The raw dump...

...Struggled to allow my pen to flow and got stuck during session requiring another to get to the initial ending.

Wishes Come True

Looking back I savor the moment before it all changed.  Such simple words I never would have guessed how they could be twisted.  The party was momentous with our close friends there to celebrate our lives and watch as Andy gave me such a precious gift:  a pendant of two single stem red roses delicately intertwined.  My breath had caught when I opened it.  I had only mentioned it once and yet he had remembered all these years.   I love single roses and told him so during one of our many romantic dates.  However, I prefer to always receive two roses for nothing is or should be alone.  A rose always needs its rose.  

Holding that pendant in my hand now brings tears to my eyes.  I need my rose and I’m not sure when I’ll get it back now.  This weird twist.

Simple words.  A simple wish for each.  We had both smiled like young kids at one another as our friends cheered us on shouting “maybe this will be the year they come true”.   Giggling, we turned to our respective cakes and blew.  The shimmering I had felt inside I thought was for the love I felt for the man standing next to me and the joy of celebrating our birthdays with friends.  I didn’t know it meant the magic was doing its dance to bring my simple words to light.

The rest of that weekend continued in bliss with Andy and I lazily lounging on each other, reading, writing, teasing and just plain giddy with life.  It was the next day that changed it all.

Steve joining me on the elevator remarked,  “You seem especially bright today.”

“Hey Steve.  I’m feeling especially bright today.”

“Excellent.  I think we can build on that for you.”

“Oh” was all I managed as my stomach summer-salted.

“How about joining me in my office after you set your things down?”

“Ok.”  My next brilliant response.

Seated in the plush chair across from Steve, my foot wiggles side to side fingers joining in silent rhythm.

Nodding to my dancing limbs, Steve placed a hand on my arm, “This is good news.  Something I know you’ve been working towards since you joined our boutique ten years ago.”

My limbs went completely still.

I whispered, “You mean New York?”

“I do.  They called yesterday.”

“Oh my god!” no longer in stunned silence I grabbed Steve into a bear hug.  “I don’t know what to say.  I’ve been dreaming of New York for what seems like forever!”

“I know.  This is your big shot.  They want you there in thirty days.  Here’s an outline of the offer including relocation assistance and a little extra to help entice Andy’s support.”

Across town Andy was having a similar moment.  The unbelievable offer of his career being presented to him.  Including thirty days to move to San Francisco.

That began our twelve months of bittersweet.  Thriving careers.  Doing our dream.  Wishes coming true.  Except for a very key element:  each other.  

Denial became a big theme.  We made it an adventure for awhile.  Communicating in new ways.  Figuring out how to share our experiences from a distance.  Stretching our imagination to create long distance picnics and romantic dates that included empty miles between us.  

Time removed denial.  Bittersweet was staring at us squarely in our eyes.  The inevitable question aching in our hearts.  Who would give up their career job to be with the other?  Or would we give up each other for our career job?

Another year.  Another grand celebration of our birthdays.  But this time, the smiles a little more forced as bittersweet rubbed into the fabric of our relationship.  Facing our cakes, making our wish, sealing with a kiss.

Today, I stand in disbelief.  Wishes coming true.  Yet again.  Yet again, we didn’t discuss beforehand.   Each hearing from our bosses what we wished for…

“Andy, great news!  We are transferring you to New York.”

“Helen, wonderful news!  We are transferring you to San Francisco.”

First draft...how liberating to post something so terribly unfinished! This is about the process, I remind myself...

10/6- After our work with concepts in a recent writing circle, we decided to break down the story writing steps and work through the process together.  Here is what came from our first session of drafting for me.


Jack sits with his coffee by the window of his new apartment.  He calls it an apartment, though after he crashed his car the move was clearly an intervention by his family.  He refuses to call it a retirement home.  The best part is that they put coffee out in the common area, free coffee every morning until 8:00 a.m.

Avery, his grandson, is coming to pick him up.  Jack’s daughter called from Hawaii and screamed, “he’ll be there by seven, Dad.  Love you!”

She moved Jack and then left for her husband’s time share.  She didn’t even help him unpack the boxes.  They followed the movers and she called on the way for take-out. 

“Isn’t this nice?” she cooed as they ate Chinese food and then she was gone. 

Now, two weeks later, he waited for his grandson.  Avery pulls up in the Buick, parking in a tow away zone.  Jack taps the window, shooing and pointing at the sign.  Avery looks up and waves.  He doesn’t smile.  What kind of trouble did you get into, Jack thinks, in order to have this chore?

