Kids

Lilly considered which of her numerous childhood disappointments she would change if she had the power to go back and do it over. One came immediately to mind. Jeffrey. All he had wanted was to be accepted, appreciated, and loved. He wanted to fit in. He was surrounded by brothers that included him when it was convenient or when they were told to. What must that do to a person’s self confidence? Lilly knew that there was not much she could have done in childhood to change her brothers’ ways, but she herself could have done things better. When the boys had locked him out of their room and he knocked repeatedly on her door, wanting to play whatever she was playing, just wanting to be with someone and not left alone, she could have let him in. Sometimes she had, but not nearly often enough. There were times when she just wanted to be left alone to read her books or play with her dolls. She liked alone time and figured he’d have more fun with the boys anyway. Why didn’t she take the time to see why he wasn’t playing with them? She would have found that they were being mean and she could have told Mom. She could have done something. But she just wanted to be left alone and not bothered.
    When he would try to force his way in, a little boy desperate for a friend, Lilly would hold her body against the door until he would stick his foot in the door. Then she would scream and holler that he was bugging her. Mom would tell her to let him and she would resent him all the more. This could have been a time to play new games and share laughs, to bond and become close, but Lilly just sulked and was as mean as she could be until Jeffrey would finally leave the room, sometimes crying.
    The worst time, when Jeffrey had pushed Lilly to her limits and she was just blind with anger and annoyance at the inconvenience, she had slapped him on the back. Hard. Really, really hard. He screamed in pain and ran to Mom. Mom carried him over to Lilly and lifting the back of his shirt, revealed the results of her heartlessness. There, on his lightly tanned little back, was Lilly’s bright red hand print. Lilly tried to be tough and ambivalent, but the truth was that her broke into hundreds of little jagged pieces when she saw what she had done.
    Lilly accepted her punishment and knew that she deserved at least what she got and more. She hoped the sandal would leave a mark on her--somehow that might ease her conscience if she were to feel as much pain as he had. But then, which had hurt him worse; the sting of her angry palm, or the passionate rejection of friendship and love?
    Over the years, Lilly and Jeffrey still had times when they didn’t see eye to eye, but that one day, the day she committed the crime she would never quite forgive herself for, that had changed her. She could never be so cruel or unfeeling to him again. She realized her shame and was angry with herself. Why had it taken this outburst of unrestrained temper for her to realize just how much she loved that little boy? She was finally able to see the sweetness of his spirit, his giving heart and his quick forgiveness. He loved with all he had and just asked the same in return. There was nothing he wouldn’t do for a friend or family member. Why had she so long taken him for granted?
    Yes, things changed that day. As they both grew older, Lilly enjoyed Jeffrey’s friendship more and more. He came to her for advice and she was honored. He openly expressed his love when some of their other brothers couldn’t bring themselves to say the three simple words. He not only said it, but he showed it. Often.
    One dark night when Lilly was drowning in her own life’s misery and had given up hope of ever finding happiness or meaning in life again, it was Jeffrey who ran to her side, forcing his way in and saving her life.
    Lilly couldn’t understand how someone that she had been so awful to in childhood, could become one of her best friends in adulthood. Surely the Lord was blessing her beyond what she deserved. She felt unworthy of Jeffrey’s love and loyalty, but rather than dwelling on it, she decided to do whatever she could as long as she lived to make sure that Jeffrey knew just how much she loved and appreciated him. Maybe, just maybe, that would appease the haunting memories of her past mistakes.
    There is no way to erase the effects of our words or actions on those we have wronged. We can however, do all within our power to make things as right as possible, not just assuming that the past is past and all must be well. You never know what another person might believe about themselves or the world because of you. Do what you can to make it better. You never know when you’ll lose the opportunity and be forced to live with the regret. Resolve to be mindful of your words and behavior in the future, especially with those you love and those who love you.

Ode to a happy life

Born March 28, 1981.

Died April 28, 2055

Age 74

Julie loved living life to the fullest. Adventures and adrenaline rushes. Simple things too; family, friends and flowers. She left the world exactly how she wanted to, free falling from a small airplane, 15000 ft over the Wasatch Mountains. 

What a ride!

(play "Lithium" by Nirvana while watching the sky diving video)   

;)

Popping the cow

 A narrative essay on a memory. Thank you Jose for the suggestion!

