2013 A TO Z REFLECTIONS

 

Thanks to Arlee, Nicole, Damyanti, Alex, Tina, DL, Jeremy, Shannon, Matthew, Livia, Konstanz, Stephen and L. Diane for hosting this crazy adventure!  We are all indebted to you!

What did I get out of participating?  What I got out of this was not actually what it was designed to do.  This challenge is, at its heart, a blog hop.  You meet other writers, connect with them by commenting, following, tweeting and liking and hope that they will return the favor (which they will because they're all awesome people).  Many writers will stock pile their posts ahead of time so that the little free time we're all left with after the daily stresses of life can be spent reading and commenting rather than having to worry about your next post.  This is a brilliant idea.  But it's not what I did.

I started writing my posts on March 31st by writing one- the first one- and then went to bed.  Then that Monday I wrote another.  Then Tuesday another.  And so on, and so on.  In a very short span of days I became aware of the rather miraculous phenomenon taking place: I was writing every day.  Every day I'd think of a story, I'd search for pictures to go with it, and I'd post.  One day at a time, one post at a time.

Great writers, smart writers, writers far more successful than I are sort-of confused when I talk about writing everyday as a 'miraculous phenomenon' because to them, writing is like breathing- they can't not do it.  This is largely why they're so great, smart and successful, of course.  But I'm not in that league yet and for many, many years this practice has eluded me.  This challenge got me into the practice and it has changed me as a writer.

Don't get me wrong, I've done NaNoWriMo four years running and for four years I've managed to write everyday for a month.  But, of course, when the month ended so did the writing.  And I'd go back to doing what I always did- criticizing myself right out of the story I wanted to write.

This challenge got me not only writing everyday but POSTING everyday.  Rather than having my words sit in a word document collecting virtual dust they're out there for the world to see.  That's a whole new ball game and it altered me more than anything else I've yet experienced as a writer.  It changed me.  Hopefully for the better.  Time (and all of you) will tell.

The Best Part  Where this challenge does its best is exactly where its aimed: building connections.  The number of new writers I've met, the amazing voices I've been exposed to in reading their posts, the feedback I've gotten and the followers I've gained is nothing short of awe inspiring.  Especially for me, a writer who's been posting for years on a blog that no one outside of my dear friend John ever read.  (Seriously- go back and scan through my old posts.  There are NO comments.)  In the course of a month my list of followers has grown by... oh, about 40.  And all of them are great writers.  And all of them are obscenely nice.  Yeah- awe inspiring.

The Worst Part  The flip side of that coin, of course, is how many other writers I didn't get to connect with, and how many blogs I missed commenting on.  I have a serious guilt complex about that.  More than a thousand people?  That's a a mighty sizable amount of guilt.

Now, you'll want to point out that if I had stock piled my posts ahead of time it wouldn't have been so overwhelming.  And of course you're right.  So I'm not blaming the challenge for this, and I don't think there's anything that could have been done differently to fix it.  Time management, as always.

A blogging buddy of mine pointed out that the list of bloggers isn't going anywhere (I don't think?) so I can keep visiting and keep connecting even though April's over.  And I fully intend to cause that really is the best part.

Again?  Hell, yeah!  I've already picked my theme for next year and I have an idea for the year after that!  This was such an amazingly rewarding experience I wouldn't dream of missing it again.  I only wish I'd discovered it sooner.

A giant thanks to everyone who read, commented, followed, connected and blew me away with their kindness this month!  You guys rock my socks right on off!

And to those of you I missed- I quote Liam Neeson when I say "I will look for you.  I will find you.  And I will comment on your awesome posts."  Wait... I think I misquoted that...

Now hop along fellow bloggers, and keep the love going!

Z is for Zoom

Source: Anthony Stewart Photography

Self portrait.  Even the words bothered him.  Why the hell would a self portrait be required of a photographer?  The entire point was to be behind the camera.  He didn't have even a vague idea as to how to do a self portrait that didn't strip him of the sense of control he got from having the camera in hand.

It was because of this that he'd been procrastinating.  For weeks.  He left the notice he'd gotten from the gallery sitting on his kitchen counter hoping that its presence would push him.  All it did was make him angry.  And now coffee stained, crumbled and printed with a date only a day away he was no closer to inspiration or a solution and seeing it only made him more angry.

