The soft glow of the candles positioned along the wall was the only lighting the small group of travelers had as they made their way down the passageway towards the main gated entrance of the keep. The leader of the group lifted his balled fist into the air to signal the group to quickly halt and listen to their surroundings. Once assured they were indeed the only souls in the walkway, he motioned the group of four men dressed in ragged clothing and who carried a foul odor, forward.
Royce, a young soldier having only joined the ranks of the Earl one summer earlier, was the soldier on duty. What he lacked in age he more than made up for in experience on the battlefield and in build, he was a strong lad of 17 and had seen as much warring as almost anyone in the barracks where he was housed. The small stool in the guard tower did not make for a very comfortable seat for the largely built soldier, causing him to stand for most of his time in the small makeshift fort. A glimpse to the right out his little window assured him all was quiet and a glance towards the left appeared to be quiet as well, to the untrained soldier. However, Royce had been doing guard duty for the last sennight and new well enough the shadows of the trees nearby to know that the small shadow he saw along the outer wall was not a moving brush, but rather a living person.
Not one to sound an alarm at any slight movement, Royce instead motioned to the guard who was entertaining himself below the fort. “Ian, put your arse back in your pants and get up here!” his hushed voice boomed down the ladder to the young soldier below who was enjoying the company of an even younger lass. A few moments later a grumbled Ian climbed up into the fort and demanded to know why he was interrupted.
“The sweet lass was just about to let me have my way, and you go and offend her!” Ian cuffed Royce with his fist.
“Aye, I’m sure you were just about to get your way,” Royce couldn’t help but laugh. “I think it was your stench that offended the gentle lady,” the sarcasm was not lost on Ian and he looked as though he were to biff his friend once more, but Royce put his hand in the air to still him. “Nay, we don’t have time for banter. There is a small group of men creeping along side the wall. I’ll go check it out, you stay here.” Royce patted Ian’s shoulder as he stepped past him and began his descent down the ladder.
“Why do you get to have them? I could use the exercise,” Ian complained, looking down through the opening of the fort at Royce on the ladder.
“Aye, you could. And you could use that club of yours to take them out,” Royce pointed upward at his friend who instantly turned red in the face and quickly adjusted his clothing.
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Day 12
Is there such a thing as an acceptable loss?
Is it acceptable to lose the love in a marriage? For it to slowly die and begin to rot before the two people finally realize what the heavy stench is?
Is it acceptable to lose your hope and ambition because someone has told you that your not good enough at what you love, to be a success at it?
Is it acceptable for a child to lose their respect for their parent who finds more comfort at the bottom of bottle than anywhere else?
Is it acceptable for a mother lose their child of any age for any reason? A pain that deep can't possibly be acceptable or reasonable.
Maybe an acceptable loss is something that you didn't really need anyway. To lose the south beach diet book is an acceptable loss to someone who has given up on all diets.
Weight loss is usually an acceptable loss. I'm sure many people could accept losing 10 lbs or so.
Losing your memory could be acceptable if your past is full of misery and painful memories, it would be like a fresh start at life.
Losing time is acceptable only when there is extra time to be lost, and who really has extra time...not me...my time is up.
I'm noticing that when I wait to do my writing til the end of the night I don't get very far, my groove is never found and nothing worthy spills onto theses pages...but I showed up, I wrote...and I posted.
Is it acceptable to lose the love in a marriage? For it to slowly die and begin to rot before the two people finally realize what the heavy stench is?
Is it acceptable to lose your hope and ambition because someone has told you that your not good enough at what you love, to be a success at it?
Is it acceptable for a child to lose their respect for their parent who finds more comfort at the bottom of bottle than anywhere else?
Is it acceptable for a mother lose their child of any age for any reason? A pain that deep can't possibly be acceptable or reasonable.
Maybe an acceptable loss is something that you didn't really need anyway. To lose the south beach diet book is an acceptable loss to someone who has given up on all diets.
Weight loss is usually an acceptable loss. I'm sure many people could accept losing 10 lbs or so.
Losing your memory could be acceptable if your past is full of misery and painful memories, it would be like a fresh start at life.
Losing time is acceptable only when there is extra time to be lost, and who really has extra time...not me...my time is up.
I'm noticing that when I wait to do my writing til the end of the night I don't get very far, my groove is never found and nothing worthy spills onto theses pages...but I showed up, I wrote...and I posted.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Day 11
A strong floral scent hangs heavily in the stale air, making it almost hard to breath in the confining room. The king sized bed is neatly made, the lavendar and pink botanic bead spread is tucked neatly beneath the pillows and barely brushes the deep green carpeting.
There is a small end table near the window, where the bulky drapes hang matching the bedspread perfectly down the very last pink tulip. A sheer curtain denies the outsiders a full view of the room, but the occupant can see well enough out to the walk way. The wall unit air conditioner blows cool air into the stuffy room, gently rustling the drapes.
As you can see, I didn't get very far in my 15 minutes today...brain blockage, I suppose. I worked on my math class for a good hour and a half before doing my writing, I guess it sucked all of my creativity from me. Tomorrow will be better.
There is a small end table near the window, where the bulky drapes hang matching the bedspread perfectly down the very last pink tulip. A sheer curtain denies the outsiders a full view of the room, but the occupant can see well enough out to the walk way. The wall unit air conditioner blows cool air into the stuffy room, gently rustling the drapes.
As you can see, I didn't get very far in my 15 minutes today...brain blockage, I suppose. I worked on my math class for a good hour and a half before doing my writing, I guess it sucked all of my creativity from me. Tomorrow will be better.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Day 10, a wound
The stench of dead flesh nearly brought her to her knees upon entering the makeshift tent that stood in the middle of the enemy camp. Her husband was going to blame her for the mess she was in, that was a fact, he was always blaming her for everything.
How was she to know that the rival clan was sitting directly outside the gates of his lands and was just waiting for an opportune time to snatch her from her horse and carry her away? He would probably blame her for the wretched smelling rag they used to blindfold her too, the smell of manure lingered when the rag was pulled away from her.
The heavy canvas flap of the tent nearly smacked her in her rear as it swung back into the tent after her initial captor left her alone in the presence of what appeared to be very wounded man. She took a quick survey of her surroundings and found nothing useful to grasp before the leader joined her. The man laying on the dirty cot that was situated in the middle of the tent began to groan turning her attention to him; she quickly went to his side and knelt beside him.
The years of warring in Scotland left her with considerable knowledge of healing. Her father’s men would often come to her when they had been felled during combat or had a slight mishap during training. This man laying on the ground was in a considerable amount of pain from what looked to be a leg wound. She tried to ignore the smell and began to look more closely at the wound.
“I have heard that you are a healer,” a dark voice caught her off guard from the opening of the tent. She feigned disinterest as she gazed over her shoulder at the man standing above her. He had his hands clenched at his sides, his feet where braced apart and he looked mad enough to kill with his glare, much like her husband had looked at her earlier in the day. She shoved the memory of her husband from her mind and forced herself to deal with the issue at hand.
“I have skill, but this wound is not new. The skin is rotting,” she pointed to the ugly gash in the man’s thigh.
“You will fix it,” he commanded her as if he was asking her for a pitcher of water.
“I’m not sure I can.” she shook her head and looked at his eyes, there was anguish hidden behind the anger he showed. She took a deep breath and gave a curt nod as if she had just made a very distinct decision. “I will need fresh water, a needle, some thread and a lot of ginger root, this will burn like hell and he will scream for the devil to take him. He is already starting to catch a fever, we will have to move quickly,” she barked her orders. “Well?” she demanded when he stood motionless.
“We have none of those things,” he shrugged his shoulders in defeat and she cursed under her breath.
“Well then. You will just have to carry him back to my home. My husband is sure to scream my ears off for this, but it must be done,” she shook her head again as she stood from the ground and tried to swat the dust from her skirts. “Your brother is in a lot of pain, if we do not move quickly he will surely die,” she assured him, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “I can help him, and I will, but we must get him to my home,” her words were just what he needed, and he quickly called for his two men to ready a cart.
The small group were on their way back towards her lands within moments, and she started to say several prayers that her husband would still be away on his hunt when they arrived.
How was she to know that the rival clan was sitting directly outside the gates of his lands and was just waiting for an opportune time to snatch her from her horse and carry her away? He would probably blame her for the wretched smelling rag they used to blindfold her too, the smell of manure lingered when the rag was pulled away from her.
The heavy canvas flap of the tent nearly smacked her in her rear as it swung back into the tent after her initial captor left her alone in the presence of what appeared to be very wounded man. She took a quick survey of her surroundings and found nothing useful to grasp before the leader joined her. The man laying on the dirty cot that was situated in the middle of the tent began to groan turning her attention to him; she quickly went to his side and knelt beside him.
The years of warring in Scotland left her with considerable knowledge of healing. Her father’s men would often come to her when they had been felled during combat or had a slight mishap during training. This man laying on the ground was in a considerable amount of pain from what looked to be a leg wound. She tried to ignore the smell and began to look more closely at the wound.
“I have heard that you are a healer,” a dark voice caught her off guard from the opening of the tent. She feigned disinterest as she gazed over her shoulder at the man standing above her. He had his hands clenched at his sides, his feet where braced apart and he looked mad enough to kill with his glare, much like her husband had looked at her earlier in the day. She shoved the memory of her husband from her mind and forced herself to deal with the issue at hand.
“I have skill, but this wound is not new. The skin is rotting,” she pointed to the ugly gash in the man’s thigh.
“You will fix it,” he commanded her as if he was asking her for a pitcher of water.