Popping the Cow

      We popped the cow. That’s what my little sister Raquel said. I don’t think it would be accurate to say that we popped it; more like we obliterated it. What else can you expect when your Suburban hits a black cow broadside in the middle of the night going eighty-five miles per hour.
    We were in Mexico to visit my Dad’s parents and family. I hadn’t been there since I was maybe three years old. The drive was ridiculously long, nearly two full days. We were heading to Guadalajara which is about ¾ of the way to the bottom of the country. Eight kids packed into the car for two days makes for a lengthy journey. There were no car dvd players in those days. You read books, pulled your sibling’s hair or played games to pass the time. We laughed, we fought, we slept. I have no idea how my parents survived the drive.
    We finally arrived at my grandparents home and got settled in. We enjoyed shopping, eating and exploring. It was December and the neighborhood was enjoying several fun Posadas. We loved the festivities and treats; plus I met a really nice, good looking boy. It was a lovely time. One day, we set out, along with our cousin Salvador, to go see some fabulous pyramids and ancient ruins. There weren’t enough seatbelts for everyone, so my little brother Jose sat on Salvador’s lap in the middle seat of the front bench. The ride was uneventful for quite awhile. We passed through Mexico City, a sprawling metropolis that seemed never-ending. We pulled onto an Autopista, a Mexican interstate that charged a toll to traverse. Along with the toll came an auto insurance for the duration of travel on the autopista. How grateful my parents ended up being for that coverage.
    I was in the back left seat next to the window and had fallen into a deep sleep. I was pulled violently from my slumber, hitting my head repeatedly on the ceiling of the car. I remember only making small noises as this was happening, but the family says I was screaming like a crazy person and that they were all yelling at me to shut up. The car bounced at least three or four times and then finally came to a stop. We were all talking at once, some of us crying. Jose had flown into the windshield and was bleeding profusely. My parents were mainly focused on him as the rest of us seemed to be fine. I remained in a bit of a fog as we started unloading onto the side of the road. As I went to step out of the Suburban, I nearly stepped on the head of a cow, the reason for all of the bouncing, its face looking straight up at me. It was black and its open eyes were lifeless. Blood spilled from its mouth. I screamed again and then my cousin Salvador helped me over the head and I gratefully stood on solid ground, a good distance from the dead cow.
    My siblings and I watched as the scene unfolded. We stood huddled together as a passerby stopped to help. An ambulance came soon after and took Mama, Jose, and my other brother, Jared to the closest hospital.
    Jose’s nose was obviously broken but he was also experiencing immense pain in his abdomen. Scans were done and initially it looked as though there was some pretty serious internal bleeding going on. Luckily, one of the staff figured out right before they were to take him to surgery, that he actually just had a really full bladder. He was hooked up with a catheter and drained a full liter of urine. The accident had shocked his little body so much that he hadn’t been able to urinate on his own. He still had to have surgery on his nose and there was a piece of broken bone floating around from an unknown previous accident. It was a far less complicated or dangerous injury and that night we said many prayers of thanksgiving for our good fortune.
     Police came to the sight of the wreck and set up flares and cones. The suburban was towed away, leaving the cow out on the road. Pieces of said animal trailed back a quarter of a mile. The missing leg and other parts were collected from the road.  A couple of guys with a flat bed truck came along and tied a chain to one of the cow’s remaining legs and dragged it off to the side of the road where they loaded it into the back of their truck. Why waste good meat, right?!
    A taxi was called and came to pick up the rest of us. We were taken to a beautiful hotel, built in the Spanish style, with white stucco walls and lots of arches. I loved it immediately. Bougainvillea flowers climbed everywhere and rose bushes were abundant. The tiled floors and balconies created an imaginative atmosphere, where my active mind ran wild. I had been reading a lot of romance novels at the time and this place fit perfectly into the scenarios I created in my mind.
    We stayed there a few nights and once my little brother was released from the hospital, we made arrangements to get back to our grandparents’ home. While we waited for the Suburban to be repaired by the state, we were able to enjoy an extra month with our family, getting to know them better. 
    There were several details that I didn’t know until I started discussing this with my mom today. I didn’t know that she could have been arrested for Jose’s injuries. I didn’t know that while in the hospital, my mother, scared, no, terrified, had asked if anyone there knew if any of the staff happened to be LDS. Amazingly, they found that one doctor, who was not at work at the time, was in fact a member of our church. Mama asked that he be called and would he please send two men. She assured them that he would know what she meant.
    Shortly thereafter, two of our young missionaries showed up at the hospital to administer to my brother. My mom found so much peace in this and her testimony grew. It continued, as Brother Montoya, the doctor who had been called, continued helping our family. He found us the fabulous hotel, he helped my dad with going to court for my mom. He assisted my dad in getting the Suburban to the appropriate place to be repaired. He made sure that everything would go as smoothly as possible for our family. Sometimes strangers become angels.
