread and on the headboard which teetered between grotesque and ornate.

“Let me show you the rest of the house,” Sam the androgynous real estate agent said. Was Sam a first name or short for Samantha? Who could tell? He/she had a morose quality about him/her that gave me the willies.

Wily, my rambunctious Chihuahua, must have had the same unsettling instinct. He suddenly leapt out of my arms and ran to the front door. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I called after him as I followed him into the foyer.

He barked twice at me.  “Are you sure?” I asked him.

“Woof.”

“I’m sorry Sam, the one loophole I failed to mention is that if Wily doesn’t like it, it’s a deal breaker.”

“What a namby-pamby excuse,” he/she said.  Get out.”

WFMAD - Entry #2

Today's assignment: Pick a painting by Picasso and write about it. GO!
Start time: 11:16 p.m.

The loneliness and solitude became almost unbearable at times. She slipped off one shoe and placed it on the shoe rack, where all the others were perfectly lined up. Why? What was the point? She grabbed her other shoe and threw it across the room, hitting the wall. Hard. What IS the point? She snatched a sandal from the shoe rack and threw it, this time hitting the polka-dotted lamp shade that was supposed to brighten the room. Another knocked over an empty picture frame, glass shattering as it hit the tile floor. She threw another, and another, before realizing that the more she threw the more she'd have to eventually retrieve and replace in their proper place because she wouldn't be able to sleep without everything in its place. Tina began undressing, slipping off each piece of clothing, folding it neatly and placing it on the back of the rocking chair in her bedroom. She sat in the middle of the room, turning away from the full-length mirror next to the closet. Just this morning,while getting dressed she had studied herself, taking in her features from head-to-toe as a suitor might. She wasn't supermodel beautiful by any means, but she wasn't unattractive either. This morning she had actually given herself a small smile in the mirror before leaving for work downtown. But now she couldn't stand to look at herself. She crossed her ankles, hugged her legs close to her chest, and rested her forehead on her knees. Her. Heart. Hurt.

Reunion Romance

Celia woke with a start.

At first she wasn't quite sure where she was. This was not her bed, not her comforter, not her writing desk.

THINK, she told herself.

Next to the bed on the nightstand was an empty bottle of wine. No wineglass. No glass at all.

Well, THAT explains the headache.

Slowly she sat up, rubbed her eyes and looked around. She was in a hotel room. Quickly she glanced at the spot beside her.

Uh-oh.

Next to her laying on his stomach was a half-naked man with dark hair. Or he might have been completely naked under the sheet that was pulled just above his ass.

Stephen Marshall.

Oh crap, now it was coming back to her.


Slowly she lifted her side of the sheet up and tried to silently slide to the edge of the bed. Being so very careful not to make any noise, she stepped one foot to the floor, and then the other.

"Hrrrrmmmp"

Celia's head snapped around to at the noise. Stephen was still sleeping; he must have been dreaming or made the sound when he changed positions --- now he was on his side, one arm outstretched to where Celia had been laying just a few moments ago.

I have got to get out of here, she thought.

Celia slowly put one foot down on the floor, and then the other, watching Stephen the whole time.
Let’s see, where would I find my underwear, she thought.
She didn’t see them anywhere on the floor, or even on the chair.  Creeping around the bed, she knelt down to look under the bed.
 
“Looking for these?” Stephen was holding up her undies above his head, swaying them back and forth."I always thought of you in black lacy underwear, not these beigy things," he said.
 
"I was wearing a white dress," she said, reaching up to yank her panties out of his hand.  "And anyway, I don't believe it's any business of yours what type of underwear I wear."

"Well, maybe I want to make it my business," he said, and with that he shoved her underwear under the sheets.

"Come and get them," he sang.

"Forget it, I'll go without."

"Whoa, what's the problem Ce-Ce? Last night was ..."

"Last night was a mistake," she said. "I don't know what you said or what you did to get me here but we should have never done what we did."

"And what is it that you think we did?" Stephen asked.

"Just forget it," Celia said, pulling her dress -- the dress she was wearing last night -- over her head.

"Oh, maybe I don't want to forget it ... it was .. pretty special ... for both of us.""

Celia looked around for her shoes, found them on top of the dresser (how did they get there?) and slipped them on.

Whatever, Stephen, all I know is that I must have been pretty drunk and you took advantage of me and this would have NEVER happened had I been sober.  You are a slime bucket and I don't ever want to see you again."

And with that Celia stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

Royal Flush

I watched from my car as she exited the store.

Carrying three shopping bags from three different high-fashion (a.k.a. expensive) designer stores, she adjusted her $500 sunglasses and checked the multi-thousand dollar watch on her wrist.

