Write on Edge: The Past

       From the too loud television in the family room she heard a song that took her back to Central Junior High. Her hips moved to the familiar tune as she washed the dinner dishes. She smiled when the guitar solo came in, thinking about the boys in the band who wore more makeup than her mother allowed her to in those days.
       She could smell the Aqua Net in the girls’ room and see the graffiti on the wall. She remembered the mean girls who wore Flashdance inspired sweatshirts and matching leg warmers. Her face flushed when she remembered getting teased about her own clothes back then. Trendy clothes that had hung on the clearance rack a little too long or outgrown by a more fashionable cousin. It took a few more years before she was comfortable with her own sense of style and stopped trying to follow trends her family couldn’t afford.
       There were good times of course. She bought her first vinyl albums: Duran Duran, Men at Work, The Police, Prince, and Billy Joel. She gained some independence, being dropped off the Riverdale Roller Rink to skate to “Gloria” and “Oh Mickey”. There wasn’t that kind of independence for her own children these days. Twelve seems too young to see a movie or wander a mall without a parent in the age of helicopter parenting.
       Her pre-teen son bopped into the kitchen looking for a snack (again).
       “Were they just playing Duran Duran on MTV?” She asked him. “I haven’t heard that song in ages.”
       “Huh?”
       “I thought I heard Hungry Like the Wolf.”
       “Oh, that was a yogurt commercial Mom.”




       So maybe I really am back in the saddle--it’s been a long time since I wrote any fiction. I’m linking up with Write on Edge for the first time in way too long. This week’s prompt is a quote, “The past is a foreign country: the do things differently there.” Please let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

Panis Angelicus

      “Carly, can you stop by your grandmother's on the way home from school tomorrow?” My mother asked. “She was asking about you yesterday.”

      “I just saw her last week.”

      “I know. But she adores her little Piccola,” Mom said, using Nonna's nickname for me. “It would really make her day if you just stopped by. She's lonely since your grandfather passed away.”

      “Okay Mom.”

      Guilt. Mom learned from the best. That's why I got off the bus two stops early and lugged my book bag to Nonna's little yellow house. My feelings of annoyance vanished as I walked up the front steps. I smelled it before I opened the door—the unmistakable, irresistible, smell of home-baked bread. There is no more alluring scent in the world—not fresh cut grass, or Starbuck's coffee, or lemonade on a hot summer's day.

      “Is that you Piccola?” she called as the screen door slammed behind me.

      “Yes, it's me Nonna,” I said. “Something smells amazing!”

      “I knew you were coming so I baked the most perfect bread you ever saw!” Nonna said as she pulled me into an olive-oil scented hug.

      “You've gotten even more beautiful since I saw you last!”

      “It's only been a week,” I giggled.

      “That's too long to keep me from my Piccola! Now, sit down. I'll pour you some milk and you tell me about your day. The bread just needs another minute.”

      She poured milk into the tiny jelly jars she used for glasses.

      “No cheerleading today?”
      “I'm a majorette Nonna, remember?”

     “What's the difference again?”

      “Batons? I twirl batons. Is the bread almost ready?”

      “So impatient!” she said with a laugh. “Let's take a closer look shall we?”

      She opened the oven door and knocked on the bread gently.

      “It's just right.”

      She pulled out four loaves of bread that looked good enough to be on a magazine over and placed them on the large wooden board on the counter.

      “That's a lot of bread Nonna,” I said.

      “I baked a double batch. Mr. Guerra at the fruit stand gave me a good deal, so I made one for him.”

      “Fruit stand?” I whispered. “Nonna? Did you make jam too?”

      “It's the best jam I ever made.”

      “You say that every time Nonna.”

      “I'm still perfecting my formula,” she said with a wink. “Wait until you taste it!”

      “I can't wait. I love your strawberry jam. It's my favorite.”

      “Ah, Piccola, no strawberries in September. Mr. Guerra gave me a good deal on the last of the summer peaches.”

      There was something about the way her eyes lit up when she mentioned Mr. Guerra.

      “I think I remember him. Doesn't he have the wavy white hair.”

      “That's him,” she said trying to keep from smiling.

      “Nonna!” I shrieked. “You have a boyfriend!”

      “I'm too old for boyfriends,” she said. “Now try this.”

      Steam escaped from the crispy crust as Nonna sliced the bread. She slathered it with golden jam and handed it to me on an old stoneware plate.

      “Well?” she said as I slowly chewed the first bite.

      “Nonna, if you give this bread and jam to Mr. Guerra, you aren't going to have a boyfriend.”