    I will never forget that trip. We had so many amazing experiences. Our first plane ride was on the way home, as our car still wasn’t ready. The USA isn’t the only country with ridiculously slow bureaucracy.  It will take several more essays to cover all of the details and the other adventures we enjoyed and even more spiritual experiences that we were blessed with. Suffice it to say, this was an amazing experience.

The good old days

 This is a fun little anecdote from the good old days in Ukiah. Nice to write a fun one. The boys are welcome to leave comments on any suggested factual corrections. ;)

The Bonfire

I come from a family of eight wild and rambunctious children. I am third oldest and the first girl. I was raised in a small town in northern California called Ukiah, famous for vineyards, environmentalist and marijuana. My family didn’t have much in the way of worldly possessions, but we certainly had active imaginations and devil-may-care desires to experience life to the fullest. How we have all reached adulthood is a mystery to me and the fire department that visited our home several times. One of those times stands out above the rest as the most dramatic and memorable. It had been engraved in the tablets of Rodriguez family folklore and legend. I like to call it the “Bonfire Incident.”
    My eldest brother, Jeremiah, and I were sitting at the dining room table with our parents, having a snack on a lovely day. The sun was shining outside and it was perfect weather for outdoor adventures. I found myself often sitting in the house, even on days like this, reading. I have always loved pouring over books for hours on end. My parents would have to force me to spend time outside if I were involved in particularly engaging reading. As my brother and parents chit chatted about nothing in particular, I read, completely caught up in the world of fictional characters.
    My reading was interrupted when Jaime, one of my younger brothers, walked in the back door carrying a small stick. He said nothing and walked straight to a cupboard in the kitchen. He pulled out the big can of Crisco Mama kept in there, lifted the lid, and unceremoniously jammed the stick into the grease. When he had scooped a sufficient amount onto his stick, he turned and headed back outside, leaving the open can on the floor. We all just watched in dumbfounded silence. Dad was the first to speak.
    “Go see what that Bear is doing.” We called Jaime “Bear.” Jeremiah and I jumped eagerly from our seats and ran out the door and down the back steps. From there we were stealthy, finding cover behind the old yellow shed. I poked my head around the corner and so did Jeremiah, about a head above me. What we saw left us speechless, which was unusual for both of us.
    My other brother, Jared, who was older than me and obviously the ringleader of this fiasco, sat on a low to the ground lawn chair, poking a stick into a fire. Circled about were my younger brothers, Jaime, Jose and Javier plus a few of their friends. They sat on tree stumps or squatted on the ground. The boys had dug their own small fire pit on a dirt patch at the edge of the lawn, just before the yard went down hill. We were all really into playing Indians in those days. I can only imagine they fancied themselves a bunch of buckskinned Indians, roasting the fruits of their successful hunting party over their glorious fire.
    Just as Jeremiah and I had become aware of what the boys were up to, Jaime proudly threw the fat laden stick onto the fire as the group hollered and shouted their approval with wild Indian calls, shaking sticks in the air. What had been an insignificant bed of flames immediately burst into a raging inferno with flames shooting high into the air, feeding on the Crisco. The boys jumped back as the fire exploded out of the confines of their humble fire pit.
    Jeremiah and I were both stunned, momentarily paralyzed. We found our voices at the same time and yelled in unison, “You’re busted!”
    With that, the boys began to scatter while Jeremiah and I ran back into the house screaming and hollering the barely intelligible news of the mighty fire that was on the verge of getting out of control in the back yard.  Dad sprang to his feet. He was young then and moved quickly. Grabbing the water hose from the back porch, he ran toward the flames, cursing a plethora of obscenities in Spanish the whole way. Jeremiah turned on the water and Dad sprayed that fire until finally the conflagration was extinguished and the sparks discontinued their threatening volley. What remained were scorched lawn chairs and tree stumps and a bed of stifled embers and coals. Smoke hung heavy in the air.
    The boys knew that swift justice would follow and accordingly, they had run to far corners of the yard and house to avoid Dad’s belt. The oldest and wisest knew to stuff their pants with socks and balled up underwear for padding. They were also quicker and had enough time take protective measures. They enjoyed the advantages of natural selection. My younger brothers, Jose and Javier were not so lucky. They were slower and far more naïve. Their punishment was exacted quickly, leaving them to wallow sadly in their misfortune while Dad went after the older ones. Jared and Jaime made quick work of getting to their bedroom and stuffing their pants. They had learned from many previous experiences that such protective measures would ensure their ability to sit down the next day.
    Jeremiah and I laughed cruelly and enjoyed the spectacle before us, knowing that at least this time, we had nothing to worry about, having luckily been in the house when this wild plan was concocted.
    The older boys were eventually caught and punished, their reproof made lighter thanks to ample padding. Fingers were pointed and blame was cast, but in the end, all of the boys earned a stiff sentence of restricted privileges. Jeremiah and I gloated merrily and enjoyed our freedom, glad that we hadn’t participated in this calamitous affair.