He placed the package on top of the notice on the counter and felt a vague sense of impending triumph.  This was the key that would lead him to the answer he needed.  This would be his muse.  As he careful slid the knife along the edges of the tapes box he allowed himself to daydream a little.  It was his first gallery showing, after all.  It was supposed to be a good thing.

He threw back the box top and reached inside, carefully pulling out the bubble wrapped device.  He unraveled it from its bulky packaging and felt immediately better as soon as he held it bare in his hand.  He marveled at the weight it, or rather the weightlessness.  The first manual zoom he'd ever used had been a hand-me-down from his father and the thing had weighed at least five pounds. all by itself.  This, though no larger, was like holding a cone of air encased inside a thin metal frame.  He'd purchased it for its ability to handle humidity and temperature change without warping but he had to admit the weight decrease was a nice bonus.

He screwed it on to his camera and hoisted it up in from him.  It felt like an extension of his arm, like it wasn't even there.  But one twist and his world came into focus.  He felt an immediate sense of comfort as he viewed his world through the new lens system.  Now he was ready to shoot.

He looked around his apartment and started shooting off simple shots.  Just to get a feel for the mechanism.  It transitioned smoothly, responding to his touch as if it were made for him, and his shots became more rapid and varied.  One of the first lessons he’d ever learned about this art form was the fact that there is no perfect lens, it’s just a matter of learning what you wanted to sacrifice.  But this zoom handled adjustments so easily and felt so comfortable to him that even the blurred shots had depth and at least one sharp line to attract the eye.  He was getting giddy playing his new toy and completely forgot about the cursed assignment he had to do.

Until he turned and saw himself reflected in the mirror hanging on the back of the open closet door.  It was angled to catch the light from outside behind him and it made him look like something more than what he was.  He zoomed in, blurring out himself behind the camera and focusing in on his new zoom.  His finger pressed down on the shutter and he froze.  Snap.

Y is for Yard

Source: Edible Yards

It was just what they were looking for- the neighborhood close to the train station without being too urban.  Two bedrooms, two and a half baths, and sunlight streaming into the kitchen through the sliding glass doors.  He knew it by the time he’d finished the tour of the second floor: this was the one.

“Chelsea?” he called, bounding down the stairs with excitement.  He wanted to talk it over with her, make sure they were on the same page.  Then they could put on their games faces and talk shop with the realtor.

“Chels?” he called again as he rounded the corner of the staircase.  The living room was empty save for the hideous furniture the current occupants had crowded it with.  He was already making mental notes of how to better utilize the space.  And the kitchen- ick.  Who in their right mind would squeeze an island into a kitchen this size?

He glanced out the sliding doors as he turned to continue his search and that’s when he spotted her- standing out on the tiny patio, her arms folded around herself.  He could tell immediately she was crying.  He never knew what to do when she cried. It scared the hell out of him, every time, and the fear caused him to hesitate.  But then he took a breath, and forced himself to slide open the door.

He hugged her from behind and gave her a kiss on her wet cheek.  He tried the practical approach.

“I know it’s small but that doesn’t mean we can’t do a lot with it.  I see it all the time on those DIY shows,” he said, looking around the small space and trying to come up with possibilities.

“I mean, like right here,” he said, walking over the patch of grass and referencing spaces with waves of his hands.  “It looks like they’ve already got it outlined for a garden or something- we could grow vegetables or flowers.”
 

He cautioned a glance at her and saw her smiling as she looked down and it spur red him on.  “And- hey!  Over here we could put like a little fountain and it could be like a little zen garden or something- we could learn to meditate!”

He came back to her, put an around her and pulled her in.  “There’s a lot of life back here, you know?  Quality, not quantity.”

“No,” she said, wiping her face and laughing, “No, I know.  That’s not why I’m crying.”

“Why are you crying, Chels?” he asked, fearing her response.

“It’s just,” she laughed again, embarrassed with herself, “I’ve never had a yard before.” 

And she smiled at him, her eyes lit up with it.  He grinned back at her and grabbed her for a tight hug.  They were home.

X is for Xerox Box

Source: NationMaster Encyclopedia

I wasn't paying attention,  If I had been paying attention, I would've left it where it was.  But I was talking to you, rambling like an idiot, and I got distracted.

"Spring cleaning is such a lovely concept and such a shitty actual practice," I complained.

"Yeah well, a lot of things are great in theory," you said.

"Like this- what the hell is this, even?  What would possess me to shove a random office box in the back of my closet with no label that might give me even the slightest clue as to what's inside?" I said, pulling it out without even thinking.