      “No?”

      "You're going to have a husband.”

      She smiled ever so slightly and said, “You think?”

      I'm linking up this week, for the first time in AGES with Write on Edge. We were given these two delicious images for inspiration and asked to write something fresh. It's nice to be writing again.

Fiction: Yes Captain

         Nora watched him get ready for the day through a crack in the doorway. Everything he needed for the day was laid out on the glass top of his bureau—tie, glasses, watch, cufflinks, phone, wallet. He put each one to use, working left to right. He didn't hurry, but wasted no time. She had never known a man who took such care getting dressed. She stiffled a giggle and wondered if he put his accessories away right to left.

         When he was nearly finished, Nora hurried down to the kitchen. She had already set the table with his Wall Street Journal folded in thirds on top of his New York Times, which was folded in half. She placed an ironed linen napkin to the left of his bone china cup, ready to be filled with black French-pressed coffee when he sat down.

         One her first day, Nora let his egg cook for twenty seconds longer than necessary. He noticed and without raising his voice, made it clear that three minutes was his expectation and she would follow his instructions to the letter from then on. She did. His needs were no more than anyone else she had ever worked for, just more specific. Her pay, however, was the best it had ever been—well worth meeting his exacting standards.

         Nora brought out his breakfast tray with his (perfect three minute) egg and his one-cup serving of Capt'n Crunch in milk. It was the one glimmer of whimsy in his otherwise severe existence. He nodded in acknowledgement and opened the Times and Nora returned to the kitchen. Moments later she heard the china cup clatter in its saucer and the chair legs scraping the hardwood floor. When she looked, he was gone.

         The newspaper lay on the floor. A photo on the front page showed an shapely blond wearing a slinky dress and high black boots. The headline read, “Espionage Suspect Flees to Cuba”.

        I'm linking up this week with the Trifecta challenge which offered the word "crack" as our prompt and with Write at the Merge which gave us a wonderful photograph of men's accessories and the iconic Nancy Sinatra song, "These Boots were Made for Walkin'" for inspiration.

Ah, Bach

 

                   Karen heard music drifting up from the church basement. It wasn't Mrs. McCardle practicing today. The church organist played piano accurately and deliberately. There was no love in Mrs. McCardle's playing―music was just a job to her. Whoever was playing the Bach prelude, was playing with passion and devotion. The music sounded like praying.

                   Karen waited in the stairwell until it was quiet.  The piece was so lovely, she half expected to hear applause when it was over. Instead, it ended in an awkward, naked  silence.

                   She pushed the old metal fire door open. Danny was sitting at the battered spinet.

                   “That was you?” 

                   “Is it already 10:00?” he asked checking his watch to cover his discomfort. Karen had offered to help set up the hall for a CYO dance.

                   “I'm a little early. Sorry.  I had no idea you played.”

                   “My mother made me take lessons.”

                   “I don't remember that.”

                   Danny blushed slightly, “I used to carry a pair of boxing gloves with me when I went. I let the neighborhood kids believe I was training. I knew they'd give me a hard time.”

                   “Did you tell her you wanted to quit?”

                   “I didn't want to quit. I just didn't want to get beat up. I loved piano. It took me out of that neighborhood, you know?”

                   Karen nodded.

                   “Did you ever play professionally?”

                   “I don't like to play for other people. The only person I ever played for was Mum and she's gone.”

                   “When did she die Danny?”

                   “While I was away at seminary.”

                   “That's when my mother died too. Do you think it's easier to lose someone when you're religious?”

                   “No. Knowing that someone has gone someplace good doesn't make them any less gone.”

                   He put his hands on the keys.

                   “This was her favorite,” he said as he began to play. This time, the music sounded like a confession.

                   If you're interested in reading more about Karen, she has her own page on this blog. You can check it out here. The title of this story comes from an old episode of MASH. I'm linking up this week with Write on Edge and Trifecta. Trifecta gave us the word "deliberate" for inspiration. Write on Edge gave us the word "orphan" and this picture:

This image courtesy of F3D3.86 via Flickr Creative Commons

                  

Karen: Bad Blood

           Karen sat on the curb by the service entrance of the country club watching cherry blossom petals rain onto the pavement. She was the first to arrive every shift. Tony hinted at a promotion and a key of her own once she earned the owners' trust. She wondered when arriving early, staying late, and working her fingers raw would be rewarded. She pushed aside the thought and admired the sunlight breaking through the fog on the golf course.

           “Good morning Karen,” called Charles, the co-owner and banquet manager of the club. “Early as usual!”