The car smelled faintly of cigarettes and grease.  “That’s my car,” Jack muttered as Avery threw a gum wrapper to the floor.  Neither spoke.  At the gym, Avery parked and walked in with Jack.

“I’m here for Randy.” Jack threw his membership card down.

“You must be Jack.”

Jack didn’t answer.  “where is Randy?”

“He revised his client schedule and decided that you and I would be a better fit.” Her smile looked like it was about to crack.

Jack pouted.  Avery shifted from side to side.  The basketball game was on in the lobby. 

“C’mon Gramps.  Doctor’s orders.  Want me to carry your stuff to your locker?”

“No.  I’m not going to listen to her.”

“Yes, yes, you are.” Avery turned to the trainer.  “He’s all right.  He’ll be fine.”

“Mr. Prescott, I assure you that we are a team.  Let me help you meet your fitness goals.”

“I want my car back.” Jack looked at Avery, who rolled his eyes.

“Go change, and I’ll meet you up at the treadmills.

Avery settled in on the couch.  Jack walked while the trainer changed his speed and incline and watched him adjust his pace.  They moved into the lifting area and she showed him some movements to do for balance.  He didn’t want to admit that she was pretty good.  Her skin was too tan for Oregon, her hair was heavy and think and the bangs fell into her eyes.  Jack looked at her arms, and the tight tank top she wore.  Her face had dark circles, she was strong but not tightly toned like a bodybuilder.  Her nail polish was chipped.

“I’ve seen you before,” Jack spoke.

“I’ve worked her for six years, she smiled. 

Jack continued, “yes I’ve seen you with those fancy shoes and tight dresses.  Where are you going looking like that?” his tone was scornful and she blushed .

Avery was waiting when Jack came out of the locker room.

“How did it go?”

“What did you do?”

“What do you mean?  I watched basketball.”
“No.  What did you do to have to ferry me around?”

Avery was silent. 

“Goddammit!” Jack shouted.  “Why doesn’t anyone tell me anything?”

“My apartment was broken into.”

“So?”

“They stole some expensive stuff.  Stuff I hadn’t paid for yet.”

“Drugs?”

“C’mon Gramps!”

“Well?”

“Yeah.”

“What did your mother say?”

“Well, she doesn’t know.  She thinks I broke my friend’s D.J. equipment.  So her husband loaned me the cash.”

“You need to stop doing drugs.”
“I know.”

“What is with you young people?  You have time, youth, and beauty and you throw it away at the bars looking like hookers and doing drugs!”

Avery laughed.  It was the first time Jack had seen him smile all day.  Avery had been a sad kid growing up.  His mom had divorced his dad and met another man fast.  Avery had been shuffled between his mother, who paid him no attention, and his father, who drank a lot. 

“Who is the hooker?  I’ve never dressed like that!”

“Nevermind.”  They were back at the apartment. 

“See you Thursday.” Avery said as Jack shut the door.

Her name was Lisa, Jack read her name at their next session.  Jack had seen her around as he stretched and exercised.  Jack’s doctor recommended a trainer after Jack got into the fender bender.  So here he was. 

On Thurday Avery looked a little less ragged.

“Did you cut your hair?” Jack asked.

“Yep.  And I brought my gear.”

“Gear?”

“To exercise.”

Lisa had been out late the night before at a friend’s birthday.  She knew that her family would say she was burning the candle at both ends.  She was 32.  The time she had wasted with partners in the past brought her here, she was desperate to meet someone.

Jack knew that he would never be able to lay in a nursing home bed and waste away.  So when the pangs began, he didn’t use the call button in the locker room.  Avery was already playing basketball.  Lisa was drinking a smoothie.  She waited.  Finally she went to get Avery. 

“Excuse me.  Your grandfather?”

                  When he walked in, he knew.  The ambulance came, the faint heart beat gave them the urgency to turn on the sirens and thrust him into the back. 

Lisa cried.  Avery stood with her, opting to drive to the hospital.  She came along. 

“No other family came. “

“It’s complicated.”

“Is that why he is so grouchy?”

“My grandma left 25 years ago.  My uncle died of AIDS.  Grandpa was pretty black and white.  He never spoke to Grandma again, only saw Uncle Pete once after he came out.  Grandma met someone and didn’t remarry, so Grandpa still paid her.  All that.  My mom reminds him of her.  She remarries though, just a richer, more obnoxious guy each time.”

“You need to stop what you’re doing.”

“What?”

“The heels, the late nights.”

Before she could respond he added, “It’ll be too late before you know it.  Trust me.”