“I’m not sure I can.” she shook her head and looked at his eyes, there was anguish hidden behind the anger he showed. She took a deep breath and gave a curt nod as if she had just made a very distinct decision. “I will need fresh water, a needle, some thread and a lot of ginger root, this will burn like hell and he will scream for the devil to take him. He is already starting to catch a fever, we will have to move quickly,” she barked her orders. “Well?” she demanded when he stood motionless.
“We have none of those things,” he shrugged his shoulders in defeat and she cursed under her breath.
“Well then. You will just have to carry him back to my home. My husband is sure to scream my ears off for this, but it must be done,” she shook her head again as she stood from the ground and tried to swat the dust from her skirts. “Your brother is in a lot of pain, if we do not move quickly he will surely die,” she assured him, placing a gentle hand on his forearm. “I can help him, and I will, but we must get him to my home,” her words were just what he needed, and he quickly called for his two men to ready a cart.
The small group were on their way back towards her lands within moments, and she started to say several prayers that her husband would still be away on his hunt when they arrived.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Ceremony
It was the most absurd ceremony ever performed in the northern part of England to date. The bride stood beside the groom, held in place by the groom himself with his arm wrapped around her waist holding her captive to his side. Her father had pulled her down the aisle, ignoring each of her pleas for him to be reasonable and shoved his only daughter, his only child into the arms of the rather large and mean looking Earl who simply raised his left eyebrow at her behavior before properly securing her next to him.
Her struggles had ceased the moment his arm looped underneath her arm and her face was nearly smashed by his chest when he gripped her tightly. She made a motion as if to protest to the vicar when her intended had casually leaned down to her hearing level and whispered a very viable threat. “Should you make any more of a scene, I shall throw up your skirts and thrash you like the spoiled brat you have shown yourself to be this day,”
The vicar could see the lady’s distress but was loathe to comment on it, given the fact that the Earl was glaring at him so intently. The vows were stated by each party, though she did receive a little squeeze from the Earl before she began her part, a warning no doubt.
She had no idea as to this man’s character, only what her father had told her that morning. He was in need of a wife and her father was in need of an heir. He would not see his lands be forfeited over to the king after his death and since her mother had not had the good sense to provide him with a son he would have marry her off to beget a proper heir.
Upon first glance at him she wondered how any woman would manage to stare at him for the rest of his days. His hair was raggedly long, his dark brooding eyes seemed to pierce the very soul of his victims. Her own chamber maids had told her of his deep voice and hard attitude, she needed to hear no more and had promptly gone to her father to beg him once more to reconsider the marriage.
The bride, all of 17 summers, drifted into a daze during the rest of the ceremony. She did not wish to hear anymore of the drivel the vicar was spouting, she needed to form a plan. She needed to find a way out of this marriage and head to London, surely the king would grant her an annulment. Her mother had been a lady in waiting for his wife when she was younger, surely they would remember her.
Before a plan could be formulated she heard the vicar finish his speech and felt her husband spin her around and plant his lips on top of hers. At first the kiss was crushing, hard and unrelenting, but then she felt his hand cup her chin and his thumb lightly trace the outline of her jaw. She found the sensation soothing and was able to relax a bit, the kiss then turned more intimate. He softened his lips and brought her closer to him, as if he were going to devour her very being. She heard a small moan escape from inside her and felt dazed when he pulled away from her, looking down at her with a very satisfied grin……
Her struggles had ceased the moment his arm looped underneath her arm and her face was nearly smashed by his chest when he gripped her tightly. She made a motion as if to protest to the vicar when her intended had casually leaned down to her hearing level and whispered a very viable threat. “Should you make any more of a scene, I shall throw up your skirts and thrash you like the spoiled brat you have shown yourself to be this day,”
The vicar could see the lady’s distress but was loathe to comment on it, given the fact that the Earl was glaring at him so intently. The vows were stated by each party, though she did receive a little squeeze from the Earl before she began her part, a warning no doubt.
She had no idea as to this man’s character, only what her father had told her that morning. He was in need of a wife and her father was in need of an heir. He would not see his lands be forfeited over to the king after his death and since her mother had not had the good sense to provide him with a son he would have marry her off to beget a proper heir.
Upon first glance at him she wondered how any woman would manage to stare at him for the rest of his days. His hair was raggedly long, his dark brooding eyes seemed to pierce the very soul of his victims. Her own chamber maids had told her of his deep voice and hard attitude, she needed to hear no more and had promptly gone to her father to beg him once more to reconsider the marriage.
The bride, all of 17 summers, drifted into a daze during the rest of the ceremony. She did not wish to hear anymore of the drivel the vicar was spouting, she needed to form a plan. She needed to find a way out of this marriage and head to London, surely the king would grant her an annulment. Her mother had been a lady in waiting for his wife when she was younger, surely they would remember her.
Before a plan could be formulated she heard the vicar finish his speech and felt her husband spin her around and plant his lips on top of hers. At first the kiss was crushing, hard and unrelenting, but then she felt his hand cup her chin and his thumb lightly trace the outline of her jaw. She found the sensation soothing and was able to relax a bit, the kiss then turned more intimate. He softened his lips and brought her closer to him, as if he were going to devour her very being. She heard a small moan escape from inside her and felt dazed when he pulled away from her, looking down at her with a very satisfied grin……
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Day 8
It’s what I do in the middle of the night. I sit and stare at the wall blankly, unsure of what to do. Do I think myself to sleep, going over and over in my mind what is bothering me or do I nothing and try to empty my head of all thoughts?
The bills need to be paid, do I do it now or do I wait until morning? Should I get the lunches made now or just give up on getting anything done and lay in bed, impotent.
Three in the morning, if I go back to bed and fall asleep right this second I might get another 2 hrs of sleep. More likely, I’ll lay there for another hour and get only one hour of sleep. Then the alarm will go off, and I’ll be exhausted because I will feel like I just fell asleep. Is it worth that sort of disappointment?
If I stay awake, I’ll get a lot of things done that I can’t during the day, but I’ll run out of energy right after the sun comes up and then what? I’ll have to get ready for work, there won’t be time for a nap, and I’ll be so worn out at work I’m sure to screw something up.
There’s a surgical case this afternoon at the office, did I call the insurance company for that? What if it need a referral, did I handle it? What was the case again? Did I need to order anything?
What time is it? Why is it that when you wake up from the nights’ sleep, it seems as if only lasted a few short minutes, but the person who is awake is suffering the insolence of the ticking clock? I suppose it’s the same when you have surgery. To the person who has the procedure only a few moments have passed, but to those waiting in the waiting room it has been an agonizing three hours. Well, I suppose that’s completely logical. The person who is sleeping doesn’t have the burden of time, it passes with or without them..
Time passes regardless of whether you are awake to endure it or not. Well, that sounds grim. Am I grim person? Do people think of me as a negative person or am I a positive influence? It would be silly to ask, wouldn’t it? I mean how would that sound? “Hey, what do you think of me? Am I positive or negative?” They wouldn’t tell you that you were negative, because that would be rude. Of course they are going to tell you what they think you want to hear. That’s what people do in these instances, they don’t give the actual truth, only the truth you want.
What time is it? I am so TIRED! Sleep! Dammit! Sleep! This is why I can’t sleep… because this is what I do in the middle of the night….
The bills need to be paid, do I do it now or do I wait until morning? Should I get the lunches made now or just give up on getting anything done and lay in bed, impotent.
Three in the morning, if I go back to bed and fall asleep right this second I might get another 2 hrs of sleep. More likely, I’ll lay there for another hour and get only one hour of sleep. Then the alarm will go off, and I’ll be exhausted because I will feel like I just fell asleep. Is it worth that sort of disappointment?
If I stay awake, I’ll get a lot of things done that I can’t during the day, but I’ll run out of energy right after the sun comes up and then what? I’ll have to get ready for work, there won’t be time for a nap, and I’ll be so worn out at work I’m sure to screw something up.
There’s a surgical case this afternoon at the office, did I call the insurance company for that? What if it need a referral, did I handle it? What was the case again? Did I need to order anything?
What time is it? Why is it that when you wake up from the nights’ sleep, it seems as if only lasted a few short minutes, but the person who is awake is suffering the insolence of the ticking clock? I suppose it’s the same when you have surgery. To the person who has the procedure only a few moments have passed, but to those waiting in the waiting room it has been an agonizing three hours. Well, I suppose that’s completely logical. The person who is sleeping doesn’t have the burden of time, it passes with or without them..
Time passes regardless of whether you are awake to endure it or not. Well, that sounds grim. Am I grim person? Do people think of me as a negative person or am I a positive influence? It would be silly to ask, wouldn’t it? I mean how would that sound? “Hey, what do you think of me? Am I positive or negative?” They wouldn’t tell you that you were negative, because that would be rude. Of course they are going to tell you what they think you want to hear. That’s what people do in these instances, they don’t give the actual truth, only the truth you want.
What time is it? I am so TIRED! Sleep! Dammit! Sleep! This is why I can’t sleep… because this is what I do in the middle of the night….
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Day 7...when no one was looking
Once when no one was looking, I kissed a life-sized poster of Joey McIntyre from the New Kids on the Block band. Not the current NKOTB band, well, I suppose they are the same people-only much older than the teeny boppers of my youth.
Like most pre-teen to young teen girls, I was infatuated with the infamous boy band; I collected all of their albums, their posters, any picture I found in the latest teen mag was clipped out and plastered somewhere in my room or on the front cover of my chandler. I had been lucky enough to attend one of their concerts where I collected their buttons and more of their paraphernalia. For Christmas one year, my older sister and I both received VHS tapes about the band, which my father warned us would break if we watched them too often; a trick I have reserved the rights to and have tucked away in my parental memory bank for when my children grow to be teenagers.