           She stowed her purse and began setting up the coffee urns. Tony strolled in a few minutes later and began setting up chairs.

           “Karen, can you grab the bin of white tablecloths when you're done with that?” Tony asked.

           “No problem Tony.”

           Karen finished her task and headed for the storeroom. She heard Charles arguing with John, the other owner and slowed down when she heard her name mentioned.

           “I'm not giving Karen a key,” John said.

           “Why not? She works harder than anyone else. She's always early. She's willing to stay late. The members lover her. Why not let her move up?”

           “She's a good worker. But I knew Edmond O'Brien for years. He was a weasel from the moment he took a breath.”

           “John, Karen wasn't raised by Eddie. He walked out on her and her mom years ago.”

           “Then Peggy drank herself to death! Blood will out. Karen's blood is tainted by liars, cheats, and drunks. I won't have her holding a key to my club.”
           “Our club.”

           “Fine. Our club. I gave in when Tony wanted to hire her. But I draw the line at giving an O'Brien a key to my livelihood.”

           Karen picked up the bin of tablecloths and returned to the dining room.

           “You alright Karen? Tony asked. “You look like you've seen a ghost.”

           “Something like that.”

I'm linking up this week with Trifecta, who gave us the word “blood” for inspiration and Write at the Merge who gave us a photograph of a flowering tree and a quote from REM. You can read more of Karen's story here.

Charlotte's Inheritance

 

                   Charlotte parked her car and stared in wonder at her inheritance. The old hotel was magnificent, even its disrepair. Mother Nature had so overtaken the building that it looked as if it had grown out of the mountainside like all the other flora. The low hanging clouds surrounded it like ghosts.

                   The attorney had given her a key. She was surprised how easily the door opened. She expected to struggle because of swollen wood or rusted hinges. But the door swung freely as if some unseen caretaker had oiled the door in anticipation of her arrival.

photo from imgur.com

                   The carpets were discolored and mildewed, but the crystal chandelier still glittered and the marble columns still stood strong. There was no visible decay inside, only dust and neglect. Charlotte laid a hand on the banister of the grand staircase, remembering the story the lawyer had told her.

                   “The hotel had been an escape from the city for the young and prosperous after the Great War. The best jazz musicians played and the gin and whiskey flowed, even in the years of prohibition. Your great, great, aunt was a renowned hostess. The beautiful and wild of society flocked here. One evening, a newlywed bride drunk on good wishes and bathtub gin tripped on the hem of her dress. Her young husband tried to catch her, but they fell together, tangled in each others arms. The hotel was never the same after that. There were those who said it was haunted.”

                   “Is it?” Charlotte had asked.

                   “My dear,” the lawyer said after looking at her for a moment. “I don't hold with such nonsense. But who wants to dance and drink away their weekend in a place where such promise came to such a nasty ending.”

                   But Charlotte did hold with such nonsense. Indeed, she often relied on the unseen to guide her. She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply. She caught the faint whiff of lilies and gin, but it lasted only a moment.

                   “The hotel is yours Charlotte. We could find no other heirs,” The attorney said. “To keep or sell. There are other resorts in the area that would be interested in buying it. But I'd take a look if I were you. It is a very interesting old place.”

                   “Why didn't my great-aunt sell? Surely there have been offers over the years.”

                   “I couldn't say, my dear. Sometimes people have difficulty letting go of their past. Maybe that was the case with your aunt. Perhaps the answer lies in the hotel.”

                   Charlotte gazed up the cursed staircase wondering if she'd find any answers. A few faint notes of tenor saxophone floated on the draft that ruffled her hair.

                   “So it's like that, is it?” She said, proceeding up the stairs looking for answers. 

 This week Cam at Write on Edge gave us two beautiful photos of beautiful abandoned places to inspire our writing.

Whirly-Gig

  

                   I settle myself onto the brick wall for my coffee break. It's hard and a little too tall for me to get comfortable, but it feels good to be off my feet. I've been selling coffee and bagels since 6am. There are comfy chairs in the lobby and little cafe tables as well. But I don't feel right taking them up. There are people here with sick babies. They shouldn't have to hunt around for a good spot to rest. Besides, I like it here where I can see the whirly-gig. Someone told me it's really a kinetic sculpture or something like that, but I just call it the whirly-gig.