Lisa let this information fall into place with her last conversation with Jack.

When the doctor came out and told Avery that he died in surgery, Avery said, “shit!” and she grabbed his hand.

short story: Betty and a stranger

10/6/13 we spent ~ 40 minutes writing a short story...my concept: what if a handsome stranger asked to fly you to your chosen destination and my story: Betty, who's never done anything not planned out by others, impulsively says yes, only to find herself trapped on a hijacked plane with a stranger.

funny how the first dump draft misses the mark...lol
*******************************************

Betty wiped her brow. The afternoon sun was working overtime, one would think it was August. She nodded aimlessly as Ginger yapped about someone doing her wrong yet again. Something about the wrong size, color, or whatever had rubbed her dimple-free behind wrong.

Betty had been born and raised in Charlotte, North Carolina. From the outside she had it good. Well-off parents married thirty years with no social dirt to speak of. Her father owned a bank, mother a housewife and older brother Skip, former high school hottie and quarterback, now married with two kids and worked for daddy. Bred with manners and social grace, Betty's childhood revolved around pageants, piano and perfect grades. And of course, she was only allowed around the social elite.

Husband, Carlson, was handpicked. Son of a judge and a prominent lawyer. He was the only man, boy, Betty had ever dated, kissed or slept with. And continued to underwhelm her expectations. Betty's only job was to maintain their two acre plantation and flash her southern charm on Carlson's shoulder.

"Betty," Ginger said, tapping her pink manicured nail against her porcelain tea cup. "I asked you a question."

Betty's cheeks burned.

Once again she'd drifted into the safety of her imagination, anything to escape the dread her real life held.

Ginger sipped her tea, dabbed the corner of her mouth with her cloth napkin and sat her cup down with a sharp clank. "Since my troubles don't perk your interests, what's going on in that head of yours?"

Betty dug her nails into the starched white tablecloth. "It must be allergies. Can't keep focus."

"Ummm..." Ginger nodded, her lips pursed in obvious disbelief.

What really had Betty's attention was Winston. A stranger she'd met online a few months ago. She'd been on a website about gardens and landscape since Carlson wanted their home spruced (always something to keep up with the firm's partners). Betty posted a question about appropriate flowers for summer and Winston had replied, "Dahling, whatever your heart desires is what is most appropriate."

Whatever your heart desires. 

No one had ever posed that point of view to Betty. Not once in her twenty-two years had anyone even asked or cared. Not her parents, brother, friends, teachers and certainly not Carlson.

It was always what was expected of her...what was appropriate.

From there they began a private dialogue online. Once a week soon became once a day, which increased to as long and as often as possible without getting caught.

"More tea, Miss?" the young waiter asked.

Betty exhaled with a slight nod. Why couldn't her online life spill into her reality?

"Please tell me you've gone shopping for Friday's dinner," Ginger said. She waved her hand over her cup, signaling the waiter she'd had enough.

"Friday?" Betty raised her brow. With all her time on the computer, she'd lost track of her obligations. Just the other day Carlson had raged about her forgetting to pick up his dry cleaning.

Ginger rolled her eyes. "At the Peterson's."

Betty's hand flew over her gaping mouth. Crap. She'd forgotten. And it was duty to get a gift, get herself properly ready - hair, nails, make-up, and Carlson's suit.

Ginger shook her head. "I don't know how Carlson deals with you."

"Excuse me ladies--"

"Just the check," Ginger said without looking.

"I thank you kindly for thinking me so young, but it has been quite some time since I hadn't worn my age."

Wide-eyes, Ginger looked up. The handsome stranger tipped his hat, briefly exposing thick salt-n-pepper hair. His wide smile lingered on Betty. Her stomach flipped.

"Would you do me the honor?" He held out his hand to Betty.

Ginger's frightened gaze flung from the stranger, to Betty, to the stranger's open hand.

A spark tickled Betty's gut. Her whole life had been conducted by others. From what she ate, said, wore and thought.

"Whatever your heart desires," the stranger said.

A grin crept across Betty's thin lips. She placed her hand in his. Ginger's jaw dropped. He pulled Betty to her feet.

"What are you doing?" Ginger hissed.

"What my heart desires," Betty said. "Finally living my life, my way."

********************

Later that evening, Carlson received a visit from the local police.

"Chuck, what brings you by?" Carlson said.

Chuck's face drains of color. "Betty."

Carlson furrows his brow.

"The plane she was on---

"Plane? Betty wasn't on any plane."