One of my first disappointing realizations as a child in regards to the real world was due to the New Kids on the Block band. I had written a fan letter to Joey McIntyre, he was my favorite, and being the youngest I had the most chance of landing him- at least in my pre-teen mind. I had nearly screamed when I received the envelope that had a multicolor trim around it, almost as if it had been braided with a rainbow of sorts and had their band logo printed on it. I had run up to my room to open it, sure that he sent me a private note of gratitude for my loyalty as his fan. I sat on my twin bed, that was covered with a white bedspread that had red cherries printed on it, and tore into the envelope as fast as my twelve year old fingers would allow me.
At first, I had thought it odd that Joey would type his response to me, but remembering how popular he was, typing was probably faster than writing, so I kept reading. Each sentence tore into my excitement knocking it over and squashing it, and by the end of the letter where his stamped signature stared back at me, my innocence was gone. It was a form letter. I put the letter on my lap for a moment dazed, as if I had been betrayed by my best friend. Then I crumpled it up and threw it away promising myself never to write another fan letter to anyone ever again.
So yes, once when no one was looking I kissed the life-sized poster of Joey McIntyre, at least I thought no one was looking….
Like most pre-teen to young teen girls, I was infatuated with the infamous boy band; I collected all of their albums, their posters, any picture I found in the latest teen mag was clipped out and plastered somewhere in my room or on the front cover of my chandler. I had been lucky enough to attend one of their concerts where I collected their buttons and more of their paraphernalia. For Christmas one year, my older sister and I both received VHS tapes about the band, which my father warned us would break if we watched them too often; a trick I have reserved the rights to and have tucked away in my parental memory bank for when my children grow to be teenagers.
One of my first disappointing realizations as a child in regards to the real world was due to the New Kids on the Block band. I had written a fan letter to Joey McIntyre, he was my favorite, and being the youngest I had the most chance of landing him- at least in my pre-teen mind. I had nearly screamed when I received the envelope that had a multicolor trim around it, almost as if it had been braided with a rainbow of sorts and had their band logo printed on it. I had run up to my room to open it, sure that he sent me a private note of gratitude for my loyalty as his fan. I sat on my twin bed, that was covered with a white bedspread that had red cherries printed on it, and tore into the envelope as fast as my twelve year old fingers would allow me.
At first, I had thought it odd that Joey would type his response to me, but remembering how popular he was, typing was probably faster than writing, so I kept reading. Each sentence tore into my excitement knocking it over and squashing it, and by the end of the letter where his stamped signature stared back at me, my innocence was gone. It was a form letter. I put the letter on my lap for a moment dazed, as if I had been betrayed by my best friend. Then I crumpled it up and threw it away promising myself never to write another fan letter to anyone ever again.
So yes, once when no one was looking I kissed the life-sized poster of Joey McIntyre, at least I thought no one was looking….
Friday, April 23, 2010
Day 6...a bath
A calming sound after twelves hours of work on the intensive care floor would have been the soothing sound of water gushing into the bathtub. The echo of the of water splashing into the tub and the smell of lavender bath soap starting to bubble would have been divine.
The melody of bubbles floating into each other as the weary nurse soaked her aching body would have been welcomed with open arms. The tickle of the bubbles against the bottom of her chin as she sank lower into the warm water, allowing it to soothe her muscles and to take her mind to a calmer place, would have been the bees knees...as the saying goes.
She could almost feel her muscles starting to relax, while she lived inside her imagined felicity during her last break of the evening. A twelve hour shift had quickly turned into a fifteen hour shift and once more was being extended an hour. She cursed the second duty nurse who called to relay the message that she was still stuck at her doctor's office and would be another hour. Not one to say no to over time, the exhausted nurse had volunteered to stick around.
"Tara, would you mind checking on room 306?" Nora, the robust middle aged head nurse, placed a gentle hand on Tara's shoulder as she sat at her desk trying to keep her eyes open.
"Sure," Tara nodded, pushed herself up from her desk and gave Nora a sleepy smile before she headed to the room at the end of the hall.
Mrs. Jonah was the occupant of room 306, an elderly lady who had suffered a stroke three days ago and was not recovering as well as her three children were hoping. Her two daughters and one son sat diligently by their mother's side each day praying that she would show signs of improvement. It broke her heart to tell them each day that the doctor had come by and had noted no change, but they would continue to monitor their mother and keep her as comfortable as possible. The despair they showed tore at her.
The children had all gone, for an hour, to the cafeteria and Tara was relieved that she would not have to have the same conversation again and would be able to check all the monitors without climbing over everyone in the tiny room. Once the monitors were all checked, the medications logged, and the catheter bag was emptied Tara sat down next to Mrs. Jonah and leaned back in the chair.
Her thoughts drifted back to the tub she had waiting for her at home. She had just purchased a new bath pillow and she was sure that the new tub she had installed over the weekend was going to be just the thing her body needed to rejuvenate before tomorrows shift. She could smell the lavender of her soap suds, feel the bubbles rising over her chest, the warmth of the water sweep over her, and hear the steady stream of water as it poured into her bath.
"Mother!" a scream broke her from her thoughts and she scrambled out of the chair. Ervin, Mrs. Johah's son, was standing in the door way with his mouth agape. Tara followed his gaze to find that his mother had woken up and managed to pull her catheter from herself. She was sitting on the edge of the bed urinating onto the floor.
"What?" the dazed elderly woman asked her son. "I had to pee and that thing was blocking me up," she accused in a scratchy voice while pointing at the tube that lay limply on the bed beside her....
It was harder for me to sit down and write today. I was tired from a week of work and kids and just life in general but I told myself... "You get up every morning and walk to exercise your body...sit down for 15 minutes and excessive your mind!" -so I did, and I am glad for it. Just like I feel energized and pepped up after a nice long walk in the morning, just doing 15 minutes of writing has left me feeling quite invigorating tonight. I sat down, I wrote it, I read it and now I'm posting it! :-)
The melody of bubbles floating into each other as the weary nurse soaked her aching body would have been welcomed with open arms. The tickle of the bubbles against the bottom of her chin as she sank lower into the warm water, allowing it to soothe her muscles and to take her mind to a calmer place, would have been the bees knees...as the saying goes.
She could almost feel her muscles starting to relax, while she lived inside her imagined felicity during her last break of the evening. A twelve hour shift had quickly turned into a fifteen hour shift and once more was being extended an hour. She cursed the second duty nurse who called to relay the message that she was still stuck at her doctor's office and would be another hour. Not one to say no to over time, the exhausted nurse had volunteered to stick around.
"Tara, would you mind checking on room 306?" Nora, the robust middle aged head nurse, placed a gentle hand on Tara's shoulder as she sat at her desk trying to keep her eyes open.
"Sure," Tara nodded, pushed herself up from her desk and gave Nora a sleepy smile before she headed to the room at the end of the hall.
Mrs. Jonah was the occupant of room 306, an elderly lady who had suffered a stroke three days ago and was not recovering as well as her three children were hoping. Her two daughters and one son sat diligently by their mother's side each day praying that she would show signs of improvement. It broke her heart to tell them each day that the doctor had come by and had noted no change, but they would continue to monitor their mother and keep her as comfortable as possible. The despair they showed tore at her.
The children had all gone, for an hour, to the cafeteria and Tara was relieved that she would not have to have the same conversation again and would be able to check all the monitors without climbing over everyone in the tiny room. Once the monitors were all checked, the medications logged, and the catheter bag was emptied Tara sat down next to Mrs. Jonah and leaned back in the chair.
Her thoughts drifted back to the tub she had waiting for her at home. She had just purchased a new bath pillow and she was sure that the new tub she had installed over the weekend was going to be just the thing her body needed to rejuvenate before tomorrows shift. She could smell the lavender of her soap suds, feel the bubbles rising over her chest, the warmth of the water sweep over her, and hear the steady stream of water as it poured into her bath.
"Mother!" a scream broke her from her thoughts and she scrambled out of the chair. Ervin, Mrs. Johah's son, was standing in the door way with his mouth agape. Tara followed his gaze to find that his mother had woken up and managed to pull her catheter from herself. She was sitting on the edge of the bed urinating onto the floor.
"What?" the dazed elderly woman asked her son. "I had to pee and that thing was blocking me up," she accused in a scratchy voice while pointing at the tube that lay limply on the bed beside her....
It was harder for me to sit down and write today. I was tired from a week of work and kids and just life in general but I told myself... "You get up every morning and walk to exercise your body...sit down for 15 minutes and excessive your mind!" -so I did, and I am glad for it. Just like I feel energized and pepped up after a nice long walk in the morning, just doing 15 minutes of writing has left me feeling quite invigorating tonight. I sat down, I wrote it, I read it and now I'm posting it! :-)
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Day 5
Gray clouds had moved into the pale sky, giving it an overcast appearance. The rays from the sun could be felt but not seen by the couple sitting snuggled beneath a beach blanket on the patio of their vacation home. The overcast weather did not stop the couple from enjoying their afternoon together. They had not seen each other in three weeks as Jared’s job had taken him to Europe to oversee a new plant that was being set up for his company.
“Let’s go for a walk,” Jared suggested, throwing the blanket to the ground and leaping up from the comfortable lawn chair and nearly sending Sarah to the ground.
“A walk? Now?” Sarah questioned but stood from the chair regardless of her initial hesitation.
They walked down the long wooden pathway to the beach and held each other hands loosely as they made their way through the sand. Jared told her another story from his time in Europe while she gazed up at the sky, only half listening to him.
The sky was brightening up as the clouds were beginning to shift. She fixed her gaze on one cloud and watched as it danced away, exposing a view of the moon.
She began to wonder how the sun and moon could occupy the same sky in the middle of the afternoon. She was sure that there was some scientific explanation or even a simple one if she had taken the time to think of it. Perhaps it was an omen, that something magical was about to happen. The perfect setting for something wonderful.