                   I don't watch the machine so much anymore. I've seen it so many times I have it memorized. I watch the kids who watch it. Some of them are real sick―their hair is falling out and they look too skinny. Some of them have big casts or bandages. But there is something about that whirly-gig. It makes them forget for a little while. They forget to be scared. They forget they're sick or injured. They forget they're in a hospital. They're just kids with their eyes wide open to watch the pool balls go up the little elevators and race down the ramps. They listen to the chimes clang and they giggle and cheer. Sometimes they pick their favorite color ball and follow its journey around the whirly-gig.

                   Sometimes I watch the parents too. They have too much on their minds to watch the whirly-gig. They have doctor's appointments to keep and prescriptions to fill and bills to pay. They stop in my shop  and buy a coffee for themselves and a treat for their kid. The lucky ones stop for a while and sit in those comfy chairs and cafe tables and watch their kids. For a while they forget about what brought them to Children's. They smile and watch their children watching the whirly-gig.

                   This is in response to two prompts this week. The folks at Trifecta gave us the word “lucky” to write about this week. Write on Edge gave us the word “wonder” and a video of a kinetic sculpture from Boston's Musem of Science called Archimedean Excogitation, by George Rhoads. We're fortunate enough to visit that museum pretty regularly and that exhibit is one of my sons' favorite things at the museum. When they watch it, I cannot help but think of another Rhoads piece that is in the center of Boston Children's Hospital. My son James had hand surgery a couple of summers ago and the sculpture provided a very welcome distraction for us.

Write at the Merge: Snowfall & Secrets

            I’ve spent more time than usual with my boys over the last couple of weeks. We missed three days of school after the blizzard called Nemo and the following week was February school vacation. Most of our time together was great. There were days that I genuinely missed being a stay-at-home mom. We cooked together, did crafts, played games, and snuggled up to watch movies. My babies are growing into smart, interesting, funny kids. I don’t just love them—I really like them.

            But over the course of our time together, I became aware of a very disturbing secret.  My children are growing up and there is absolutely nothing I can do to stop it. I don’t want them to be babies forever... but maybe just a little longer.

            A couple of weeks ago, I was standing outside with Owen. The sunlight, reflecting off the snow was bright enough to make me squint. In that brilliant lighting, my aging eyes finally saw something Owen had been telling me about for weeks—peach fuzz. Right there, under his nose. Incontrovertible proof that my little boy is growing up. 

            Last week, we were running errands. I finally agreed to change the car radio from NPR to their favorite cheesy pop station.  The song “Hey Ya” by Outkast came on. When the song came to the part, “Shake it, shake it, shake it like a Polaroid picture,” Owen said, “This song sounds inappropriate.”

            “Huh?” I said. “What do you mean? I think he’s just talking about dancing.”

            “It sounds sexual,” said Owen as I nearly lost control of the vehicle and narrowly avoided careening into a snow bank.

            Sexual.

            My ten-year-old said it sounded sexual.

            It probably is.

What else does he know?

            Don’t answer that. I’m not ready.

 

            I’m linking up with the wonderful group over at Write on Edge for this week’s Write at the Merge prompt. We were asked to write a piece inspired by the phrases, “a snow fall” and “a secret revealed”. It could be fiction or memoir.

The Scent of a Memory

 

This story picks up where I last left Karen...

                   Karen slid into the diner's red vinyl booth. The smells in the air caused a battle of memories in her mind. Her father used to bring her to show off his little princess to his cronies. She loved the spinning stools at the counter. Those happy memories faded when she started waiting tables here. When she was a little girl the diner meant time with daddy—the smell of apple pie and cocoa. As an adult it meant tiny burns on her fingers, sore feet, and the smell of bacon grease and stale cigarettes.

                   “This place hasn't changed a bit,” Danny said. “Mum brought me here for frappes to celebrate when I was a kid. It seemed, I don't know, grander then.”

                   “It did. It was a treat to come here with my Dad. When I started working here it became something else.”

                   “I had forgotten you worked here. I'm sorry. Maybe we should have gone somewhere else.”

                   “It's fine. Nothing else is open this time of night. Besides, it's nice to remember that it once was special.”

                   “You still manage to find the good in everything. Even when you were a kid, you always found something good about every situation.”

                   Karen brushed aside the compliment. What he saw as a strength she often wondered if it was herself being naïve.

                   “I remember you Danny you constantly fighting. It’s strange to see you on the path to Holy Orders.”

                   “What do you remember about my fights?'

                   The neighborhood had always thought of Danny as a troublemaker. But Karen could only remember the time he chased off the boys who were teasing her. She could picture his freckled face turning red and his root beer brown eyes looking angry and sorrowful.

                   “I'll never forget the day Billy Smith and his gang were teasing me. They said something about my dad. They said it was my fault...”     