"Well, if you can't remember what you were thinking, I certainly can't," you laughed.

Then I opened up the box and the world stopped.

"I uh... I gotta go," I told you, my brain struggling to form the words.

"You ok?" you asked.  You could hear it in my voice.  You must have.

"Yeah, yeah- I just uh.... this is a two-handed operation, you know?" I lied.  

"Ok, well don't work too hard," you said.  I could hear the concern in your voice, the warning.  But I was already gone.

I gave you a superficial farewell and hung up.  I heard my phone clatter to the floor, I didn't even put it down.  My hands were in the box puling out memories before I could think better of it.

After so many years of keeping her hidden, there she was.  Our entire time together in a box in the back of my closet, just waiting for me to open it and fall apart.

A picture of her smiling as she rode me piggy back, the light still bright in her eyes at that point.  Her and Sam and Chris and me all doing bunny rabbit ears to each other as we stood on the sidewalk in the fair.  That stupid elephant I won for her that night cause Sam was a shitty throw.  The necklace we got in that stupid novelty store- the FF of the BFF heart halves she said we had to get because it would be a novel thing to do.  Her favorite hoodie- still torn up and stained with her blood.

I sank back and looked over the contents of the box.  That stupid box that I'd shoved everything into after the accident so there wouldn't be any remnants of her to weaken me.  Cause I had to be strong.  Cause you weren't.

I should've gone through it.  Waiting all these years hadn't made it any easier to see, and waiting another decade wasn't going to help.  But I'd been keeping it together all this time on an idea.  The idea that I was the strong one, I was the rock.  And rocks don't crumble over old photographs and junk.

So I shoved the lid back on and pushed it back into the corner of the closet and closed the door.  Let the dust have it, I figured.  I've got cleaning to do.

W is for Whispers

Source: Kim Young Photography

"Will...?  Will, wake up," she whispered, nudging him gently as she crawled over to his side of the bed.

She could hear his breath- deep and even- warning her of his continued slumber.   She reached her arm across his chest and gently set it down, then settled her head on his shoulder.

"Will," she whispered more intently, giving him a push with her knee.

"Wha?" he mumbled, then took a sharp intake of breath as his hand grasped hers.  "What happened?  You ok?"

"Yeah, I'm fine, I'm fine," she said softly, rubbing his chest to soothe him.  "I just had a nightmare."

"Oh, no- no nightmares," he said, pushing his arm behind her and pulling her in for an embrace.

She wrapped herself around him and breathed in his scent.  His warmth on her cheek and his body under hers was reassuring and she felt more real from it.  He let his head rest on hers as he held her.

"What happened?" he sighed.

"Well, it was weird.  You were there but... you weren't really you, you know?  I mean, you were my husband, but you weren't you, if that makes any sense."

"Sure," he said, still groggy.

"And you were... you were mad at me for some reason."  She tried to remember the details of the dream but the past few minutes in the comfort of her own bedroom had chased the tenuous images away and now the harder she tried to concentrate on them the more vague and amorphous they became.

"I was mad at you?" he asked, snuggling in further as he fully awakened.

"Yeah, but I... I can't remember.  I just- I didn't like that you were mad at me.  Don't be mad at me," she said, and buried her face in his chest.

"No, sweetie- no.  I'm not mad at you," he rubbed her back as he held her and whispered "It's ok."

She wanted to explain to him how disturbing it had been but the dream had evaporated into the ether and left only the residue of strong emotion without origin.  She settled into him and let the emotion fade away.  As they lay there she sank into him and let her eyes close again.

"It's ok, sweetie, it's ok," he whispered. 

She mumbled something into his shirt about him being the best pillow and before long they both began to drift back to sleep.

V is for Voice

 

Source: Photojournale.com

"I used to think that, too.  But the thing you have to realize is there's no such thing as perfect.  And on any given day, you might not perform it the same.   So if you go out there and you make a mistake, it isn't that you screwed up or that you ruined it- that's just you.  There is no one else on the planet who can do it like you.  This is your opportunity to express yourself- your unique, one-of-a-kind expression of yourself.  This is your voice.  So speak up."

U is for Undercurrent

 

Source:  visualphotos.com

You said you were fine.

Told me "Really, I'm ok."

Trying to play it off like you'd been hardened beyond hurt

the last time.

