FICTION: L.A. with Dred

4 Replies

It is so winter right now. And it’s so cold. And all the leaves are brown and the sky is gray, as usual. And I’m sick of it.

I wanted to go with him, I really did. But one thing led to another, as usual, and I was left behind in Gray Sky Chicago. Dred went to L.A. without me, I’m sure.

Maybe I should explain.

I am the most unlucky girl in the world. I mean, ever. And it’s partially my mother’s fault and partially my father’s fault.

Long story short: I was born on Friday the Thirteenth. You may think that’s not my mother’s fault, but she was induced, so yes, she chose my birthday. Then, it was raining on Sunday when we went home from the hospital, and my father wanted to keep me dry. So even though my mom tried to stop him, he opened the umbrella inside. I’d so rather have gotten wet.

I could tell you my unlucky sob story, with all the significant and insignificant details, like how I broke my leg while sleeping when I was 8 months old, how I broke every single plate in my mother’s china just by eating on it, how my folks died in a plane crash when I was twelve (yeah, how often does that happen?), how I went to live with my Wicked Step-Aunt, how my Wicked Step-Aunt kicked me out last year, how I lived with three different friends, and how they all turned out to be losers.

But I won’t; that’s just my luck. Bad things frequently happen to me. I’ll just try to explain why I didn’t go to L.A. with Dred.

I guess I’ll start at the beginning, as usual. Continue reading →

“Lime Cordial, Delicious!”

3 Replies

When my sister and I were young, we watched Mary Poppins almost every day. One favorite part was when Jane, Michael, and Mary were taking their medicine after being caught in the rain.

“Lime cordial, delicious!” says Jane.

“Strawberry, Mmmmmm!” says Michael.

My sister and I would take a spoon, pour water or something in it and pretend it was magicked into delicious lime or strawberry cordial.

This last week, I bought cordial.

Cordial = Kool-Aid.

It was so disgusting. It was so disappointing.

Where in the World Do I Come to the Page?

2 Replies

Right now I sit on the couch with my laptop on my lap. I’m downstairs, beside the playpen full of toys, in our living room. The playpen is empty, the baby that usually occupies it asleep upstairs for his morning nap.

I see the dusty hardwood floor that needs to be swept. I see the dishes in the sink that need to be loaded in to the dishwasher. I see the basket of clean clothes that need to be folded and carefully returned to the dresser.

I have no comfortable chair in a private office with “Do Not Disturb” the door. I have no quiet peaceful retreat on the porch in the early morning hours. I have nowhere beside the couch downstairs or the office chair at my lopsided desk upstairs in the loft.

Instead of doing my chores, I sit here on the couch, my feet on the coffee table, and face the empty page. The cursor blinks.

Response to Write on Wednesday question.

Not Alone

2 Replies

True response to Sunday Scribblings prompt: Guide

I grasped the robe. The volunteer secured the blindfold and nudged me forward.

I stepped tentatively in the dark. Then I heard the voice.

“Let go of the rope!”

I knew the voice: a teenager a few years older than me. He was supposed to make this harder. Another voice joined his.

“Come here! What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?”

I’d known they’d try to distract me, and yet I felt disoriented hearing them while blindfolded.

“Let go of the rope and come here!”

“This is where you want to be!”

I held on and stepped forward, ducking beneath a branch and nearly stumbling on a log.

Then I heard another voice: “Rose.”

Rose, my middle name. Only one person called me Rose: my bishop. My heart calmed.

“There’s another log; step more to the left.”

I felt it and stepped around it. The other voices still called, but I didn’t hear them.

“Don’t let go of the rope.”

I held on and walked forward. Then the rope led to two new ropes: one going one way, one the other.

“Choose the rope on the right.”

I followed the rope on the right.

Soon it was over. Taking off the blindfold, I turned to where the voice had been, but my bishop had gone to help the next person.

As my bishop was my guide on the obstacle course, so God provides me a guide on my daily course: His Holy Ghost, a quiet but sturdy, familiar voice amidst the chaos.

When I first heard the prompt “Guide” I tried to think of something more “secular,” but this experience and sentiment kept returning. It reinforces what I said in the About page to this website: my religion is an incredibly important part of my life, and as such, I can’t separate it from my writing.

A Tricky Mommy is NOT FUNNY!

2 Replies

I was so hungry. I kept saying, “Mommy. I’m hungry. Feed me now.”

But she stood over by that “microwave” thing and stirred. I know what food looks like. I could see my food. It looked yummy. I wanted to eat it.

“Mommy! Feed it to me!” I called out. “Mommy!”

But still she kept stirring.

Finally, she came over with my food. It was mine. I could tell. It was mine, not hers. She had a spoon all ready for me. I sat up and smiled.

Here it comes! I thought. It was my food, and I was going to eat it. I laughed.

Mommy blew on my spoon of food. Then she made it fly all over the room. I had a hard time following it with my eyes. Then it landed-in Mommy’s mouth!

“MOMMY! THAT WAS MY FOOD! HOW DARE YOU EAT IT!”

I was mad. And Mommy was laughing at me.

How dare she!

FICTION: Will We Ever Leave?

2 Replies

True response to 3WW: Change, Dizzy, Key

We’d been awake since 4 repacking the bags and fitting them in the trunk. It was 9 a.m., and my friend had just arrived to drive us to the airport. My growing headache at the thought of the next 24 hours of travel was already starting to make me dizzy and the baby was calling for attention, but he was buckled in the car seat and we were almost ready to go.

I was impressed. We were physically ready but the flight was not going to leave for four hours yet. With one hour to drive to the airport, we were doing well. This was a change: a year earlier, pre-baby, we’d be rushing out the door at the last possible minute, arriving at the airport just barely in time to get through security.

“Okay,” I said to my husband. “Are we ready?”

He pushed the inside door lock and let the door swing shut.

“Yeah, just about.”

“Did you turn off the kitchen light?”

“I think I forgot,” he turned to re-enter the house. The door was locked. “Oops.”

He went to the trunk and started rummaging around, moving the carefully arranged duffle bags.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said a moment later, “as long as the house is locked, we’re okay. We can leave the light on. Let’s just get to the airport now.”

He kept searching in the trunk.

“I could come and turn it off for you later, if you want,” my friend offered.

“No, it’s not that,” he said, standing up again with a sheepish grin. “It’s my carry-on bag. It’s in the house with the key.”