  

Rosa's Finale

Prompt: Take a poem and rewrite as a story.  Our twist: each of us will write a part of the story, writing for 10-15 minutes each.  See Aug 20 for the beginning, Sept 6 for the middle. Now here is the end:

I shift in the wooden chair, my backside numb after several hours. The wispy, thin curtains do little to shade from the sun, shining a light on her pale, aging skin. She no longer forces a weak smile to appease my breaking heart. The pain must be too great.

I tried to do for her what she taught me to do for others. Pick the plants that speak to me, that promise that their energy holds the cure. Dry, burn and smash into a fine powder. But she refuses treatment with a wave of the hand and tight lips. I know not to argue. We had all agreed to respect her decision. But I never thought it would happen so soon.

A hand rests on my shoulder. "Why not go outside, take a break," my other mother says. I nod, but take fifteen minutes to rise and shuffle out the room.

I walk through the woods and find myself by the tree I hid behind when I first met my new family. The high noon sun pokes through the branches. Leaning against the rough bark, I inhale. Sweet and spicy textures tickle my nose. The breeze cools my skin.

A blur darts in front of me, followed by a humming buzz. A bee dances in a figure eight. Stingless, harmless, the source of nothing but sweet, golden food. Just like the three beautiful ladies in my life.

PlayWrite
http://sonjathomaswrites.blogspot.com/

...continuing Rosa... [see post on August 20th]

     It's those early memories I cling to today as the older one shrinks in her bed.  Her once generous body now hollowed and shallow.
     I remember the first time she showed me the book.  The one passed down from so many ancestors. Its pages yellowing and binding frayed.  My shaky fingers had hovered over the print as my eyes soaked in the unfamiliar language.
     She'd whispered its story to me as her mom had to her so many years before.  My eyes had welled.  It was that day I knew I finally belonged.  I had promised then to look after the sick as she had done.
     And now I look after her.

Rosa

Rosa
Some people call me a child-witch,
but I'm just a girl who likes to watch
the hands of the women
as they gather wild herbs and flowers
to heal the sick.

I am learning the names of the cures,
and how much to use,
and which part of the plant,
petal or stem, root, leaf, pollen, nectar.

Sometimes I feel like a bee making honey-
a bee, feared by all, even though the wild bees
of these mountains in Cuba
are stingless, harmless, the source
of nothing but sweet, golden food.

         -from The Surrender Tree, by Margarita Engle

Prompt: Take a poem and rewrite as a story.  Our twist: each of us will write a part of the story, writing for 10-15 minutes each.  Here is the beginning:

Rosa
     I fall behind the women, three old women with swishing behinds in worn out cotton dresses.  They cackle as they walk, swinging baskets gently against their generous hips.  I catch up when they stop.  At first I hid behind the tree, watching as they chose small plants to pluck.  Then I stepped near as they dug, the curiosity bringing me forward.  They turned, that first day I was noticed.  Almost as one, they turned, then looked at each other.
     The one that looked the oldest, with wrinkly skin and a shaky hand, spoke. "There, teach her when I am gone. That one has the look of a learner."
     Shaking their heads, the others spoke in turn.  "No, sister.  Now is the time.  We will teach her together."
     The smallest one nodded, "Yes.  It is not as when we were young, watching each other grow and change.  We are now so close we are the same."
     The older one did not answer.  She beckoned me over.
     My first lesson:  hold the basket and all the heaviest gatherings.
     This is why I sometimes fall behind.  I am sometimes running to catch up after resting with my heavy basket next to me.  I practice the names as I rest.  I don't hide anymore.  Now I am the one to snip or dig for the precious plants.  On rainy days, or days when the sisters cannot gather the strength to go outside, we dry and burn and smash the plants into the important powders and liquids that will one day help.
     I watch them move like three parts of one body when the door is opened to the sick.  Old and young come to the little wooden house.  The fire is lit, this is my job inside the house when we are tending.  They call it tending, healing, helping.  Others in the village, when they think I can't hear, call it witching, spells, casting.  I just listen and look.  I watch as the herbs and plants are rubbed on wounds.  I listen as the sisters give advice, "Drink this now, three times a day.  No more meat for three weeks."  My own parents are gone.  I think about the morning my mother died.  I wonder if she would have been here now if the sisters had helped her. We didn't live in this village then.  We came after.  I learned after.  The sadness of living after is also the importance of learning to help.

To Nurture

Ways to nurture...

give a hug
water flowers
take a bath
make a meal
hold a hand
mend a tear
walk beside
lend an ear
follow through
write a letter
gentle touch


from prompt 5/12/13 to list ways to nurture