“I was weeding my mother's garden when I overheard that. I always hated bullies,” Danny said. “I'm studying for the priesthood. I know now I'm not supposed to hate...”

                   “Thank you,” Karen said. “I didn't say it then. I was scared and confused. They never bothered me again after that.”

                   “I broke Billy's nose. I just meant to make him back off, but I snapped. My mother made me go to confession.”

                   “He's a cop now.”

                   “Billy? I know. I went to the police academy with him.”

                   “What? When did this happen?”

                   “I didn't stay for long. I went in thinking I could serve Justice. I thought I could make a career out of standing up for the little guy. But it was all the same guys I used to see pushing everyone else around when we were kids. Only now they'd be wearing badges.”

                   “So I got a job and worked my way through Boston College. I found another way to serve. What about you Karen? I never thought you'd still be here.”

                   Her face changed at that. A mask went over the face Danny remembered from childhood.

                   “I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?”

                   She shook her head, “It's okay. I thought things would be different. I'm only twenty-two. Maybe things will be different someday. Or maybe that's the way it's supposed to be.”

                 

                    I’m linking up for the first time with Master Class over at Sinistrial Scribblings. Our prompt for this week was to end our story with the final line from Judy Blume’s Tiger Eyes, “Maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be.”  It’s also an answer to Write on Edge’s prompt this week which asked us to be inspired by the sense of smell as well as the word “elixir”.  If you’re new to Karen’s story, you can read more here.

Karen: Silent Prayer

This story picks up where I left off here...

                   Karen slid into the cold oaken pew and gazed up at the jewel-like light streaming through her favorite stained glass window. The leftover smell of Sunday's incense brought her back to her childhood days of seeking refuge under the marble arches of St. Edward's. She had come one night as a child when her parents were fighting. It was raining and she found the door unlocked. She had come to Mass hundreds of time with her parents. But the church was different at night. The quiet was absolute and eery, yet comforting. It seemed more sacred without organ music and other people.  Karen found peace and space to have faith in this dimly lit sanctuary.

                  When Peggy died, Karen stopped going to Mass. That was something they did together. With her mother gone, Karen only prayed in solitude. She knelt and closed her eyes and couldn't think of what to pray for. For Henry? That he might leave his blushing bride for her. Surely that wasn't a very Christian thing to wish for. For her own pain? She admonished herself to stop the self-pity. For the wisdom to move on? That. That she decided was what she needed most on this night. She made the sign of the cross and walked up the aisle. She nodded absently to a young man who passed her.

                   “Karen?” he asked.

                   She turned and looked at the skinny red-haired man. He was familiar, but she didn't know why.

                   “Yes. My name is Karen. I'm so sorry, I just can't place you.”

                   “Oh, it's alright. It's been a long time. We grew up on the same street...”

                   “Danny? Danny O'Neill? Is that you?”

                   “Ah, you do remember!”

                   “It's good to see you Danny. Are you well?”

                   “I am. I'm happy to be back. I've been assigned to St. Edward's.”
                   She took in his somber clothes for a moment.

                   “You're a priest now?”

                   “Not yet. I'm a deacon. I'll take Holy Orders when I finish my studies.”

                   Karen smiled. Danny was an unlikely priest. He fought constantly with other children when they were younger. Maybe that would help him. This neighborhood had gotten a little rougher since then.

                   “How about you Karen? How's life treating you?”

                   She shrugged. Where to begin?

                   “Oh you know. Ups and downs like everyone else.”

                   “How's your mother?”

                   “She passed away last spring.”

                   “I'm sorry for your loss.”

                   “Thank you,” she said, grateful he hadn't added “She's with Jesus” or “It's all a part of God's plan.”

                   “Listen, I was just going to grab a cup of coffee at the diner. Will you join me? I'd love to catch up.”

                   “Is that allowed? I mean, now that you're...”

                   He laughed.

                   “It's just coffee with an old friend. You'll just have to fight the urge to seduce a man of the cloth.”

                   “Ah, there's the Danny I remember,” she grinned. “Why not? It's been a strange day. I'll end it on a date with a deacon.”

                    My latest Karen story is in response to a Write on Edge prompt that asked us to draw inspiration from the picture of the stained glass window you see above. You can read more about Karen here. 

Affinity

            The wedding reception was nearly over and Karen had managed to avoid Henry’s attention. She was struggling with a tray piled high with half-eaten plates of chicken cordon bleu when the ladies room door opened.

            “Excuse me,”  she whispered. “Please! I need help. I got my veil stuck in my zipper!”