Her phone must have rang or vibrated, because she shifted her purchases, dug into her overpriced handbag and retrieved a smartphone. As she brought it to her ear, she tilted her face upward, the sun catching and dancing the samba with her blonde hair.

Whoever was on the other end must have said something funny or endearing, because her face brightened and her smile could have powered the city of Miami on a hot summer day.

Whoever. I knew who.

I shifted the car into reverse. How lucky was I to have found this particular space today.

I had watched her habits for the last three months. Mondays and Wednesdays were gym days. Tuesdays were mani-pedi days. And Thursdays .... Thursdays were her days to buy new lingerie.

Thursdays was what he called poker night with the guys

I then shifted the car into drive and idled for a moment. Watched as she threw her had back and laughed. I used to laugh like that.

She stepped off the curb. I pressed the accelerator.

A red teddy, lacy thongs, and tissue paper flew into the air and landed, scattered across the parking lot. I picked up the teddy. My size. Maybe red was my color after all.

17 years too late

Stephanie sat back in the bar booth, holding her rum and diet coke with both hands.

So many memories. So many dreams.

Like pinballs pinging and ponging from flippers to bumpers to flippers to the inevitable loser's alley, where it didn't matter how hard you hit the flippers, or tilted or kicked the machine ... the steel ball just kept rolling past the last set of plastic flips. And then the game was over.

"Stephanie?"

Her mind raced to places, spaces, moments.

Homecoming. Prom. Graduation parties. College. Hanging out. Football games. Studying. Homecoming. Graduation. Jobs.

"Did you hear what I said? I made a mistake. We should have gone for it."

She took a sip of her drink. And another.

Sleepless nights. Unanswered prayers. Staring at the phone. Waiting for the doorbell.

Lyrics ricocheted from one corner of her mind to the other.

Hopelessly Devoted to You (gag). I Can't Fight This Feelin Anymore. You Belong to the City (because that's the song that was playing the one time they slow danced).

"Aren't you going to say anything?"

His was a life of luxury. Trips to foreign lands. An expensive car, big house.
But not of love, as evidenced by two wives. Several children with visitation privileges. Big divorce settlements.

And yet, here he was. At last. What she always wanted. Dreamed of. Hoped for.

I gave you love, she thought. For years and years. Homebaked cookies. Clocking your time from home to first base. Watching football drills every afternoon until game day. Restoring your ego after a loss. Phone calls lasting until 2 a.m. dissecting your silly relationships. Making sense out of your logistic class.Typing term papers. Being there. Always.

Always.

It would be so easy. She could run away. She would be taken care of. He was one who would always call "the guy" for repairs. Pick his underwear off the floor. Put in a pool. Travel to New York for shows and shopping.

For a moment. For a split second. She considered it.

Stephanie stood. She finished the cocktail in two swallows.

"Thanks for the drink. Tell your Mom I said hello."

How did I get here?

The first thing Amanda noticed when she gained consciousness was the humming of the engines, which muffled the voices and other sounds of the cabin around her.

As she opened her eyes, she realized she was high above the clouds. White clouds that looked like a floor. Not fluffy. Not wispy. More like a horizontal white monolith.

Shifting her gaze, Amanda could tell she wasn't in coach. She was flying first class, and was one of only two people in the cabin. The lone other person was a couple of rows ahead of her, and didn't seem the least bit concerned or aware of her presence.

"May I get you another mimosa, Miss?"

Amanda turned to the voice. A young male flight attendant was picking up an empty champagne flute from the seat divider next to her.

"Another?" he asked.

Amanda nodded once, then as he turned to go, asked "excuse me?"

"Yes maam?"

"Where are we?"

"We just flew over Kansas City."

"Kansas City?"

"Yes maam. Will there be anything else?"

"No, I mean yes. Where are we .... going?"

"Going maam?" The flight attendant, whose nametag read Grant, asked, brow furrowed.

"What is our destination?" Amanda asked. Thinking that although she was completely in the dark about her current situation, she wasn't ready for him to cut her off from the champagne just yet, considering she hadn't remembered having ANY champagne, so she said "I mean, I travel so frequently that sometimes I forget what airport I'm about to land. You know, similar to a rock star who plays a different city every night, although of course, I'm not a rock star" she laughed nervously.

Or am I? she wondered to herself. Of course not. She knew her name. She was Amanda Browning. She was 38 years old, and lived on Anna Maria Island in Florida.

"Of course," he smiled with relief. Normally crazies didn't fly in first class, but you never knew.