But in the space between your words

there is an ocean of pain.

And it drowns out everything you say.

I can hear it in your voice-

the long pauses,

the hesitations.

And I can picture your eyes

haunted.

You sound so lost

and it all comes flooding back to me.

My frustration, my rage

my agony over watching you go through this

and not being able

to save you.

But in the end

all I can really say

is I love you.

And I'm sorry.

T is for Tower

 

Source: Me, taken at The CN Tower in Toronto

She exhaled, looked down, and froze.  She’d been dismissive standing in the queue downstairs.  Even disdainful, laughing at his attempt to cheer her.  Like seeing a view would fix things.  But standing there over a thousand feet above the ground, she couldn’t help but feel a little better.

“You know, I gotta hand it to you,” she said, folding her arms, “this is something.”

“Hey, at the very least you got outside today, right?” he said, putting an arm around her.

“Doesn’t fix anything, though.”

“I know” he said, pulling in her a little bit closer and sliding his other arm around her to enclose her in a sideways hug.  “But it helps.”

“Why is that?’ she wondered aloud, letting herself lean into him as she stood there staring down the endless expanse to the tower’s base.

He was quiet for minute and she looked over to see his mouth making that bemused expression that always reminded her of a little boy stomping his feet.  She smiled in spite of her mood, she couldn’t help it.

“I don’t know,” he finally said.  “Perspective, I guess.”

“Perspective, huh?”  She looked down again and let that feeling swallow her.  The one she got when moments like this happened.  Like so much more was possible than she could foresee from this point in her life.  And even though life was down there waiting for her with all of its problems and impassable barriers, she was meant for more.

“Feel better?” he asked, giving her a squeeze.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling.  “Thanks.”

S is for Snooze

 

Source: ABC News

 She heard the alarm go off and her hand shot out at it reflexively, hitting the snooze alarm before she had fully awoken.  She rolled over and forced her eyes open, looking at the display through a haze of sleep residue.  She had to get up, she knew.  Lying there wasn't going to make it any easier.

She peeled the covers back slowly, letting her arms test the air before forcing herself out of the warm cocoon of the bed.  But the cold air bit at her skin and sent her retreating into the safety and comfort of the blankets.

"Just get up" she chided herself, willing herself to throw off the covers and get on with the morning.

But then a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her into a backwards embrace.  Her body immediately curled into the shape of his.  His breath was warm on her skin and her legs sank backwards as if trying to cover every inch of his.  

Immediately she justified the decision with the logic that ten minutes more would not make her late to work, then drifted back to sleep in the cradle of him.

R is for the Road

 

Source: pleasant-hill-rd-stefernie-flickr-500x328

She looked over the map and pondered her next move.  North would take her up into the hills and likely some spectacular views.  South would bring her down to the the river front and the tranquility of the water's surface.  She glanced a view both ways and marveled at her good luck on the day.

She couldn't have chosen a more beautiful scene if she was painting it herself.  And this was just the beginning.

She opened the door to her busted old cadillac with the rusty bottom and it squeaked at her in protest.  The plastic seats had long tears in them, the carpet had darkened several shades from the gold it had been when he father first purchased it and there was a smell akin to barbecued skunk faintly wafting up from the back seat.  It was a dumpy vision if ever there was one.  But it ran.  And it would take her down the road to an endless list of places she'd only ever imagined visiting.

She slid the key into the ignition, patted the dash as she willed the old motor to turn over and sat back contentedly when it purred to life.  She had her car.  She had the road.  And, for the first time, she had the ability to determine her own path, all by herself.  It was all she needed.

Q is for Quilt

Source: Dianne Springer at Threads from My Head

She hesitated for a moment; scissors frozen above the silky fabric as her mind remembered the day.  She’d bought the dress herself after saving up for two years.  Her friends in the typing pool had teased her mercilessly.

“Why would you marry a farmer when you have all of these devastatingly handsome executives around?” they’d asked.  And warned “You can’t leave the city- you’ll die of boredom!” And chided “Are you really that old fashioned?  Live a little!”

But she’d told them she was meant to marry Edward Brown.  He was an honest, hard working man who would take care of her and their children.  No part of her had ever doubted the decision, not even after she moved out of the city and into Ed’s drafty house on the farm.