“Sarah! Are you listening to me?” Jared chastised her, pulling her to a stop and glaring down at her.
“Uh, yes, of course I was,” she smiled sweetly up at him and searched her mind for any recall of the story he was just telling her.
“Really?” he folded his arms across his chest in disbelief. “Tell me then,” he ordered her with darkened eyes. She swallowed hard and took a step back from him, their perfect afternoon was taking a dim turn.
“Jared, I’m sorry. The moon caught my eye and I was thinking about how it could be that I see it plainly in the sky while the sun is still warming my face,” she tried to explain and let out a sigh of premature relief when his expression lightened.
“Oh, the moon caught your eye,” he laughed and reached out to her, pulling her to his chest. She closed her eyes as she landed against him with a slight thud. “I thought you were just being disrespectful,” his voice made her cringe.
So much for the perfect setting for the something magical, she thought as she felt his grip tighten around her waist.
The couple continued down the beach, Jared re-telling his story and Sarah listening intently…
“Let’s go for a walk,” Jared suggested, throwing the blanket to the ground and leaping up from the comfortable lawn chair and nearly sending Sarah to the ground.
“A walk? Now?” Sarah questioned but stood from the chair regardless of her initial hesitation.
They walked down the long wooden pathway to the beach and held each other hands loosely as they made their way through the sand. Jared told her another story from his time in Europe while she gazed up at the sky, only half listening to him.
The sky was brightening up as the clouds were beginning to shift. She fixed her gaze on one cloud and watched as it danced away, exposing a view of the moon.
She began to wonder how the sun and moon could occupy the same sky in the middle of the afternoon. She was sure that there was some scientific explanation or even a simple one if she had taken the time to think of it. Perhaps it was an omen, that something magical was about to happen. The perfect setting for something wonderful.
“Sarah! Are you listening to me?” Jared chastised her, pulling her to a stop and glaring down at her.
“Uh, yes, of course I was,” she smiled sweetly up at him and searched her mind for any recall of the story he was just telling her.
“Really?” he folded his arms across his chest in disbelief. “Tell me then,” he ordered her with darkened eyes. She swallowed hard and took a step back from him, their perfect afternoon was taking a dim turn.
“Jared, I’m sorry. The moon caught my eye and I was thinking about how it could be that I see it plainly in the sky while the sun is still warming my face,” she tried to explain and let out a sigh of premature relief when his expression lightened.
“Oh, the moon caught your eye,” he laughed and reached out to her, pulling her to his chest. She closed her eyes as she landed against him with a slight thud. “I thought you were just being disrespectful,” his voice made her cringe.
So much for the perfect setting for the something magical, she thought as she felt his grip tighten around her waist.
The couple continued down the beach, Jared re-telling his story and Sarah listening intently…
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Day 4
I am in limbo, which I find to be rather odd because my mother told me once that the Catholics had gotten rid of limbo years ago. Limbo isn’t really all that bad, it’s kind of like watching T.V, I watch everyone living their lives but they can’t see or hear me. From what I’ve been able to tell I can change the channel simply by thinking of the person I want to watch.
I watch my children daily, making sure they are happy and safe. I wish I had spent more time with them my last day at home, instead of cleaning the kitchen and folding laundry all day. I should have played more with them, a board game, a puzzle, anything would have meant the world to them. I am grateful that I didn’t have to watch them after I died. I didn’t arrive in this place until well after my funeral, so I didn’t have to watch their little hearts breaking.
I don’t remember dying or any bright light that I walked towards, only darkness and then I was there in my living room, fully aware that I had died. The first time I saw them was a month after my accident. Mackenzie was curled up on the couch watching a TV show and Tania was sitting on the floor too close to the TV as usual.
“Kenzie, do you think Mommy can hear us if we talk to her?” Tania’s little voice asked her big sister without taking her eyes off of sponge bob on the screen.
“I hope so,” Kenzie whispered back. “I talk to her every night. Do you?” my seven year olds voice had aged, she sounded ragged.
“Yeah,” Tania nodded and I heard the muffled sniffle. She bowed her head so that her thick blond hair masked her face, but her shoulders were shaking, and it was plain to see that she was sobbing.
“Don’t cry, Tania,” Kenzie scooted off the couch and got down onto her knees next to her little sister, whom she had spent the better part of their 3 years as sisters fighting. She wrapped her thin little arms around her sisters shaking body and hugged her tightly. Tania reciprocated in kind and the two of them stayed bundled like that sobbing onto each others shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. Daddy said it’s going to be okay,” Kenzie tried to sooth her sister, but her words were mangled between her own cries.
“I miss her so much,” Tanias little voice tore at me, there was nothing I could do to console her. David, my husband, walked into the room just then and found our girls huddled together. He looked exhausted, ragged, and tender. He went to our little girls and scooped them both up into his arms and carried them onto the couch with him, where the three of them snuggled. He let them cry, and he consoled them with words of his love and assurances that I was in a happy place, that I would be watching them from heaven.
I don’t remember much of the day of my accident. I remember waking the girls up and getting them ready for the day. David had already left for work. The sitter had planned an outing for the kids that day, Kenzie was excited about whatever it was. Maybe they were going to the beach? It’s odd how I can remember some things vividly, like the feel of David’s hands on my forehead brushing my hair from my eyes. Other things, like what I was doing that morning are a mystery to me.
David has done such an awesome job picking up the pieces since my accident. The beginning was a little rocky, getting the girls dressed and out of the house in the morning were actually quite comical to watch. After a few months of it though he got the hang of it. He wears a watch now, something he’s never done in his life. He has a schedule, he knows where each girl is supposed to be on each day, something he always left up to me to remember. Kenzie hasn’t missed the school bus in months.
He looks so tired though, he’s aged at least five years in the last year. His brown hair is starting to look more salty then peppery, and he always picked on me for the two gray hairs I had! I’ve always admired his strength, his ability to withstand anything. I peeked in on him once while he was sitting in bed holding a framed picture of the two of us.
“You should see Kenzie, she is growing so fast. Her spelling is getting so much better, you’d be proud of the work she’s doing.” he was giving me his nightly report. He started doing this two months after my accident. “Tania is getting better, too. She’s starting to read little words, I’m working with her just like I remember you doing with Kenzie when she was younger. I forgot to sign them up for t-ball again this year, but they don’t mind. We’ll just play in our yard, the three of us,” he took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “You know, don’t you? You know how much I love you, how much I miss touching you, looking at you,” he shook his head and put the picture back on the end table.
My heart hurts when I see these events, these moments where I know my touch will heal them but I can’t do anything but watch. Because when your in limbo you aren’t allowed to do anything other than watch, at least that’s what I think. There wasn’t exactly a greeting party when I arrived, I haven’t seen anyone. How do I get out of limbo? Is there anywhere else to go, aren’t there other people in limbo with me or is this my own private hell?
From the date on the calendar I know it’s been almost a full year since my accident, David is planning to take the girls to the zoo on that dreaded date. Keep their minds off of it, is what I heard him saying to who ever he was talking to on the phone. Lately, I don’t see as much as I used to. Colors are fading a bit, and the edges of my vision seem to be whited out. If I weren’t dead I would swear I had some sort of eye disease.
Kenzie is now sitting in the kitchen coloring while Tania is in the back yard blowing bubbles. David is cooking breakfast, one of big meals with pancakes, sausage and strawberry sauce. Kenzie looks up from her coloring book and looks right at me.
“Daddy, can we see the monkeys first when we go to the zoo?” she asks then looks back at her book.
“Sure,” he answers without turning from the stove. “Samantha.” my name, he said my name, but he’s not looking at me, Kenzie doesn’t seem to notice.
“Tania, wants to see the ones with the big red butts!” Kenzie laughs heartedly, it’s good to hear her laughing.
“Samantha,” he answers, but still he doesn’t look at her. “Samantha, move” his voice is harder, almost stern.
“David?” I try to make a sound but nothing is happening, Kenzie is still coloring, none of this is really happening.
“Sure sweets, we can see the red butts,” he says looking over his shoulder to smile at her. “Samantha, now!” he yells, but his face is still smiling, his lips haven’t moved. Tania is still blowing bubbles out in the back yard.
I think about my sister, hoping to move, to see something less confusing but I’m stuck. David’s voice again bombards me, echoing now inside of me. He’s still smiling at Kenzie, the pancakes are starting to burn but he doesn’t seem to notice. Kenzie has stopped coloring but hasn’t lifted the crayon from the paper, they seem to be wax figures , not moving, but the pancakes are still burning. There is black smoke rising from the stove, why isn’t he doing anything?
“Sam!” I hear him again and am propelled forward. I feel like I am flying, there’s nothing beneath me, maybe I’m finally moving to the next part, the next line or something. My hair is flapping around my face and I can’t see anything anymore.
“Now, lift…one….two….three!” I hear and again I am moving. There is still smoke around me, the smell is horrible.
“Sam, Samantha!” his voice is so shaky, is he afraid, why would he be afraid? Everything has gone dark, I don’t like this, I can’t see him, I can’t see my girls, where are my girls?
“What?” I hear his voice again. “Girls? She’s asking about the girls!” his voice lifts higher, he sounds hopeful. Why is he hopeful? Where are my girls, why can’t I see them, the pancakes are still burning.
“Pancakes? What? No, no Sam, your car flipped, baby. You’re gonna be fine, just hold on baby, don’t let go!” he is yelling again, why is he saying these things to me? I hear sirens, loud obnoxious sirens that are making my head hurt. Other voices are starting to chime in, I hear them but I don’t’ see anything.
“Samantha, we are taking you to the hospital. Can you open your eyes?” a strange voice says. Open my eyes? Aren’t they open?
“Good, that’s it,” I hear yet another voice. There is so much light it hurts. David’s face comes into view, he looks panicked in that calm way of his. I can see it in his eyes, but he is grinning at me.