William

This was another emotional one, tough to write. You're getting the first draft only. I don't have it in me to revise or edit it. Thank you for sharing this with me. ps. A teeny bit graphic.

William

  The cramping started as I was sitting in the soccer stadium. I had brought a book to read in case the game didn’t carry my interest. I am happy to support my husband’s sports interests, but I always have a fall back plan and have never felt bad about it. Well, except for the time we watched his cousin playing ball and I was so engrossed in my novel that I missed every shot she made. Other than that time though, no, I’ve never regretted bringing reading material or a cross stitch project.
    I was half way through a particularly engaging story when the cramping began. I thought my time had just come early which wouldn’t be terribly unusual for me. To avoid any embarrassing situations, I quickly grabbed my purse and made my way up the stairs of the stadium and headed for the bathroom. The pain increased as I sat on the toilet but I attributed it to just another heavy period. Before having my children I had always suffered horrible cramps so I assumed my body was just reverting back. It wasn’t anything to be happy about, but I also didn’t worry over it. Because of the heavy flow, I utilized both a tampon and a pad and then went back to sit with my husband and his brother. The game was underway and every now and then I would actually get into it. I loved seeing the happiness on my husband’s face when I expressed my opinions about the latest bad call the ref had made. He loved having me participate. All I kept thinking was how he would owe me after this; off Broadway musicals and smooshy romantic movies.
    Toward the end of the game, the pain in my middle was beginning to overwhelm me. I wished I had brought some ibuprophen in my purse. The caffeine from my soda seemed to help a little but not much. I was grateful when at last it was time to hike back to our car. I settled into the front seat and did my best to get comfortable. By this time I wasn’t able to hide the fact that I was miserable. James, my husband, placed a loving hand on my leg and gave it a gentle squeeze. I didn’t want to discuss the problem in front of my brother in law, Matthew, so I assured James that I just wasn’t feeling great and needed to rest. It was a long, bumpy ride home. Road construction on the freeway certainly didn’t help the throbbing in my stomach. We dropped Matthew off at his apartment and then finished the remaining thirty minutes of our drive home. James asked about my pain and I assured him that it was just a really heavy period. I think I was trying to convince myself as well. There was really no reason to suspect anything else-- I was on the Depoprovera contraceptive shot.
    We arrived home and relieved our babysitters. The kids were asleep as it was quite late. I changed into pajamas and replaced my tampon and pad. The bleeding hadn’t slowed at all, in fact it seemed to have increased along with the cramps. I lay in bed for about twenty minutes, unable to find a comfortable position for sleep. I propped myself up with a reading pillow and pulled out my heating pad. After I plugged it in, I laid it over my aching belly and tried desperately to fall asleep. The cramping came harder and faster as I lay there. I didn’t want to disturb James but it was getting difficult to hide my agony. I went into the bathroom, paced for a minute or two and then sat on the toilet. I felt the need to push, maybe I was constipated. What followed was the incredibly painful expulsion of blood, amniotic fluid, and tissue. I didn’t realize it at first. I just knew that the intense stabbing pains had eased up and I felt relief.
    I stood and cleaned myself off and looked into the toilet. I’m not sure what I expected to see. Maybe the same as when this had happened before. This was different though. There was more. So much more. I had an overwhelming urge to explore what lay in the water and blood. I went quietly upstairs and grabbed a spatula. I couldn’t just flush this without knowing for sure what had happened. With the plastic spatula, I moved some of the red mass and there, in the midst of it all, was a little white body. Little fingers, toes, arms, legs, head, torso and hands. My head began to spin wildly and I became aware of loud, panicked screaming, not realizing at first that it was coming from me.
  James came groggily into the bathroom, finding me, half dressed, in a heap on the cold tile floor, sobbing and shaking hysterically. He tried to calm me but I wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. Shock was quickly setting in. He asked me for at least the fifth time what was wrong. Somehow I answered him, screaming at him to look in the toilet.
  “Why Julie? What’s going on?” He was still puzzled and must’ve thought I’d gone crazy. I lost it then, horribly angry at him for not getting it. 
  “Look in the fucking toilet! Just look!” I am not one to act that way normally, but this was not a normal experience and I was no where near being in my right mind.
  James looked into the toilet and his face went white. He just stood there, frozen. He said nothing and I just cried, now quietly, curled up by the bathtub.
  Some memories you can never erase. Maybe that’s a good thing, if you can learn to deal with it and find peace. Otherwise, those traumatic memories can haunt you, coming to the surface when you least expect them and forcing you to relive the event again and again. I remember every minute, every second, of that night.
  James asked what I wanted to do. He actually dared suggest we flush it. I freaked out yet again and screamed for him to get out of the bathroom. It wasn’t fair to him, but what was happening to both of us wasn’t fair either. We had been on birth control. This shouldn’t have happened. I had felt no symptoms, gained no weight and had seen no obvious signs that there was a life growing inside of me. Nothing made sense and the world continued to spin out of control around me.
  I called my mother, it was around 2 AM. She knew the right things to say. She had been through this herself. She calmed me and then her and Dad got ready to come pick me up. We decided to leave James with our other kids and go to the Emergency Room.
  I scooped my tiny dead baby and all of the other expelled tissue into a baggie, then wrapped it in one of my brand new red kitchen towels. James hugged me and did his best to comfort me. He was dealing with pain, confusion, and shock, just as I was.
  With the bundle hugged tightly to my body, I went outside and sat on the low stone wall in my front yard, waiting for my parents. They pulled up a few minutes later and Mama came running over, asking why I was sitting out in the cold night air. I had no answer.
  We got to the ER quickly and were admitted without much waiting. Dad stayed in the waiting room and Mama came with me. I changed into a hospital gown and Mama held my baby. It was hard to let anyone else take the bundle from me.
  The doctor who examined me was quite handsome. Funny that I should note that, but somehow it helped. He was also very kind and incredibly tender. He asked my permission to examine my baby. He seemed sure that everything that needed to be expelled, had in fact come out but he called to set up an ultrasound just to be sure.
  He informed my mom and I that I had been approximately 4 ½ months along, based on the development of the fetus. I was devastated and dumbfounded. How was this possible?
  He left and Mama and I sat quietly, speaking only a little. She asked if she could look at the baby and I let her. We cried together and felt the tragedy of the situation washing over us.
  Soon I was wheeled down a long hallway to have my ultrasound done. The scan showed that everything had cleared, I would not need a DNC. For that I was grateful. The doctor released me soon after, but before that, he sat at my bedside, holding my hand. He gently explained that this was not my fault, there was nothing I could have done about it. I appreciated his words, but it would be almost two years before I was able to believe and accept what he told me.
  Dad, Mama and I drove to the all night Walgreen’s pharmacy and filled my prescription for Vicodin. I looked forward to sinking into a drug induced peace. My mind was beyond overwhelmed and I couldn’t deal with anymore sadness for awhile. I needed a break, time to let my spirit and mind calm down and again regain control of myself.
  When I came home, I fully intended to go to bed. Instead, I somehow found myself placing my small bundle in a tin box that had belonged to Great Grandma Pratt who had recently passed away. With the tin box in hand, I went back out into the morning. The sun was coming up and a few birds hailed me as I knelt below the big Cottonwood in my small front yard. I gingerly set the tin box on the low rock wall and then used a small spade to dig a hole in the corner of my shade garden. There I buried my little one, a child I hadn’t even know existed until he was gone. Covering the box took every ounce of mental energy that I had. I apologized to him repeatedly and assured him that “mommy loved him.” I stayed with him for at least an hour, my body weary and my soul weak. Finally James came out onto the porch to see what I was doing and with a few gentle words, he helped me up and coaxed me back into the house. I slept for several hours and spent the day in bed.
  I had experienced several miscarriages before William, the name I chose to give my lost baby. Never had I been this far along and never had it been so physically and emotionally painful. I found a small angel statue to place over his resting place and every time I walk by, I wonder about who he might have been, had he lived. The Lord knows best, I believe that strongly. Perhaps William didn’t need the earthly experience, but only to come and get a body. I don’t have all the answers but these years later, after lots of prayer and therapy, I do have peace.
  I am preparing to deliver a new daughter in just weeks and can’t help but think of William. I wonder why my new baby girl has made it this far and William was called home. I am of course grateful that she will be able to join our family. I wonder if she knew William in Heaven. I wonder if he remembers me. I wonder if he knows how much I love him and miss him. Funny that you can miss someone you never knew.
   I love you William. You are my baby even if I don’t get to raise you. Your mommy and daddy still think of you and hope that you are safe and happy in the arms of Jesus.