She looked out the window at the land stretching into the distance and saw the dust from Ed’s labor hovering above the field like an omen.  The long, harsh winter and dry summer had made the corn small, withered and pale.  They both knew that come harvest time they wouldn’t make enough from sale to be able to afford the lien.  The bank would have to foreclose on the farm.  If they could just make up for it the next season- which the almanac promised to be wet and fertile- they’d be able to pull out.  But without a miracle that would never be.

She thought on it and could almost picture the for sale sign being posted.  It was enough to break through the pause.

She took a deep breath and cut into the fabric.  Tears escaped from the corners of her eyes as she ripped apart the precious costume that had marked the day she entered into this life.  She allowed herself the temporary weakness, it was the first she’d been willing to give in all these long months.

As she went about her stitching she built up the pattern in her head.  With her best embroidery and this fabric she had hope she’d be able to make first prize in the county fair.  And then she’d be able to ask a price large enough, along with the with the sickly crops, to pay the lien and get their reprieve.  She could see it clearly in her thoughts and it made her fingers work quicker.

A sharp eruption of sound made her turn her head and put down her craft.  She walked over to the crib, the old floor boards creaking beneath her, and lifted the small bundle into her arms.  As she rocked her she wondered if she’d be mad that she wouldn’t have her mother’s dress to wear when she married.  

She’d dreamed about watching her only daughter walk down the aisle in it many times she’d had her; the one touch of female grace at the end of a line four boys.  But that was just a dream, reality had no interest in it.

“I don’t think you’ll understand it, not at first,” she lilted to the baby, her voice soft and soothing as she tried lull her back into a slumber.  “But someday you’ll have your own family, and then you’ll know.”

She continued to rock her as the sun began its decent outside the window, daydreaming about many more years on the farm that she and the boys and Ed would all enjoy together.  She let herself envision William working the farm himself, when she and Ed were old.  She let herself see Martin going to school with the money they’d get from healthy crops in years to come.  She let herself see the twins playing with Elizabeth in the fields and chasing the hens with the dog.  And she knew it was a sacrifice well made.

As she tucked her little girl back into the crib she placed a small kiss on her forehead.  Then she wiped her face and went back to work on the quilt that would buy her future.

P is for the Path

Source: Me, taken in Longwood Gardens

It was the perfect day.  The sun was shining, but not oppressively.  There was a slight breeze in the air making every single breath refreshing.  The birds in the trees around her were serenading her with their chatter.   But best of all, there was no one else around.

It seemed like a blip in reality at first- the park was never empty this time of the day.  Everyone wanted to get their morning run in before heading off to wherever their busy lives were taking them.  Normally she had to dodge and weave as she made her way along the path.  She relied on her ear buds to block out the world so she could keep moving.

But today was a miracle.  A gift all for her.  The park, the sounds, the light, the touch of the wind on her skin.  A perfect moment in time where there was nothing but her and the path.  

She closed her eyes and whispered “thank you” to whatever powers had blessed the day, then exhaled and ran on.

O is for Oasis

Source: Style With cents

Everywhere he looked, there were people.  Laughing at jokes that weren’t funny, smiling at people they didn’t like, flirting with those they thought they were supposed to.  It was a loud, colorful parade of every malice possible jammed into a ten by ten room and he was now trapped in it.

“I’m gonna go get us a couple a beers!” Marty yelled at him.  Even with his face no more than two inches from his and his voice raised to a higher volume than most opera singers he could barely here him over the din of bad music and idiots screaming at each other.

“Can we go?” he pleaded.  In the observation he’d taken in less than a minute he’d concluded there was nothing of value for him there.

“No way!  We just got here” Marty yelled at him.  “Besides, you promised you’d give it a shot.”

“I did!  I came- now I want to go!” He hated the very act of yelling and his skin was already itching with the need to go somewhere where he could speak in normal volumes.

“Look, I’m your ride and I’m not going yet.  You wanna walk home, go ahead.  If not, you’re staying and you might as well at least try to have fun!”  With that he waded into the mass of moving bodies and disappeared.

Morgan just stood there and stared after him, his mouth slightly open in shock.  He wondered what type of chemical was in the air to make his friend turn on him so.  Then he spotted him near a table littered with bottles trying to talk to a girl with a unnaturally red hair and realized: pheromones.  He cursed him and scanned the horizon for a way out.  In the far corner of the room was an entryway.  He only assumed it lead to a hallway and, god willing, a way out.

He pushed himself back up against the wall and tried to find a path around the room.  He tried to push past the party goers without making contact with any of the sweaty bodies but they were jumping and pushing and dancing against each other; making it impossible for him to make it through unscathed.