“Hey!” he smiles wider and I feel his touch on my cheek. “Hey there!” he says again and I stare at him blankly. “It’s okay, don’t move, they have you tied down pretty good.” he explains when I try to move my hands. “Don’t talk, rest. We’ll be at the hospital in just a minute and they are going to fix you right up,” he assures me. I am not so sure, the pain is unbearable. The sirens are getting louder and I hear horns blaring now, too. The darkness comes again, I can’t see David anymore and the pancakes aren’t burning anymore, I can’t smell the smoke….
A soft beeping sound pulls me out from under the heavy cloak I feel that I am buried under. I feel a soft petite hand resting on top of my own. “Kenzie, honey you are squashing mommy,” I hear myself say, my voice sounds coarse and it hurts to speak.
“Mommy!!!” The familiar screech brings me to full attention and I fling my eyes open just in time to see my two daughters fling themselves on top of me.
“Kenzie, Tania! Don’t, you might hurt mommy!” David’s voice carries from the doorway before he rushes into the room, to my side. I look up at him, shifting my daughters back to my sides, they are hugging me so tightly I can hardly breath.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. The feel of them in my hands fills me with such joy and emotion tears flood my eyes and I hug them harder to me. The pain in my side is ignored, my daughters are clinging to me as tightly as I am to them. David sits in the chair beside my bed and rests his head on us.
“Thank god,” I hear him whisper and I reach over to pat him softly, such turmoil he has been through. I feel him touching my hand, his calloused hand is ecstasy to me. My family is with me, we are holding each other and we are together, in this place, in this reality, there is no more limbo. I am here and I have everything a woman could want… the love of a good man and her children.
I watch my children daily, making sure they are happy and safe. I wish I had spent more time with them my last day at home, instead of cleaning the kitchen and folding laundry all day. I should have played more with them, a board game, a puzzle, anything would have meant the world to them. I am grateful that I didn’t have to watch them after I died. I didn’t arrive in this place until well after my funeral, so I didn’t have to watch their little hearts breaking.
I don’t remember dying or any bright light that I walked towards, only darkness and then I was there in my living room, fully aware that I had died. The first time I saw them was a month after my accident. Mackenzie was curled up on the couch watching a TV show and Tania was sitting on the floor too close to the TV as usual.
“Kenzie, do you think Mommy can hear us if we talk to her?” Tania’s little voice asked her big sister without taking her eyes off of sponge bob on the screen.
“I hope so,” Kenzie whispered back. “I talk to her every night. Do you?” my seven year olds voice had aged, she sounded ragged.
“Yeah,” Tania nodded and I heard the muffled sniffle. She bowed her head so that her thick blond hair masked her face, but her shoulders were shaking, and it was plain to see that she was sobbing.
“Don’t cry, Tania,” Kenzie scooted off the couch and got down onto her knees next to her little sister, whom she had spent the better part of their 3 years as sisters fighting. She wrapped her thin little arms around her sisters shaking body and hugged her tightly. Tania reciprocated in kind and the two of them stayed bundled like that sobbing onto each others shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. Daddy said it’s going to be okay,” Kenzie tried to sooth her sister, but her words were mangled between her own cries.
“I miss her so much,” Tanias little voice tore at me, there was nothing I could do to console her. David, my husband, walked into the room just then and found our girls huddled together. He looked exhausted, ragged, and tender. He went to our little girls and scooped them both up into his arms and carried them onto the couch with him, where the three of them snuggled. He let them cry, and he consoled them with words of his love and assurances that I was in a happy place, that I would be watching them from heaven.
I don’t remember much of the day of my accident. I remember waking the girls up and getting them ready for the day. David had already left for work. The sitter had planned an outing for the kids that day, Kenzie was excited about whatever it was. Maybe they were going to the beach? It’s odd how I can remember some things vividly, like the feel of David’s hands on my forehead brushing my hair from my eyes. Other things, like what I was doing that morning are a mystery to me.
David has done such an awesome job picking up the pieces since my accident. The beginning was a little rocky, getting the girls dressed and out of the house in the morning were actually quite comical to watch. After a few months of it though he got the hang of it. He wears a watch now, something he’s never done in his life. He has a schedule, he knows where each girl is supposed to be on each day, something he always left up to me to remember. Kenzie hasn’t missed the school bus in months.
He looks so tired though, he’s aged at least five years in the last year. His brown hair is starting to look more salty then peppery, and he always picked on me for the two gray hairs I had! I’ve always admired his strength, his ability to withstand anything. I peeked in on him once while he was sitting in bed holding a framed picture of the two of us.
“You should see Kenzie, she is growing so fast. Her spelling is getting so much better, you’d be proud of the work she’s doing.” he was giving me his nightly report. He started doing this two months after my accident. “Tania is getting better, too. She’s starting to read little words, I’m working with her just like I remember you doing with Kenzie when she was younger. I forgot to sign them up for t-ball again this year, but they don’t mind. We’ll just play in our yard, the three of us,” he took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. “You know, don’t you? You know how much I love you, how much I miss touching you, looking at you,” he shook his head and put the picture back on the end table.
My heart hurts when I see these events, these moments where I know my touch will heal them but I can’t do anything but watch. Because when your in limbo you aren’t allowed to do anything other than watch, at least that’s what I think. There wasn’t exactly a greeting party when I arrived, I haven’t seen anyone. How do I get out of limbo? Is there anywhere else to go, aren’t there other people in limbo with me or is this my own private hell?
From the date on the calendar I know it’s been almost a full year since my accident, David is planning to take the girls to the zoo on that dreaded date. Keep their minds off of it, is what I heard him saying to who ever he was talking to on the phone. Lately, I don’t see as much as I used to. Colors are fading a bit, and the edges of my vision seem to be whited out. If I weren’t dead I would swear I had some sort of eye disease.
Kenzie is now sitting in the kitchen coloring while Tania is in the back yard blowing bubbles. David is cooking breakfast, one of big meals with pancakes, sausage and strawberry sauce. Kenzie looks up from her coloring book and looks right at me.
“Daddy, can we see the monkeys first when we go to the zoo?” she asks then looks back at her book.
“Sure,” he answers without turning from the stove. “Samantha.” my name, he said my name, but he’s not looking at me, Kenzie doesn’t seem to notice.
“Tania, wants to see the ones with the big red butts!” Kenzie laughs heartedly, it’s good to hear her laughing.
“Samantha,” he answers, but still he doesn’t look at her. “Samantha, move” his voice is harder, almost stern.
“David?” I try to make a sound but nothing is happening, Kenzie is still coloring, none of this is really happening.
“Sure sweets, we can see the red butts,” he says looking over his shoulder to smile at her. “Samantha, now!” he yells, but his face is still smiling, his lips haven’t moved. Tania is still blowing bubbles out in the back yard.
I think about my sister, hoping to move, to see something less confusing but I’m stuck. David’s voice again bombards me, echoing now inside of me. He’s still smiling at Kenzie, the pancakes are starting to burn but he doesn’t seem to notice. Kenzie has stopped coloring but hasn’t lifted the crayon from the paper, they seem to be wax figures , not moving, but the pancakes are still burning. There is black smoke rising from the stove, why isn’t he doing anything?
“Sam!” I hear him again and am propelled forward. I feel like I am flying, there’s nothing beneath me, maybe I’m finally moving to the next part, the next line or something. My hair is flapping around my face and I can’t see anything anymore.
“Now, lift…one….two….three!” I hear and again I am moving. There is still smoke around me, the smell is horrible.
“Sam, Samantha!” his voice is so shaky, is he afraid, why would he be afraid? Everything has gone dark, I don’t like this, I can’t see him, I can’t see my girls, where are my girls?
“What?” I hear his voice again. “Girls? She’s asking about the girls!” his voice lifts higher, he sounds hopeful. Why is he hopeful? Where are my girls, why can’t I see them, the pancakes are still burning.
“Pancakes? What? No, no Sam, your car flipped, baby. You’re gonna be fine, just hold on baby, don’t let go!” he is yelling again, why is he saying these things to me? I hear sirens, loud obnoxious sirens that are making my head hurt. Other voices are starting to chime in, I hear them but I don’t’ see anything.
“Samantha, we are taking you to the hospital. Can you open your eyes?” a strange voice says. Open my eyes? Aren’t they open?
“Good, that’s it,” I hear yet another voice. There is so much light it hurts. David’s face comes into view, he looks panicked in that calm way of his. I can see it in his eyes, but he is grinning at me.
“Hey!” he smiles wider and I feel his touch on my cheek. “Hey there!” he says again and I stare at him blankly. “It’s okay, don’t move, they have you tied down pretty good.” he explains when I try to move my hands. “Don’t talk, rest. We’ll be at the hospital in just a minute and they are going to fix you right up,” he assures me. I am not so sure, the pain is unbearable. The sirens are getting louder and I hear horns blaring now, too. The darkness comes again, I can’t see David anymore and the pancakes aren’t burning anymore, I can’t smell the smoke….
A soft beeping sound pulls me out from under the heavy cloak I feel that I am buried under. I feel a soft petite hand resting on top of my own. “Kenzie, honey you are squashing mommy,” I hear myself say, my voice sounds coarse and it hurts to speak.
“Mommy!!!” The familiar screech brings me to full attention and I fling my eyes open just in time to see my two daughters fling themselves on top of me.
“Kenzie, Tania! Don’t, you might hurt mommy!” David’s voice carries from the doorway before he rushes into the room, to my side. I look up at him, shifting my daughters back to my sides, they are hugging me so tightly I can hardly breath.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. The feel of them in my hands fills me with such joy and emotion tears flood my eyes and I hug them harder to me. The pain in my side is ignored, my daughters are clinging to me as tightly as I am to them. David sits in the chair beside my bed and rests his head on us.