            Karen nearly dropped the tray when she made eye contact with the bride.

            “Do you want me to get one of your bridesmaids? Or maybe your mother?”

            “Can you just come in and help? I tried to find someone when it was time to change out of my wedding gown, but all my friends seem to have snuck off with groomsmen. And I think my mother had too much to drink,” she added as her face turned red.

            “Well, I know what that’s like,” Karen muttered. “Hang on a second. Let me put this tray somewhere. I don’t want to get food on your dress.”

            “Thank you!”

            When Karen returned the bride was repairing the damage to her makeup her tears had caused.

            “Don’t worry. We’ll get you out of that dress.”

            “I can’t believe no one’s come looking for me. No one’s noticed the bride is missing.”

            “You’ve thrown a great party. Everyone’s too busy having fun,” Karen reassured her. She tried to budge the zipper, but it gripped the gossamer fabric like a vise.

            “Almost everyone,” the bride whispered.

            Karen tried to ignore the look of sadness in her eyes. She wanted to hate this woman, but she only felt pity. Her elegant gown and perfect skin and tiny waist couldn’t hide the fact that she was miserable on her own wedding day.

            “I’m so sorry, but I think I’m going to have to rip the veil to get the zipper to move.”

            “That’s fine,” the bride said. “It’s not like I’m planning on wearing it again.” She smiled ever so slightly and Karen found herself giggling.

            “Here goes,” said Karen and she pulled the sheer fabric upward while tugging the zipper down. There was a small ripping sound and the bride exhaled with relief.

            “Thank you so much,” she said. “You’re a life saver. I don’t even know your name?”

            A knock came to the door.

            “Mindy? Are you okay in there?”  Karen recognized Henry’s voice instantly.

            “See?” Karen whispered. “Your Prince Charming is looking for you.”

            Mindy smiled, the sadness gone. The blushing bride had returned.

            “I’m fine,” she called. “I’ll be out in a minute. I had some trouble with my zipper but I got some help from....”

            “Ka.... Caroline,” Karen said as she forced a smile. “I’ll hang up your gown. You finish getting dressed and go to your husband.”

            Mindy blushed again. “My husband. I’m so lucky.”

            “You are. Don’t keep him waiting Mrs. Petersen.”

 

            Today I’m linking up with Write on Edge’s new prompt called “Write at the Merge”. We’re given two things to inspire our writing—songs, images, words, quotations. This week it was two words—gossamer and affinity. If you’ve enjoyed this piece, please check out the rest of Karen’s story here.

Caught and Bought

            “Not everyone can be bought,”  she said.

            “Aw honey, I don’t want to buy you. I just want to rent you for a while.”

            He caught her arm as she raised it to slap him. They stared at each other for a moment and she lowered her hand to her lap. He signaled to the waitress for another round.

            “Just listen to what I have to say. You’ve been on the run for months. I know you didn’t empty his account. You must be short of cash.”

            “What do you want Manny?”

            “Believe it or not, I need your help sweetheart. I’m in a fix. The IRS wants to put me away, but they’re willing to cut me a deal if I reel in a bigger fish.”

            “You’re going to rat out Joey? Do you have a death wish?”

            He shrugged and tossed back the rest of his drink as the waitress set down their replacements.

            “I figure I’ll be okay if he goes away for long enough. Besides, it’s rat him out or go to jail. Loyalty has its limits.”

            “Okay, fine. You made a deal. What does that have to do with me? I don’t know anything about Joey’s business. I figured he was into something shady, but I kept my head in the sand. I don’t know a damn thing.”

            “You know who he was hanging out with. You know where he spent his time. All you have to do is give them something to work off of and they’ll do the rest.”

            She rubbed her face with her hands, feeling defeated. Manny had found her after being on the run for three months. She had gotten lazy—stayed too long in one place. It could have been worse though. If it Joey had found her, she’d probably be a Jane Doe in a morgue somewhere.

            “And what do I get out of it?” she asked.

            “You get enough cash to stay out of sight for a while—at least until he goes away. You could settle down somewhere and use your real name. Maybe go back to being a blond. Come on honey, how much money do you have left? How much jewelry could you possibly have had to pawn?”

            “You’d be surprised,” she said, gazing into her glass. “Joey thought he could buy me too.”

            “Sounds like it worked.”

            “No Manny. Like you said, he was just renting me for a while.”

            “Think about it.  My new friends at the IRS could make life on the run a little more comfortable.”

            Manny finished his second drink in one swallow and stood up. He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.