He finally made his way to the hall and was overwhelmed by the noise coming from the kitchen.  He pushed past the people hanging around there, not even bothering to look at the hilarity ensuing inside and searched for a doorway not crowded with people.

He was hot.  He was deaf.  He felt like he’d been thrown head-first into a mosh pit and spat out with both his dignity and self respect ripped from him in the process.  And he was positive that having witnessed this much discussed spectacle first hand he would be quite happy if he never went to another one in all his life.

He found a door in the hallway and without thinking opened it and ran inside.  His head got tangled in a cloud of various fabrics and he fell, unceremoniously, on his ass.  He pulled the jackets that landed on top of him off his head and immediately locked eyes with a girl he remembered from his chem lab- the one who always sat in the back.

They sat there, each in a pile of clothing they’d fallen into trying to escape the madness outside and stared at each other.  Then, as if on cue, they both started laughing harder than either had in a long, long while.

N is for Nest

Source: Science 2.0

It had taken him a while to notice it.  He wasn’t one of those helicopter parents, watching his child every single second, constantly pressuring him to be doing things.  When he got home from school it was with him if he wanted to go play outside, or watch a little tv, or whatever.  He and Sheila had sworn they weren’t going to be tyrants.  So long as the homework got done and they were home for diner, it all worked out.

But he’d finally started to pick up on the change.  Rather than going outside someday it seemed to be everyday.  Ben would announce his departure with a loud “Dad!  I’m going outside!” followed by a slammed door.  And then the quiet that could only come from not have a ten year-old in the house.  It had been great for in terms of getting work done, but unusual for Ben.  

He’d asked him, of course.  But the explanations of just playing in the treehouse seemed off.  Especially with his best friend Steve on vacation.  He’d talked to Sheila about it, too.  But she was incredulous.

“Do you really want to look a gift horse in the mouth?  He’s outside, playing like young boys are supposed to.  This is a good thing.”

But his curiosity was piqued.  He couldn’t help it.

So the next time he heard the call, he want to their bedroom to watch him go out the back.  Ben crept into the backyard cautiously.  Not quite tip-toed, but definitely like he was trying to avoid being noticed.  He stopped at the tree, looked around, and then crept around the back of it the woodland that lay behind their property.

That was all he needed to see.  He ran downstairs, out the back door, and raced after him.  He’d left close enough behind that it wasn’t long before he saw him.

“Ben!’ he called, running up to him.  “Hey buddy, where’re you going?”

“Da-ad- you’re not supposed to be here!” he admonished him.

“Why?” he asked, slightly out of breath and remembering how long it had been since he got on the treadmill.

“Because,” he said, his voice quieting, “you might scare her.”

“Scare who?” he whispered, kneeling next to his son and looking around.

“The bird.”

“What bird?” he asked.

Ben sighed exasperatedly and folded his arms.

All he could do was kneel there, trying not to look untrustworthy. 

“Fine- but you can’t tell anybody, ok?” Ben cautioned, waving a finger threateningly at him the same hat Sheila did.  It was one of those exact mimcs that should have been endearing but was just creepy.

He made into a grasping shape, held them up to his mouth, turned, and then threw the invisible key to the side.

Ben nodded, and motioned for him to follow. He lead him deeper into the growth, past the thicket of trees and into the tall grasses that lead down to the brook.  He mentally chastised himself for not keeping a closer eye on him, and a strong reminder to check both of them for ticks when they got back.  Ben was perfectly unaware of the dangers and walked on with purpose.

“Ok, ok- be really careful,” he said, holding a handout to stop his father from advancing and then carefully stepping down the incline. 

He followed him one step at time, then nearly lost his footing when a large twig snapped under his weight.

“Dad!” Ben yelled, turning on him with an accusatory glare.

He held his hands up, nodding, then took the next step slowly; feeling for sure footing before letting his weight drop.  Ben kept on until they reached a flat spot in the grass.

“Ok,” he said, “just stay there.” He pointed at him again, the same warning finger, and set his backpack down in the grass.  He squatted down and started rummaging through the grass.  He was being very cautious, turning over longer pieces as if they were fragile pieces if art.

He stood frozen in his spot, concentrating on maintaining balance in his uneven perch while leaning over to see.  Ben pushed aside the branches of some green, leafy plant and gasped excitedly.  “Look!” he said, pointing down.