“Thank god,” I hear him whisper and I reach over to pat him softly, such turmoil he has been through. I feel him touching my hand, his calloused hand is ecstasy to me. My family is with me, we are holding each other and we are together, in this place, in this reality, there is no more limbo. I am here and I have everything a woman could want… the love of a good man and her children.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
Day 3
Thick hard plastic covers the furniture, a protection against the air and the elements of everyday living. Floral printed tapestries are hung from the windows and the large French doors that lead out to the patio, which over looks the carefully tended garden.
A faint chime rings from the handcrafted clock that sits diligently on the tea table in the far corner of the room. The delicate china sits untouched on the table, each setting lovingly set with tea cup and saucer, a small dish for tea sandwiches, and pristinely polished silverware guarding the plate while resting eloquently on a linen napkin.
A musky smell fills the room, not from dust or lack of care, but from age. The curtains, although regularly cleaned and pressed, have not been pulled back to allow fresh air into the room for nearly a decade. The French doors act as a barrier from the outside world, a world where the gardens are groomed daily allowing each bud to blossom fully and beautifully, but never seen. A garden where butterflies flock to each spring time and fly carefree through the winding pathways. Bushes full of blossoms are trimmed and taken care of, but never worship as they aught to be. So much beauty is to be seen through the doors that are covered with the heavy curtains. Each window is washed at least once a week, inside and out, not a single spot is left on the pane of glass, yet it is never gazed through. The windows are never opened, the air never disturbed.
A petite coffee table with large curved legs sits in the middle of the room looking almost like an oversized bug, and it is surrounded by a matching couch and armchair set. Magazines are fanned perfectly on top of the table making it look inviting, asking a visitor to sit and relax while awaiting their intended. The wall paper is a floral print, much like the furniture. The years have faded the paper to a dull yellow but the gold in the trim is still remarkable, like the rest of the room the paper is fading and old but is washed and maintained each week.
A woman, middle aged stands in the doorway looking around the room her mouth slightly agape at the sight before her. She leans against the frame brace herself, her arms wrap around her middle as if to give comfort to a long ago ache that is resurfacing. Although, tears well up in her eyes she forbids them to fall, and quickly sucks in a breath to steady her racing emotions.
Questions swarm around her mind. How did she not know? Why didn’t anyone call her to tell her what was going on? Her mother surely should have been able to move past it, to move on with her life and not create a museum to the situation.
“It was his favorite room,” she hears her mothers frail voice from behind her and she turns slowly to face her.
“Mother, it has been nearly 20 years,” her voice shook as she spoke. The vibrant woman she knew as her mother had faded with age, much like the room. Her bright long blond hair that used to curl so nicely around her shoulders was now a short mess of silver knots. The dark blue eyes that used to pierce into her soul during a lecture of proper womanly behavior now looks pale and gray.
“Yes, I know. It has been a long 20 years. Being alone, with no one to help, no one to talk with,” her ability to invoke guilt had not faded with her looks.
“I’m not here to talk about those things. Those things are your own doing,” she waved a hand through the air and turned her attention back to the room. “This was once a loving home, a safe haven for me when I was a child. He turned it into, you let him… you were so cruel, standing there…watching…not saying a word!!” she burst out with her hands clenched into fists.
“Why are you here, Caroline?” Her mother folded her hands in front of her and made a feeble attempt at straightening her shoulders. Her rounded body would not allow for her to stand fully erect, it was a surprise that she was able to stand at all with the fragility of her body.
“I- I don’t know,” Caroline slumps her shoulders and shakes her head, too many memories at one time has exhausted her. “It’s been so long, I guess I hoped we could find a common ground, somewhere where we could start new,” she leans against the wall and points to the room. “Why did you create this shrine?”
“It was his favorite room,” her mother shrugs daintily, unmoved by Carolines emotional outburst or the pain that is plain to see in her eyes.
“Mother, this is the place- That room is where-” Caroline tries to calm her breathing but decides to use her anger and frustration instead of burying it, too many times she ignored her fears and frustrations. “That is the room where you spent all of your time crying over the things he did to you, the room where he spent his time torturing us all with his lectures and beatings, why would you bronze it in such a way?”
“It was his favorite room,” her mother repeats and Caroline begins to understand.
“Did he ever once apologize to you? Even once?” Caroline asks softly and her mother lets out a long exasperated sigh.
“Caroline, without him we would have been nothing. He may have been strict with you girls and yes even me, but he gave us everything. All he asked for was obedience, a simple thing really,” her answer has not changed since the last they spoke of her father. Caroline walks to her mother stopping when she is a scant breath away from her, no longer does her mother tower over her with a demanding presence, she is now small and frail.
“No, mother, he gave us nothing that we needed, but you will never understand that, will you?” she hugged her mother to her and breathed in the scent of her, her perfume has gone unchanged.
“There is nothing to understand. Now enough of this talk, Sarah has prepared a wonderful ham for dinner, you will stay and eat with me,” her mother’s strength has returned to her voice as she pulls away from her oldest daughter and leads her to the dinning room.
The room sits quietly, alone, untouched, and that is the way it will stay.
A faint chime rings from the handcrafted clock that sits diligently on the tea table in the far corner of the room. The delicate china sits untouched on the table, each setting lovingly set with tea cup and saucer, a small dish for tea sandwiches, and pristinely polished silverware guarding the plate while resting eloquently on a linen napkin.
A musky smell fills the room, not from dust or lack of care, but from age. The curtains, although regularly cleaned and pressed, have not been pulled back to allow fresh air into the room for nearly a decade. The French doors act as a barrier from the outside world, a world where the gardens are groomed daily allowing each bud to blossom fully and beautifully, but never seen. A garden where butterflies flock to each spring time and fly carefree through the winding pathways. Bushes full of blossoms are trimmed and taken care of, but never worship as they aught to be. So much beauty is to be seen through the doors that are covered with the heavy curtains. Each window is washed at least once a week, inside and out, not a single spot is left on the pane of glass, yet it is never gazed through. The windows are never opened, the air never disturbed.
A petite coffee table with large curved legs sits in the middle of the room looking almost like an oversized bug, and it is surrounded by a matching couch and armchair set. Magazines are fanned perfectly on top of the table making it look inviting, asking a visitor to sit and relax while awaiting their intended. The wall paper is a floral print, much like the furniture. The years have faded the paper to a dull yellow but the gold in the trim is still remarkable, like the rest of the room the paper is fading and old but is washed and maintained each week.
A woman, middle aged stands in the doorway looking around the room her mouth slightly agape at the sight before her. She leans against the frame brace herself, her arms wrap around her middle as if to give comfort to a long ago ache that is resurfacing. Although, tears well up in her eyes she forbids them to fall, and quickly sucks in a breath to steady her racing emotions.
Questions swarm around her mind. How did she not know? Why didn’t anyone call her to tell her what was going on? Her mother surely should have been able to move past it, to move on with her life and not create a museum to the situation.
“It was his favorite room,” she hears her mothers frail voice from behind her and she turns slowly to face her.
“Mother, it has been nearly 20 years,” her voice shook as she spoke. The vibrant woman she knew as her mother had faded with age, much like the room. Her bright long blond hair that used to curl so nicely around her shoulders was now a short mess of silver knots. The dark blue eyes that used to pierce into her soul during a lecture of proper womanly behavior now looks pale and gray.
“Yes, I know. It has been a long 20 years. Being alone, with no one to help, no one to talk with,” her ability to invoke guilt had not faded with her looks.
“I’m not here to talk about those things. Those things are your own doing,” she waved a hand through the air and turned her attention back to the room. “This was once a loving home, a safe haven for me when I was a child. He turned it into, you let him… you were so cruel, standing there…watching…not saying a word!!” she burst out with her hands clenched into fists.
“Why are you here, Caroline?” Her mother folded her hands in front of her and made a feeble attempt at straightening her shoulders. Her rounded body would not allow for her to stand fully erect, it was a surprise that she was able to stand at all with the fragility of her body.
“I- I don’t know,” Caroline slumps her shoulders and shakes her head, too many memories at one time has exhausted her. “It’s been so long, I guess I hoped we could find a common ground, somewhere where we could start new,” she leans against the wall and points to the room. “Why did you create this shrine?”
“It was his favorite room,” her mother shrugs daintily, unmoved by Carolines emotional outburst or the pain that is plain to see in her eyes.
“Mother, this is the place- That room is where-” Caroline tries to calm her breathing but decides to use her anger and frustration instead of burying it, too many times she ignored her fears and frustrations. “That is the room where you spent all of your time crying over the things he did to you, the room where he spent his time torturing us all with his lectures and beatings, why would you bronze it in such a way?”
“It was his favorite room,” her mother repeats and Caroline begins to understand.
“Did he ever once apologize to you? Even once?” Caroline asks softly and her mother lets out a long exasperated sigh.
“Caroline, without him we would have been nothing. He may have been strict with you girls and yes even me, but he gave us everything. All he asked for was obedience, a simple thing really,” her answer has not changed since the last they spoke of her father. Caroline walks to her mother stopping when she is a scant breath away from her, no longer does her mother tower over her with a demanding presence, she is now small and frail.
“No, mother, he gave us nothing that we needed, but you will never understand that, will you?” she hugged her mother to her and breathed in the scent of her, her perfume has gone unchanged.
“There is nothing to understand. Now enough of this talk, Sarah has prepared a wonderful ham for dinner, you will stay and eat with me,” her mother’s strength has returned to her voice as she pulls away from her oldest daughter and leads her to the dinning room.
The room sits quietly, alone, untouched, and that is the way it will stay.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Day 2
Being the only girl in the family, excluding my mother of course, has it's disadvantages, and being the youngest of the five children didn't help either. The mornings are hectic in our house, to say it politely.