           I’m linking up with this week's Write on Edge’s prompt. We were challenged to write a piece that begins with the line, “’Not everyone can be bought,’  she said.” and ends with the line, “He let the money fall onto the table and walked out.”  This piece continues a thread I started with the short story “Circling the Drain”. Check out the much expanded version of "Circling the Drain", which will be included in the upcoming collection "Precipice" from Write on Edge.

Where's Michaela?

 

            Yesterday was "39 For the First Time’s" second blogiversary. I started blogging for a few reasons—to force myself to write on a regular basis, to record the journey into my forties, and to tell stories of my kids. I didn’t plan on posting fiction. These days though, I post fiction more than anything else.

            Last year I heard of this crazy project called NaNoWriMo. People all around the world pledge to write a complete novel in the month of November. I decided that setting an insane goal like that was just the kick in the pants my writing needed. By the last day of November I had finished a 51,000-word novel about a character named Michaela. It had a beginning, middle and end. It had likable characters and a complicated but happy ending. When finished, I had the most peculiar feeling. It was like the aceing the hardest exam of your life combined with watching your child walk into kindergarten for the first time. Pride. Elation. And a profound sense of “now what”?

            I had it printed out  and put it into a giant blue binder. But I decided to let it settle for a month so I could tackled it with a clearer mind. But while it rested, I started writing about a new character. Her name was Karen and she was infinitely more interesting than Michaela. Michaela’s story began to fade into the background.

If fiction writing was a dance, Michaela was the girl who brought me and I ought to be dancing with her. I learned so much about writing while I created Michaela. It’s time to give her story some attention. So I declare October NaNoEdMo—National Novel Editing Month. It’s time to take that big blue binder and turn it into a novel.

This week’s prompt from Write on Edge was to take break from fiction and spend some time exploring our writing ambitions and goals.

The Perfect Gift

 

            Karen logged onto EBay on the library computer. The pawn dealer had offered her fifty dollars for the teapot Henry gave her mother thirty years ago. She though she could get a better price selling it on-line.

            As Karen entered her password, she recalled the night Henry had given the teapot to Peggy. He had been desperate to think of the perfect gift—an engraved cigarette case, a silver candlestick, a fur stole. But he knew nothing would ease Peggy’s mistrust of Henry.

            Karen held her breath when Henry handed Peggy the scarlet gift box on Christmas Eve.

            “Romm’s, eh?” Peggy said seeing the gold foil seal on the box. “You can’t buy me Henry.”

            “Mum!” Karen whispered.

            “It’s okay Karen. No Mrs. O’Brien It isn’t a bribe. The gift isn’t even from Romm’s. The box was just the right size.”

            Peggy pried the lid off the box and looked inside. Her face was emotionless for a moment, then her eyes became glassy.

            “How? Where did you find this?”

            “Karen told me she broke your teapot when she was a little girl. She described it so vividly that when I saw this one in a shop on the Cape I thought it must be similar.”

            “It looks just like the one my mother brought with her from Ireland. It was the only thing she had besides the clothes on her back. It’s perfect Henry. Thank you.”

            Karen shut down the computer. There were other ways to pay the rent.

            I’m linking up with Write on Edge this week to continue Karen’s story. In homage to the classic game “Clue”, we were challenged to use the words candlestick, library and scarlet in a piece of fiction or non-fiction in 250 words or less. If you like this, read more about Karen here.

Friday Fiction: Labor Day

             I’m linking up this week with Write On Edge. Their prompt challenged us to use local items or industries as a focal point to develop our setting. I thought a Dunkin’ Donuts on a road that leads to Cape Cod would be perfect for painting a certain picture. I’ve written most of the dialogue phonetically, except in cases where I didn’t think the phonetically spelled word would be understood by the reader. For example, Danny and Debby would pronounce the word “we’re” as “weyah”. Below is a video called “Shit Boston Guys Say” that very accurately (and humorously) portrays the way a lot of young men from the Boston area sound. It’s full of strong language, so if that offends you, you may want to skip it.

Labor Day Weekend

            “Occupational hazid,” Debbie muttered as  she smoothed her uniform shirt over her muffin top. Ignoring the unflattering reflection in the plate glass window, she unlocked the front door to the Cranberry Highway Dunkin’ Donuts.

            It was Labor Day weekend and the store would be crowded with people on their way to the Cape for the next couple of days. Debbie’s feet and back would be killing her by Sunday afternoon. But by Tuesday the traffic would slow down and if the warm weather held on long enough, Debbie might get a visit to the beach herself.