An abrupt ending with a twist

 I am in short story mode right now. My goal is to write 4 short stories, 5 pages or less, this week. I will try with each one to go shorter and shorter while still clearly providing the 3 essential elements (conflict, climax, resolution).

Clara

It was an average Wednesday in the small town of Beaver. The morning had been cloudy but the rising afternoon temperature had burnt off the cloud cover. Clara Sansford pulled into the parking lot of the gym, ready for an intense kickboxing class. Work had ended early today and Clara couldn’t be more grateful. The Simmons contract was giving her so much grief, she never should have stuck her neck out for the project. Her assistant Nadine had talked her into it, Don Simmons was Nadine’s ex-husband. She had promised that although he was a lousy husband, he was a very smart investor. Clara was suspicious from the start but her naiveté and faith in humanity overrode her suspicions and she had gone ahead and presented the real estate proposal to her boss, Jack Turner. Jack hadn’t been excited but he knew that Clara was responsible and she had a reputation and credibility that had been built on eight years of successful, lucrative business deals.
    From the start, the Simmons deal was a money pit. Already Clara’s firm had lost $15,000 in negotiations. She had looked into every avenue available over the last two months to unload this albatross. Her assistant, Nadine, had quit three weeks earlier and had fallen off the radar. No one could find her and Clara was left holding the bag. Don Simmons refused to drop out of the contract, willing to drag Clara’s entire firm down with him and his failed venture. Jack Turner had been on her case to finish this off and make it go away. She knew her career and reputation were on the line but had no idea how she could possibly get out of the hole she had dug. Every waking minute of her days had been filled with stress-- only her gym sessions brought her relief, an escape from the intense drama of her work life.
    The kickboxing room was nearly full when Clara arrived--she found a spot near the back which suited her just fine, she didn’t need everyone watching her movements. There was just enough time to stretch out her stiff legs before the instructor blew the whistle. Clara quickly pulled her purple hoodie over her head, threw it to the side of the room and gathered her full mop of chocolate brown hair into a tight pony tail. Yesterday’s time in the tanning bed had left her arms bronzed and warm, she probably shouldn’t have done the full ten minutes. They ached as she stretched them, one at a time over her small chest. A few quick shakes of her head, side to side and hopping from one foot to the other and Clara was beginning to feel her blood warming up, every inch of her anxious to get started. The only good thing that had come from this whole Simmons’ fiasco, was that Clara had been so stressed out, she had ended up at the gym two and even three times each day. She had lost eighteen pounds quickly and was enjoying her newly toned and lean body. If only she had time to show if off. Until things were settled at work, there would be no socializing for her. The only enjoyment she had was in her workouts and the classes were usually made up of women. Someday she would find Mr. Right, just not today.
    Right as the instructor entered the room and turned on the stereo, Clara’s phone rang. She looked at the caller id and saw that it was Jack Turner. Her heart rate was increasing before she had even thrown a kick or a punch. This was her time. She was not going to let her work take over this last vestige of refuge in her life. She pushed the end button and sent Jack to voice mail. It could wait.
    The class began and Clara gave it all she had. She kicked, she punched, she yelled, she dripped with sweat. Every unpleasant thought that had been plaguing her these last two months was beaten to the ground. Here she felt powerful, strong, and in charge. The music was loud and the energy in the room grew, creating an inferno of body heat. Clara pushed to kick harder than the other women around her. The perspiration dripped from every pore but she wasn’t stopping. Kick, punch, thrust, jump, crouch, kick, punch. The class was reaching its climax, the repetitions getting faster and more intense. Clara was pleased to be able to keep up. She had made so much progress.
     Maybe she should be grateful for that dishonest bastard, Don Simmons and his smoke and mirrors business proposition. She hadn’t felt this good since high school track.
    The energy of the pack reached a fever pitch, sweating bodies huffing and puffing in unison, determined not to be the first to stop. Clara was just as driven as the rest of them, maybe even more so.
    Must not give up. Must not stop! Won’t be first, won’t be first! I own this!
    Just as Clara felt her determination starting to give out, the instructor yelled into her microphone from the front of the room, signaling that the torture would now stop. Cool down time had come. They would survive. Clara could hardly catch her breath as she slowed down, watching the bodies around her become disorganized fuzzy shapes. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. It wouldn’t go. Sudden sharp pains stabbed through her abdomen.
    Maybe I pushed too hard. So much pain. Must sit down.
    Clara’s body began to sway, not with the rhythm of the cool down music, but instead, with the rhythm of her erratically beating heart. She wrapped her arms around her middle and doubled over, bumping into the woman in front of her.
    “What the….?” The woman turned around and grabbed hold of Clara’s forearms.
“Slow down, honey. Let’s get you on the floor.”
    The other women around them realized that something was terribly wrong and came to assist. Clara’s face was white and her eyes were glassing over. The pain in her middle was subsiding, her breathing slowed and she began to feel an otherworldly peace settling over her body, completely unaware of the frantic movements around her.
    Forty minutes later, Clara was pronounced dead in the Beaver General Hospital Emergency Room. The victim of a massive heart attack, Clara’s life ended at age twenty-nine. An undiagnosed heart defect combined with her crazy stress levels and intense workouts had done her in. The last thought that passed through her mind, as she slid toward the light, was, “At least I don’t have to worry about the contract….”
    When her closest friend came to collect her belongings, she noticed that Clara’s cell phone had a missed call with a message. Out of curiosity, she dialed Clara’s voicemail. The message was from Mr. Turner.
    “Clara, hi there. Sorry to bug you during your free time. I just thought you should be the first to know that Don Simmons was arrested this morning for insider trading. His arrest gets us out of that rotten deal. We’re free, Clara! Call me back if you have time to celebrate. A bunch of us from the office are going out to Reggie’s for a drink. And hey, no hard feelings about the money we lost. Our insurance has a special loop hole when fraud is involved. They’re going to cover our losses. Thank you for all your hard work kiddo. Talk to you later.”

The room was empty

This was a prompt from a writing site. Decided to run with it. This one scares me to tackle as it involves emotional baggage and past experience, however I strongly believe that writing is incredibly therapeutic and can help to heal wounds. So here we go!

"The Room Was Empty"

  The room was empty. Nearly empty, anyway. The walls, once filled with framed photographs and shelves of memories, now stood barren. My brothers had taken the bed over to my mom's house, along with all of the other good furniture that wasn't borrowed. I leaned against one of the empty walls and reflected on the chapter in my life that was suddenly and violently ending. How could the sun be shining so brightly when my world was falling down around me? In a corner of the room, I left a pile for him-- the one who left me. The warm blanket his mother had made for us, the teddy bear with the bow tie of stars and moons that I had given him while we were dating, the Kama Sutra book his friend had given him at his bachelor party, and a nearly full box of condoms on top of the pile, something we hadn't needed in awhile. 

  The trouble didn't start the night he left. It had been building for months and I had chosen to ignore it and turn a blind eye to the signs that were glaringly obvious. The week long business trip that had begun with multiple phone calls and texts. Those communications had slowed and finally stopped by the end of the week. There was someone with red hair. A roommate at the conference. How could I compete? If I had tried harder, would it have made a difference? My lawyer said it wouldn't have. I had merely been a test, a chance to prove that he was straight, that he was normal. That's why he took our engagement portrait and marriage certificate. He could show that he had tried. He could blame it on me, that perhaps I left him unfulfilled. 

   I couldn't stay in that room. A room where we had once been united, where we had loved. The office across the hall wasn't nearly as empty. I had taken the new desk and left him the old one. I took the new dresser, it was his wedding gift to me after all, and the bookcase I bought. I left his pile of books, photos, cards and letter on the floor. I wanted to burn all of the cards I had given him but my heart wouldn't let me. So I left them. He could do with them as he pleased. I left his clothing unharmed in the closet. Some women slash shirts or dump everything out on the lawn. I couldn't do that to his things. Instead I leaned into the closet and just smelled them. Cliche, I know. His cologne lingered and the masochistic side of me longed to memorize it, drink it in and feel it, along with all the memories tied to it. How could so much come with a fragrance?