If I didn't make it down to breakfast before my four older brothers finished their feeding rituals I would be left to fend for myself.
"You know how they are, Julia," my mother throws her hands up into the air and shrugs her shoulders at my complaints of starvation. "Get down here earlier and you'll get a hot meal like the rest of them," she advises me before heading off to do yet another load of laundry for the older members of her small herd. She always seems to be doing laundry, or cleaning, or cooking something; its a wonder how it is she manages to keep her hair so neat and her make up always having the freshly applied look to it.
"What's the big deal?" Steve, the oldest of us Clarksons, questions me as he tosses an apple my way, which of course I catch with one hand. You can not have four older brothers and not learn how to catch a fly ball or flying food for that matter.
"The big deal is, for once I would like to get a scrambled egg instead of a bowl of cereal. The big deal is that I would love to get to the orange juice before Bobby's back splash ruins the entire carton!" My words fall onto deaf ears like most mornings, the boys: Steve, Bobby, Carl, and Martin are too busy boasting about their latest sport achievement or date with some girl, or are they fighting over some girl? I stopped paying attention to their crushes when I reached the age of 15 and started having my own.
My latest crush, Jeremy Woodsley, was due to pick me up for school at any moment and I still had not eaten, my stomach growled as if on cue. A quick growl at my brothers and I headed towards the fridge to collect my lunch bag. My mother, the most efficient woman in the world, had all of our lunches made and in the fridge before she went to bed last night. All, except for Steve and Bobby, since they had joined the world of higher education she simply leaves it to them to find their own lunches at the local junior college.
"Jules, do you need a ride?" Carl, the considerate one, offers a ride every morning.
"Nope," I decline, as I do the majority of mornings. "Thanks though,"
"Jeremy is probably taking her to school," Martin, the youngest boy at 17, still speaks of my boyfriends in the nasally make-fun-of little-sister voice that most people should outgrow as they enter puberty.
"This is like the fifth week in a row!" Steve looks at me with the concerned big brother look, which I roll my baby blue eyes at. I know they are baby blue because Jeremy has told me a dozen times how much he adores them.
"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll see the light and run for the hills soon," I assure my biggest of brothers. He has always treated me like a fragile butterfly, unlike Bobby who likes to think that I was born a boy, regardless of what the medical tests and my 16 year old female anatomy shows.
"Well, just kick him in the nads if he gets all man handling you," Bobby chimes in as he slings his back pack over his shoulder. "Steve, let's go,man. My class starts in like ten minutes!" ever the punctual student. The junior college is 15 miles away from our home, even if Steve were to fly to campus Bobby will be his usual 10-15 minutes late.
Martin and Carl finish scarfing down the last of their breakfast as I nibble on my apple. My delicious red apple that will not keep me satisfied until my 12:00 lunch time, but will keep my stomach from announcing it's frustration while Jeremy drives me to school. I toss another apple into my bag as a precaution against starvation after second period.
"Julia, there is a young man sitting in his car in front of our house," My father swoops into the kitchen, dressed in his best suit which means that he will be not be home for dinner due to a dinner date with a client. "Please tell said young man that if he wishes you to accompany him on any further dates, he will need to make his presence known by coming to the door," he places a chaste kiss to my cheek before swooping back out of the kitchen with his briefcase in hand and disappears into the garage. I wonder where learned to talk like that, maybe law school 'said boy' ...really, who talks like that?
I take a deep breath and calm myself before I throw open the front door and invite the day to begin. Jeremy is indeed waiting for me in his car. So is Trisha Jenson, my heart sinks. Jeremy looks over at me and smiles, awkwardly, nervously, maybe even a bit cautiously. I walk to the car with a smile plastered on my face, keeping an eye on Trisha, who is busy looking at herself in her compact.
"Hi," I hug my books to my chest as I approach the car.
"Oh. Hey," Trisha looks out of the passenger window and up at me. "Jeremy, tell her." she turns to him and glares at him.
"Tell me what?" my heart is beating so fast I fear it may burst from my chest.
"Julia, the thing is Trisha here, we kinda starting hanging out together a little while ago and..." the coward looks to her with pleading in his eyes. She is only too happy to oblige him.
"He's dumping you." the words roll off her tongue so smoothly, I am sure I misheard her.
"What?" I am holding onto my books so tightly my knuckles are turning white.
"He's dumping you," she repeats herself, only slower this time, saying each word purposefully as if she were speaking to a small child.
"Like this?" I ask incredulously, I mean who does this, who breaks up with someone like this?
"Yeah. Look...do you still want a ride?" Trisha asked with a twisted expression on her face.
"A ride?" I repeat, I am aware of how stupid I sound.
"Maybe your brothers could give you a lift?" Jeremy takes pity on me and points to Steve who is just now pulling his car down the drive. I nod, or I think I do. Jeremy winks at me, that sexy wink of his, and takes off.
"Hey! Where's he going?" Bobby yells from somewhere, I'm not listening to him, I'm too busy watching Jeremy drive away.
"Julia, get in," Steve's voice is comforting, understanding, he knows what happened but he's not going to rub it in. No, he's just going to drive me to school....
If I didn't make it down to breakfast before my four older brothers finished their feeding rituals I would be left to fend for myself.
"You know how they are, Julia," my mother throws her hands up into the air and shrugs her shoulders at my complaints of starvation. "Get down here earlier and you'll get a hot meal like the rest of them," she advises me before heading off to do yet another load of laundry for the older members of her small herd. She always seems to be doing laundry, or cleaning, or cooking something; its a wonder how it is she manages to keep her hair so neat and her make up always having the freshly applied look to it.
"What's the big deal?" Steve, the oldest of us Clarksons, questions me as he tosses an apple my way, which of course I catch with one hand. You can not have four older brothers and not learn how to catch a fly ball or flying food for that matter.
"The big deal is, for once I would like to get a scrambled egg instead of a bowl of cereal. The big deal is that I would love to get to the orange juice before Bobby's back splash ruins the entire carton!" My words fall onto deaf ears like most mornings, the boys: Steve, Bobby, Carl, and Martin are too busy boasting about their latest sport achievement or date with some girl, or are they fighting over some girl? I stopped paying attention to their crushes when I reached the age of 15 and started having my own.
My latest crush, Jeremy Woodsley, was due to pick me up for school at any moment and I still had not eaten, my stomach growled as if on cue. A quick growl at my brothers and I headed towards the fridge to collect my lunch bag. My mother, the most efficient woman in the world, had all of our lunches made and in the fridge before she went to bed last night. All, except for Steve and Bobby, since they had joined the world of higher education she simply leaves it to them to find their own lunches at the local junior college.
"Jules, do you need a ride?" Carl, the considerate one, offers a ride every morning.
"Nope," I decline, as I do the majority of mornings. "Thanks though,"
"Jeremy is probably taking her to school," Martin, the youngest boy at 17, still speaks of my boyfriends in the nasally make-fun-of little-sister voice that most people should outgrow as they enter puberty.
"This is like the fifth week in a row!" Steve looks at me with the concerned big brother look, which I roll my baby blue eyes at. I know they are baby blue because Jeremy has told me a dozen times how much he adores them.
"Don't worry, I'm sure he'll see the light and run for the hills soon," I assure my biggest of brothers. He has always treated me like a fragile butterfly, unlike Bobby who likes to think that I was born a boy, regardless of what the medical tests and my 16 year old female anatomy shows.
"Well, just kick him in the nads if he gets all man handling you," Bobby chimes in as he slings his back pack over his shoulder. "Steve, let's go,man. My class starts in like ten minutes!" ever the punctual student. The junior college is 15 miles away from our home, even if Steve were to fly to campus Bobby will be his usual 10-15 minutes late.
Martin and Carl finish scarfing down the last of their breakfast as I nibble on my apple. My delicious red apple that will not keep me satisfied until my 12:00 lunch time, but will keep my stomach from announcing it's frustration while Jeremy drives me to school. I toss another apple into my bag as a precaution against starvation after second period.
"Julia, there is a young man sitting in his car in front of our house," My father swoops into the kitchen, dressed in his best suit which means that he will be not be home for dinner due to a dinner date with a client. "Please tell said young man that if he wishes you to accompany him on any further dates, he will need to make his presence known by coming to the door," he places a chaste kiss to my cheek before swooping back out of the kitchen with his briefcase in hand and disappears into the garage. I wonder where learned to talk like that, maybe law school 'said boy' ...really, who talks like that?
I take a deep breath and calm myself before I throw open the front door and invite the day to begin. Jeremy is indeed waiting for me in his car. So is Trisha Jenson, my heart sinks. Jeremy looks over at me and smiles, awkwardly, nervously, maybe even a bit cautiously. I walk to the car with a smile plastered on my face, keeping an eye on Trisha, who is busy looking at herself in her compact.
"Hi," I hug my books to my chest as I approach the car.
"Oh. Hey," Trisha looks out of the passenger window and up at me. "Jeremy, tell her." she turns to him and glares at him.
"Tell me what?" my heart is beating so fast I fear it may burst from my chest.
"Julia, the thing is Trisha here, we kinda starting hanging out together a little while ago and..." the coward looks to her with pleading in his eyes. She is only too happy to oblige him.
"He's dumping you." the words roll off her tongue so smoothly, I am sure I misheard her.
"What?" I am holding onto my books so tightly my knuckles are turning white.
"He's dumping you," she repeats herself, only slower this time, saying each word purposefully as if she were speaking to a small child.
"Like this?" I ask incredulously, I mean who does this, who breaks up with someone like this?
"Yeah. Look...do you still want a ride?" Trisha asked with a twisted expression on her face.