            Danny Sullivan came in as he had everyday for the last two years. Debbie had his large regular iced ready before Danny reached the counter.

            “Youra life savah Debbie,” he said pulling his wallet out. “What ah you gonna do if I come in and ohdah one of them fancy flavahed lattes?”

            “I’ll probably have a haht-attack if that evah happens Danny.”

            “That’s fresh Debbie. I’ll staht goin’ to that Stahbucks if you keep that up.”

            “Right. You’ll nevah go to Stahbuck’s Danny. You’d hafta cross the bridge.”

 “True. Tourist oughtta hafta learn to drive in a rotary befoh they lettem go down the Cape.”

            “Damn right Danny,” she said with a grin. “You should run foh govenah.”

            He laughed, took off his Red Sox cap and nervously ran his hand through his sandy hair. His summer wiffle was starting to grow out and his hair stood up in awkwardly even spikes around his head.

            “Listen Debbie, you doin’ anything tomorrow night?”

            “Probably just soakin’ my feet? Why do you ask?”

            “Me and my brothah are gettin’ a bunch of people togethah. We’re gettin’ some lobstahs and steamahs. You should stop by. It’s gonna be pissah.”

            “Sounds like fun. What can I bring.”

            “We could always use moh beeh.”

            “I’ll stop at the packy on my way ovah.”

            “Great! I’ll see you then.”

            “See you then Danny.”

            He picked up his coffee and walked out the door.

            “About friggin’ time Danny Sullivan,” Debby said as she watched his truck pull away.

           

Lean and Mean

 

            Suzanne could feel the security guard watching her toned legs as she strutted past. Two months of sweating through Pilates and kickboxing had made her lean and fit.  She smiled at the slight ache of emptiness in her belly. Suzanne had replaced dozens of meals with high protein shakes. She could ignore the hunger until her afternoon snack of celery and a hard-cooked egg.

            “Suzanne, come in here. Dana baked a cake for Rob’s birthday,” Jonathan called from the staff lounge.

            If anyone else had invited her, Suzanne would have kept walking. But Jonathan was the manager so she had to sing Happy Birthday along with everyone else. Suzanne made an effort to not role her eyes at Dana playing the happy homemaker passing out slices of cake, a dollop of chocolate ganache on her frumpy paisley blouse.

            “Are you sure you don’t want a slice Suzanne?” Dana asked.

            “Oh, no. I’m still full from breakfast,” she lied. “I really ought to get back to my desk. Happy birthday Rob.”

            The intern smiled and waved, his mouth too stuffed with chocolate cake to speak.

            “Do you have a moment to talk?” Jonathan asked.

            She nodded and they walked to his office. He weighed his words before he spoke.

            “It’s the new client.”

            “What’s wrong? I thought they loved the campaign.”

            “They did—the artwork, the new slogan, all of it. But they’re a plus-size women’s catalog Suzanne. They feel you can’t relate to their customers.”

            “That’s absurd. Their customers are women who love clothes. I’m a woman who loves clothes. The only difference is a few pounds.”

            “They’ve requested Dana to be their account manager.”

            “Dana? You can’t be serious.”

            “You and she have different styles. They want Dana and that’s who they’ll get. Pass along your files to her today.”

            Suzanne handed off six months of brilliance to Dana’s assistant, before storming into the lounge for her snack. It had gotten pushed to the back of the refrigerator by the remains of Rob’s birthday cake. She brushed her sleeve against the shimmering frosting as she reached inside.

            “Damn,” she said wiping away the offending chocolate with her hand. Without thinking she licked her fingers. She felt a rush of euphoria as the rich flavor filled her mouth.

            “Oh my God,” she whispered, breaking off more cake. Her knees nearly buckled from the sweet tart surprise of the raspberry filling. Suzanne’s self-control shattered. She devoured the cake and licked the plate clean in seconds.

            Mortified, she washed the plate and laid it in the drainer just before the door opened. It was Dana.

            “Thanks for getting those files to me. I hope there are no hard feelings.”

            Suzanne shrugged, hoping to hide her guilty secret.

“It happens. The client is always right.”

            “I just came in to get my cake plate. It looks like someone washed it. How nice.”

            “Well, I should get going. Have a good weekend.”

            “You too. Suzanne?”

            “Yes?”

            “You have a little chocolate on your forehead.”

            This week’s Write on Edge prompt was “To flip freedom upside down and write about the forbidden or the taboo. The word limit was 450.” Speaking of taboos, I went a little over the word limit. Although I did manage to cut over 200 words from the first draft. This story may or may not have been influenced by the fact that I started a diet this week.