For a couple of years after, I couldn't stand to smell it. Stocking the cosmetics department at work, I would walk by that cologne in its black box and my body would involuntarily shudder. I fought the urge to once again drink in the memories that haunted me. If I gave in, I would lose the battle. He may have won with his premeditated sneak attack the night he picked our last fight, but I wouldn't let another ounce of my emotions be lost to him. 

  I left our apartment, the place we had shared our hearts, bodies, and minds. The place we had begun to build a life. All of the dried roses, so many roses, were face down in the kitchen waste basket. My sister in law had packed every last dish and spoon into boxes and bags with a fiery passion. I knew she, along with the rest of my family, felt that pain that I had kept hidden for two weeks as I had tried, begged, pleaded, for him to return. An exercise in futility. He had been planning his escape for two months at least, putting a deposit on an apartment, cleaning out our bank account and canceling our cable and internet services. Once I had proof of his intentions, I knew that nothing I said or did would bring him back. Even if he had come back, what would we have then?

  The living room was devoid of decorations, knick knacks and pictures. I took the sofa my friend had given me and left the one we had been borrowing. I also left the television that belonged to his friend. A shame, it was really nice. I at least had the one from the bedroom. I also took the vcr and dvd player. I took his whole collection of speakers, not sure at the time why I was taking them. Most likely it was just vengeance. He was proud of his collection. Later I thought I might give them as a peace offering during settlement. They were even piled into the trunk of my car the day we met to sign papers with my attorney. I donated them to a thrift store after the meeting. I didn't, and still don't, feel bad about it.

   While I was running a load of items from the apartment over to my mom's house, he showed up. He let himself in, most likely because my car wasn't there. He didn't know that my little brother was in the kitchen, awaiting my return. He looked around the empty apartment, looking confused and dismayed and threw his arms in the air. My brother stayed out of sight and watched this play out. In resignation, my former love shook his head and walked out the front door. Again. He didn't leave a note this time. He knew he had been defeated. I was, by far, more vindictive than he could ever have imagined. Men just don't seem to take seriously the old adage about a woman scorned. He took me seriously after that day. 

  I won alimony which was unheard of for a ten month marriage with both partners working full time. He took my heart, my virginity and a bit of my sanity. I took his money and his ability to claim single. He wanted an annulment, I declined. He will now have to claim divorced. He got his freedom, but I left with my dignity in place. 

  A part of me still loves him, or at least certain memories of him. Popcorn and gummy candy, flowers for no reason. Hiking and walking, music and movies. It wasn't all bad. I forgave him several years ago. I had to in order to completely commit to my new family, a husband who adores me and children who fill every empty place in my heart. 

  The room was empty. My heart was empty. I walked out for the last time, a changed woman. No longer a child. I knew too much and could never return to blissful ignorance. In that moment I hated him. Hated myself. Now I wish him all the best the world has to offer. he taught me things I wouldn't otherwise have learned. I am strong. I can fight like a lion when pushed. I can forgive. I can love and be loved. My rooms and heart are filled now. My cup runneth over.  

My most embarrassing moment ever!

  Who is brave enough to share their most embarrassing moment with the whole cyber world for the sake of art? Me! That's who! Today's writing assignment takes me back to my senior year of high school. I'm using short story form with only necessary description and dialogue. Nothing fancy, just telling the story.

The Color Red

  The bell rang loudly and the school day was over. My fellow students began vacating the classroom quickly while I sat, waiting. Half way through class I had noticed something moist and wet on my chair. I grew increasingly uncomfortable until the class finally ended. I stayed there, glued to my chair, until the very last student was gone. My AP English teacher, Mr. Olsen, sat at his desk, looking over song lyrics. He was always extolling the  virtues of various song writers, his favorite being Bob Dylan. You could always distract our beloved teacher from presenting an assignment by beginning a discussion on classic rock from the sixties and seventies. Invariably, the guitar would come out and Mr. Olsen would prop himself up on his stool at the front of the room, playing and singing until class ended.

  I sat there, for nearly ten minutes, until Mr. Olsen looked up and noticed that I was still seated long after class had ended, definitely unusual for me.

 "Did you need something, Julie?" Mr. Olsen looked at me quizzically.

 "Mr. Olsen, here's how this is gonna go." These days he would probably be afraid I had a gun or a bomb with what I said. Since it wasn't the gun era yet, he just looked at me, his face a question mark.

 "I need you to bring me paper towels and some Windex and then I need you to leave."

  His face registered understanding and Mr. Olsen promptly rose from his chair, grabbed a roll of paper towels and bottle of cleaning spray from the window ledge and walked them over to me. Setting the cleaning supplies on the desk, he said softly, "Goodbye Julie. Have a nice day." And he walked out the door, leaving me to my calamity.

  Rising from my seat, I looked at the red puddle on my chair and was mortified. I had always had heavy, painful periods but I had never had an experience like this before. Using several paper towels, I wiped up the mess and sprayed the chair clean. I had a cell phone with me, which was a novelty for your average teenager in 1999. I was lucky to have it and called my mom to come pick me up right at the door closest to me. 

  I tied my sweater around my waist, yet another lucky thing to have with me at the time, and then waited outside with my back to the wall until Mama arrived. The ten or so feet to the car seemed like miles as I crossed them and then climbed into the Suburban carefully, not wanting anyone outside to suspect what I was hiding.

  We went home and I had a lovely shower. It was great to be physically clean and to feel like I had washed my humiliation down the drain. My clothing was not so lucky. Too bad, I really liked those pants.

 At school the next day, Mr. Olsen acted as though nothing had happened, and I did the same. Inside though, I knew that something had changed between us. There was a new kinship and respect-- I did the very best I could with all of my assignments from then on. I also made doubly sure that I took the proper precautions when the same time came around the next month.

 

What is your most embarrassing moment? What did you learn from it? Have you written it down for posterity? If not, why? We all go through some pretty silly stuff in our lives. Knowing that we are not alone is always comforting. So share it! :) Most likely you will end up laughing as I did.

Description

 Another area that needs extra attention in my writing, is description. Here's an exercise I did last night.