"A ride?" I repeat, I am aware of how stupid I sound.
"Maybe your brothers could give you a lift?" Jeremy takes pity on me and points to Steve who is just now pulling his car down the drive. I nod, or I think I do. Jeremy winks at me, that sexy wink of his, and takes off.
"Hey! Where's he going?" Bobby yells from somewhere, I'm not listening to him, I'm too busy watching Jeremy drive away.
"Julia, get in," Steve's voice is comforting, understanding, he knows what happened but he's not going to rub it in. No, he's just going to drive me to school....
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Day 1
Oil began to spatter subtly onto the kitchen range stove top as the freshly battered chicken was dropped every so carefully into the pot. Water boiled near by, cooking the potatoes and a fresh loaf of bread was baking in the oven. The smells wandered through the small ranch home wrapping around each member of the family and hugged them with the warmth of a home made meal.
"What time is that repair man coming over tomorrow for the washer?" Jeremy wrapped his arms around the waist of his love, as she carefully turned the chicken over in the simmering oil.
"He said sometime between nine and five," she answered with her silken voice as she tilted her head casually to the left, to allow him ample access to her bare neck. Not one to miss an oppurtunity, Jeremy nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. She never had need of perfume, she had a natural smell of lavendar that he swore was burrowed into her skin.
"Try to keep the boys out of his way," he kissed her earlobe before he dropped his hands from her womanly hips and took a step away from the stove to lean against the counter. He watched her as she wiped her forehead, a loose strand of her brown hair had matted itself to her skin. A reminder that the air conditioner was broken again.
"I always do," she smiled at him patiently. "Your sons are the spitting image of you! Do you know what they did in church this morning?" she pointed the tongs accusingly at him, then made a sweeping motion towards the family room, signally that she was talking about their sons. "Those boys of yours decided that the church bell aught to ring early today, on account that they had made plans to go fishing with the Burdoon brothers down by the creek. So your boys climbed up to the church tower and rang that bell. You should have seen the way everyone starting looking around trying to find out what was going on. The preacher was confused, looking at his watch and then down at the congregation.- It's not funny Jeremy!" She half heartedly stomped her foot.
"I know it's not," her husband straightened himself up and tried to stifle his laughter. He envisioned his two sons climbing up the tower in their Sunday clothes and pulling on the thick braided rope to ring the old bell. "Did they get caught?"
"Lucky for them, no. I knew it was them though, I could here Brandon giggling from my pew!" she tried suppress the giggle she felt rising now that the event was all over with. She had been scowling fiercely when she had been waiting for the two of them as they came scrambling down the side ladder outside the bell tower. The rest of the congregation was buzzing and the Preacher had to wait for everyone to settle down before he could finish his sermon. She had quickly led her sons to the car and left before any of the congregation could see them.
"No fishing?" Jeremy folded his strong arms over his chest.
"No fishing." she nodded and turned her attention back to the chicken. He watched her for a moment with a silent awe. The apron she was wearing around her waist was wearing thin, a small hole was already starting to rip along the pocket seam. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail fully exposing her gentle features; her deep blue eyes, full cherry lips, and the petite slope of her nose that was nestled between her perfectly placed high cheek bones. He had taken her for his wife nearly ten years ago, and still he found himself losing his breath over her beauty.
"What are you doing?" she asked, shifting her weight awkwardly. His stare always made her unsettled, as if he were critiquing her in some way.
"Nothing, baby," he grinned at her, her ignorance about her beauty always amazed him. The small dimples of his cheeks creeped to the surface as he gave her a majestically grin. His dark wavy hair was still wind blown from the field work he had done earlier that morning and his warm green eyes held merriment as he leaned down to kiss her on her cheek. "I'm gonna go wash up. Maybe Brandon and Justin could have a catch with their dad before dinner, if their punishment is over?" he rested his hands on her hips again, pulling her back into his chest. The tongs rested on the counter as she turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him.
"I suppose," she consented with a lopsided grin.
His lips were only a few inches away from hers when he remarked "I'll talk to them about the church bell. I'm sorry I wasn't there this morning. Next week. I'll have the fields done by next Sunday," he promised before capturing her lips in a passionately warm kiss that left them both a bit dazed. He pulled away and headed out of the kitchen with a lazy grin on his face.
They both knew that he wouldn't be at service next Sunday, but neither of them would admit to it.
"What time is that repair man coming over tomorrow for the washer?" Jeremy wrapped his arms around the waist of his love, as she carefully turned the chicken over in the simmering oil.
"He said sometime between nine and five," she answered with her silken voice as she tilted her head casually to the left, to allow him ample access to her bare neck. Not one to miss an oppurtunity, Jeremy nuzzled her neck, breathing in her scent. She never had need of perfume, she had a natural smell of lavendar that he swore was burrowed into her skin.
"Try to keep the boys out of his way," he kissed her earlobe before he dropped his hands from her womanly hips and took a step away from the stove to lean against the counter. He watched her as she wiped her forehead, a loose strand of her brown hair had matted itself to her skin. A reminder that the air conditioner was broken again.
"I always do," she smiled at him patiently. "Your sons are the spitting image of you! Do you know what they did in church this morning?" she pointed the tongs accusingly at him, then made a sweeping motion towards the family room, signally that she was talking about their sons. "Those boys of yours decided that the church bell aught to ring early today, on account that they had made plans to go fishing with the Burdoon brothers down by the creek. So your boys climbed up to the church tower and rang that bell. You should have seen the way everyone starting looking around trying to find out what was going on. The preacher was confused, looking at his watch and then down at the congregation.- It's not funny Jeremy!" She half heartedly stomped her foot.
"I know it's not," her husband straightened himself up and tried to stifle his laughter. He envisioned his two sons climbing up the tower in their Sunday clothes and pulling on the thick braided rope to ring the old bell. "Did they get caught?"
"Lucky for them, no. I knew it was them though, I could here Brandon giggling from my pew!" she tried suppress the giggle she felt rising now that the event was all over with. She had been scowling fiercely when she had been waiting for the two of them as they came scrambling down the side ladder outside the bell tower. The rest of the congregation was buzzing and the Preacher had to wait for everyone to settle down before he could finish his sermon. She had quickly led her sons to the car and left before any of the congregation could see them.
"No fishing?" Jeremy folded his strong arms over his chest.
"No fishing." she nodded and turned her attention back to the chicken. He watched her for a moment with a silent awe. The apron she was wearing around her waist was wearing thin, a small hole was already starting to rip along the pocket seam. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail fully exposing her gentle features; her deep blue eyes, full cherry lips, and the petite slope of her nose that was nestled between her perfectly placed high cheek bones. He had taken her for his wife nearly ten years ago, and still he found himself losing his breath over her beauty.
"What are you doing?" she asked, shifting her weight awkwardly. His stare always made her unsettled, as if he were critiquing her in some way.
"Nothing, baby," he grinned at her, her ignorance about her beauty always amazed him. The small dimples of his cheeks creeped to the surface as he gave her a majestically grin. His dark wavy hair was still wind blown from the field work he had done earlier that morning and his warm green eyes held merriment as he leaned down to kiss her on her cheek. "I'm gonna go wash up. Maybe Brandon and Justin could have a catch with their dad before dinner, if their punishment is over?" he rested his hands on her hips again, pulling her back into his chest. The tongs rested on the counter as she turned in his arms and wrapped her arms around his waist, looking up at him.
"I suppose," she consented with a lopsided grin.
His lips were only a few inches away from hers when he remarked "I'll talk to them about the church bell. I'm sorry I wasn't there this morning. Next week. I'll have the fields done by next Sunday," he promised before capturing her lips in a passionately warm kiss that left them both a bit dazed. He pulled away and headed out of the kitchen with a lazy grin on his face.
They both knew that he wouldn't be at service next Sunday, but neither of them would admit to it.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
The Challenge!
Since I was able to put pen to paper, I have had the longing, the urge, the unwavering desire to write. As a child I used my "toy" typewriter to write short stories and as a teen I kept a journal full of poems and other nonsensical mutterings. Any chance I had to create something with words was a chance I jumped at.
This is not to say that my writings are perfect, entertaining, or even well done. This blog is not about how good I am...or how bad I may be...this blog is for the sole purpose of getting my butt back in the writers chair!
The challenge I am setting for myself is to follow along in a book I purchased at the suggestion of the leader at a local writers group. (That I attended one meeting of and have not been able to get back to). The book is titled A Writer's Book of Days written by Judy Reeves. Each day there is a new prompt, these prompts will be posted each day and I will use it to create whatever I create with it.
I promise you that there will be spelling errors, grammatical errors and there will be times when I will make no sense at all because I thought more words than I may have typed. I also promise (more to to myself) that I will post every single day..even if it's only to post a paragraph about the prompt.
My days of sitting by and waiting for my big story to fall into my lap is over. I think up at least five different story lines a day, it's time to get something on paper!
So there you have it. 365 days of writing.
This is not to say that my writings are perfect, entertaining, or even well done. This blog is not about how good I am...or how bad I may be...this blog is for the sole purpose of getting my butt back in the writers chair!
The challenge I am setting for myself is to follow along in a book I purchased at the suggestion of the leader at a local writers group. (That I attended one meeting of and have not been able to get back to). The book is titled A Writer's Book of Days written by Judy Reeves. Each day there is a new prompt, these prompts will be posted each day and I will use it to create whatever I create with it.
I promise you that there will be spelling errors, grammatical errors and there will be times when I will make no sense at all because I thought more words than I may have typed. I also promise (more to to myself) that I will post every single day..even if it's only to post a paragraph about the prompt.
My days of sitting by and waiting for my big story to fall into my lap is over. I think up at least five different story lines a day, it's time to get something on paper!
So there you have it. 365 days of writing.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)