Exploring Description

    The stiff breeze blew all about Ellie, sending flurries of snow flakes in circles around her. She pulled her red chenille cardigan tightly around her slight body. The thin sweater was hardly adequate for the shroud of pristine, frigid whiteness that began to cover every reachable surface of Provo’s Historic District. The quaint brick store fronts with their bright and colorful window displays were lost in the zigzagging eddies of icy flakes threatening to conceal them completely. The air temperature dropped quickly as Ellie hurried toward the bus stop. She wore her new cream colored pumps and every few steps she slid along the sidewalk, forcing her to walk even more slowly and with increasingly greater care.
     If she could only get to the covered bus stop, this nightmare might end.  Hope was all she had. Well, hope and a mind full of determination and stubbornness.
    The glass walls of the time worn bus stop were just feet away. Ellie looked behind her to make sure she hadn’t been followed. She saw nothing but the gathering intensity of the coming blizzard. The seeming wall of white obscured anything or anyone who might be following her. Hopefully the frosty tempest meant that she couldn’t be seen either. Ellie hadn’t heard footsteps or anything else but the whistle of the wind and the rattling leaves of the Cottonwood trees that lined the street. Her toes, fingers and slightly upturned nose were beginning to tingle. Ellie wished she had grabbed the folded bus schedule from her boyfriend Jeffrey’s desk before she left his office. Normally the buses came every thirty minutes but this was a quiet Sunday. Who knows when the next ride will be here? Ellie’s relief at reaching the shelter of the glass enclosed bus stop was quickly being replaced with the fear that had been tormenting her nearly every waking minute for the last three days.
    Ellie rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to create warmth. Goosebumps covered her fair skin, now pink and nubby. Her head was covered in a mass of limp curls. Her usual mantle of soft auburn ringlets was tonight a matted heap, white and heavy with moisture. She remembered wearing her grey poet’s cap earlier in the day. Had the wind blown it away? It was expensive and she’d never be able to replace it. What a silly thought at a time like this.
    A light in the distance caught Ellie’s attention and she jerked her head up quickly, nearly losing her precarious balance on an ice patch. A bus!
Ellie attempted futilely to straighten the black skirt of her dress and brushed her untidy collection of saturated coils and waves away from her face, hoping she didn’t look as much like a drowned rat as she felt. The light came closer, growing until it illuminated the immediate area around the bus stop. The falling snow took on an ethereal, peaceful quality in the bright lights of her approaching rescuer. Ellie felt a sense of comfort and safety pouring over here and began waving her frozen arms above her head. It wasn’t necessary as this was actually a scheduled stop but Ellie didn’t know that and wasn’t taking any chance-- plus it helped to get her blood circulating and she at least felt for a moment like she had a modicum of control in the recent discord of her life. 

An exercise in dialogue

I am working on the areas I am struggling with in my writing. One of them is dialogue. So here's what I did today. Going to do another exercise in the same area later this week.

An Exercise in Dialogue

    Sonny walked into the room, ordered a martini and sat on the red leather bar stool to relax. It had been a long day and he was ready to shake it all off and disappear into an alcohol fog for the rest of the night. He stretched his arms above his head, careful not to hit any of the other patrons. The man next to him caught his contagious yawn.
    “Rough days anymore, yeah?” The man had a slight New York accent, just barely noticeable.
    “That they are friend.” Sonny smiled good naturedly. “You from New York then?”
    “I was, once. Hard times is hittin’ everywhere. Came here for work. The wife’s family’s got a potato farm. Ain’t much, pays the bills though.”
Sonny was always surprised at how open people were after they’d gotten good and liquored up.
    “We do what we gotta do brother. Us is all the same out in the workin’ field. Just gotta keep at it till we die. My boy’s headin’ to school next month.” Sonny had been just about as proud as a man could be when the acceptance letter came in the afternoon mail. He never missed an opportunity to spread his good news.
    The friendly stranger ran a calloused hand through his salt and pepper hair, then lifted his stein enthusiastically.
    “There are still things to celebrate. Thank God for that. Here’s to your boy, the college man.”
Their glasses clinked amiably and a bond was forged over the trials of the working family man.

Hat Lady

 This is just a story start. I have no idea where it is going or what it will become. Maybe a short story.

Hat Lady

Greta wore hats. Hats with plumes, hats with glitter, lace, and flowers. Ridiculous hats. Pompous hats. Gaudy and outrageous hats. One whole bedroom in her Queen Anne Victorian Revival was made over into a hat room. Next door to the hats, Greta kept her collection of furs and wigs. She flaunted her eccentricities the way other women flaunted their breast enhancements and bleached teeth.  She walked with grace and sophistication, adorned in the most extravagant evening gowns in the middle of the day.
    These daily strolls led her into antique stores and junk shops where she searched for bits of costume jewelry to add to her ever-growing collection. She also hunted for lamps with elaborate stained glass shades and Grecian Urns to grow her herbs in. She was known in the neighborhood as Lady Greta. The children knew that at Halloween she would give out handsome amounts of sweets and goodies. Lady Greta was the source or inspiration for several urban legends. Plastic surgery and flattering clothing had long made sure that no one knew her true age. Rumors thrived about her origins and past. She was a black widow in hiding, a former Nazi, a celebrity that had gone incognito. Maybe she was an international spy or even a terrorist. Each new generation built on the legends of the last.

Exploring the dark side of good intentions

I found this one in a notebook of mine from about six months ago and wrote this second draft.

 Gooseberry Pie

 The rain was falling when Mr. Sumption died. He always did enjoy the warm summer rain. 

If Mr. Sumption had lived even one day longer, it is unlikely that his life could have been any more full. He had experienced joy and sorrow in nearly equal amounts. 

 He climbed a few mountains, raised several healthy children. He even jumped out of an airplane once, just for the fun of it. He toured the Pacific with the Navy, ate French Cuisine in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, and married the prettiest girl in his class.

 He saw friends and loved ones pass on before him, including two of his own children. Little Jimmy was hit by a car at age seven and Lilly died just five minutes and twenty-three seconds after birth.

 The world had changed around Mr. Sumption throughout his many years. Styles, trends, language and music- he watched them all evolve. One of his favorite pastimes was sitting on a bench in the mall, watching so many different kinds of people walking by. He never thought mean or unkind thoughts about any of them, even the ones with rainbow colored hair or silly tattoos and piercings. Rather, these adornments were a source of entertainment for Mr. Sumption. He figured that people dressed themselves based on their belief or lack there of, in their own self worth. He felt bad for a few of them, especially the scantily clad young ladies he saw flaunting their bodies. He would have liked to have told them what he knew of their real worth.

 Mr. Wilber Sumption honored women. His mother, Mrs. Dorothy Cox Sumption, had made it clear through daily instruction that women were special and that it was a man's duty to treat them with the utmost respect and dignity, even if they did not respect themselves.

 Mr. Sumtion's wife, Lillian Andrews Sumption, considered herself fortunate to have found such a good man to be her husband. She spent fifty-three fruitful years appreciating and enjoying his companionship. Mr. Sumption missed her at least forty-five times each day while waiting to join her in Heaven. When his time finally came, his last thoughts were of Lillian's polka dot apron, the one she always wore when baking pies. Why did she save it just for pie day? She had never explained it to him and he looked forward to finally solving the mystery.

 He also hoped she would have one of her delicious Gooseberry pies waiting for him on arrival. He liked gooseberry best with a generous dollop of fresh whipped cream on top. To have his lovely wife and her award-winning pie, that would be Heaven for Mr. Wilbur Sumption.

 One man might leave a lasting impression, having spawned new and exciting ideas, ideas that might be studied in schools for centuries to come. Mr. Sumption won't be that man. He will be remembered by those who knew him and nice things will said in his memory. Soon however, life will go on. Only those who were closest to him will still catch themselves lingering on the past. A thought now and then.

 "Dad would have enjoyed this halibut."

"Grandpa would've had something to say about that boy's jeans being so tight."

Little things like that, moments here and there. After a time, as is the case with most people who have lived, our legacy will fade and be mostly forgotten, aside from old photos and journals. 

 Perhaps one day, many years after his death, someone will read Mr. Sumption's journals. They will unwittingly stumble on his meticulous accounts of secrets long since buried. Some secrets dark and unnerving, others mundane and of little import. We all have secrets.

 The revelations found in Mr. Sumption's journal, if in fact anyone ever does read them, will show this quiet, unassuming man in a different light. It wouldn't be wise to judge him. How can you know what you would do in another person's shoes?

 Hadn't his mother always taught him to respect and honor women? Mr. Sumption did that well. Most especially, he honored his mother, the woman who had given him life. The things an adoring boy will do for the mother he loves; the lengths he will go to in order to maintain her dignity.

 You can't judge him. To do so would be to expose your own ignorance and naivete.  How many times should a boy watch his mother be hurt by the one man who should treat her best of all? How is he to accept the beatings, all the while believing women to be of great worth? How long before that belief will promote action? A good boy loves his mother. Mr. Wilbur Sumption was a good boy. He upheld the honor and dignity of Mrs. Dorothy Cox Sumption. 

 The old wood shed at the far end of the family property was Mr. Sumption's proving ground. Moving stealthily through the evening shadows, he passed into manhood. His rite of passage complete after he swung the axe with all of his might. Secrets. Buried mysteries that gave rise to rose bushes and colorful bulbs.

 Mr. Sumption's own father was the first but he would not be the last. No woman should have to endure the pain and indignity of abuse.

 If you had asked the old man if he had any regrets, he would have looked out at the rain from his comfortable old rocking chair and simply replied, "I only wish I could have done more."

 The rain was falling when Mr. Sumption died. Warm rain that would wash away the dark stains of an otherwise clean life. How do you measure the worth of a man's existence? The line between hero and villain is a matter of perspective.

 As the steady flow intensifies and falls in a non-stop deluge from a grieving sky, the water will erode the grassy knolls and rend the manicured beds laden with tulips, hyacinth and primrose. The saturated ground will give way to the torrents, revealing secrets undeniable. Perhaps we need not wait for the obscure chance that an old journal will be read. 

 The old family property, a depot manifest with testimony of one man's choices. Hero? Villain? 

The rain falls. Do you smell gooseberry?

5-7-5 Poetry

Exercise for today: Write a 5-7-5 poem.

 The Fight

She whines and he cries
 He pulls her hair, she fights back.
 Mom steps in. Game over.

I may be a red neck

 As I was doing some chores outside yesterday, I felt inspired and several sentences, words and ideas popped into my head. When I went back inside, I grabbed pen and paper and here's what I got down. 1st draft.

I may be a redneck

The sun is beginning its evening descent. I feel a soft breeze on my bare arms. It is the middle of March and I am just now taking down the Christmas lights from the porch railing. The pungent odor of a neighbor's cigarette is carried on the breeze and assaults my senses. Being eight months pregnant, every smell, taste and feeling is intensified. 

Strings of twinkle lights in an array of colors are laying in organized heaps on the deck box. Faded garland comes down next. I jump to pull the last of it down from the porch column. I feel my swollen belly bounce and it pulls at my overstretched tendons. A groan escapes my lips and I sit heavily on the deck box to rest and catch my breath.

The setting sun is in my eyes. I look away and notice the tiny new buds on my snapdragons. Tomorrow I will prep my flower bed-raking out leaves and removing dead foliage- if I have enough energy.

The neighbor boys, there are many of them gathered next door, are running around shirtless, tackling each other and yelling juvenile insults. Though it is fairly warm this evening, the temperature is scarcely high enough to warrant the removal of clothing. They've been so wild since their mother died-may she rest in peace.

I have caught my breath and notice the half full bag of soda cans on the porch next to the railing. I am inspired. I gather all the cans from inside the deck box, the cans that the kids and I have collected on our many walks. 

Combining them all I have two garbage bags full. I will need to take them out to the shed. It can wait. I set the bags on top of the deck box. It would be good to have one more bag full before I take them to the recycling center. The money we earn will go into our Disneyland fund. 

The sun moves further down, just resting between the big tree and the neighbor's roof line. The Christmas lights are down, the soda cans are organized. Time to make dinner.

Scribbles

 This will be my creative playground. I love to write and I want to get better at it. Here I will explore different writing styles and take on weekly and daily writing assignments to open up the well of creativity that I am hoping is hiding deep inside me somewhere.