He couldn’t see what he was pointing to.  Slowly, carefully, he squatted, then let himself fall back onto his butt and half slid, half stepped down.

“Be careful!” Ben hissed at him.

He pulled some grasses and uprooted a couple of weeds along the way but he made it down to where Ben was looked, and looked over his shoulder.

“I thought they might’ve hatched by now,” Ben said, a slight tinge of disappointment in his voice.

“Where’s their mom?” he asked, smiling at the discovery.

“I don’t know.  I’ve been bringing her crickets,” he said, and pulled out a Chinese food take-out container with what looked like dead insects inside.  He wondered how long it had taken him to find the bugs.

“Well, “ he said, sliding his arm around his son as they knelt in the grass, “I’m sure she’ll be happy you came.”

M is for Mom, The Monster Hunter

Source: Off The Leash s.p.

It began as a slight tug at her feet.  Then a whisper in the darkness.  Finally she smelled the familiar scent and it made her open her eyes.

“Mom…?”

She sat up in bed, touched the lamp on her table and looked at her daughter.  “What’s wrong sweetie, did you have a nightmare?”

“I think there’s a monster under my bed- I saw its eyes…”

Shelly was visibly shaken, her purple bunny wrapped tight in her arms and tears in the corners of her eyes.  She hugged her, rubbing her back and said “Ok, sweetie, we’ll go take a look, ok?”

She glanced over at him as she pulled herself from the warmth of the covers.  A muffled snore let her know he’d be sleeping through another nocturnal adventure.  She pushed her feet into her slippers and shuffled after her daughter who was insistently tugging her by the hand.

She stifled a yawn as she was lead down the hallway.  Shelly doubled round behind her and was pushing her forward to the door.  The dim room looked disheveled in the pale glow from her nightlight and turning on the overhead let her know it was time for a real cleaning.  The fact that she’d pulled up all the sheets in her sleep made it look even worse.

“Well, sheesh- with all these toys and clothes on the floor it’s no wonder you’d be scared…”

“What?” Shelly asked, peering around her.

“Any one of these could look like a scary gary at night when you’re trying to sleep,” she teased as she kicked a small pile of clothes out of the way.

“Mo-om- that’s not it!  There was a real monster under there!  I saw it, I told you I saw it!”

“Ok, ok” she said as she braced herself on the bed.  She moaned as her knees settled onto the hard floor and she made a mental note to kneel on the clothing next time.  She bent over, and squinted into the darkness under her bed.  She saw the source of the monstrous eyes her daughter had reported and smiled.  “Yup, I see the problem.”

“What?!” Shelly asked behind her, holding her bunny up as a shield.

“These monster are very crafty,” she said, reaching for a shirt on the floor behind her.  “But they can be lured out pretty easily…” She threw a sleeve under the bed and started scooting it out again.  “Sphss, sphss, sphss…”

“What are you doing?” Shelly asked, then let out a loud yelp as a black furred arm popped out from under the bed.  She jumped back, then saw the beast the arm belonged to and laughed.  “Phantom!” she angrily yelled at the cat, laughing all the while.

“You evil beast you,” she cooed at the cat, scooting the sleeve along the bed, just out of reach of his claws.  “Maybe next time we’ll check to make sure he’s not in here before we close your door, huh?”

Shelly walked over and settled into her mother’s lap, watching the game with undisguised joy.  “No,” she said, giggling at the cat, “It’s ok.  Just don’t scare me anymore!”

Phantom let out a fiendish mew as he chased the proffered sleeve letting them know he had no such intention.

L is for Lips

 Source: Emely Photography

His lips dipped down at the edges throughout the duration of their first date. The worry, tension and firm belief that every word he spoke would make a complete and total fool of him pulling down the corners of his smile. His lips were perpetual motion machines of ill ease.

His lips laughed in gratitude as she cracked the first joke and smiled brightly when her sense of humor turned out to be just as sick and twisted as his. His lips froze in a goofy grin as the initial feelings grew, displaying his infatuation to the world.

His lips whistled mindlessly as he dealt with the days dealing at work, carelessly recalling the little details that would form the foundation of their love affair. His lips shot insults in response to the teasing of his co-workers and grinned maliciously as he refused to disclose the details of the evening.

His lips grabbed at hers with the hunger and ferocity that can only come from having endured a really long dry spell, and then frowned when further advances were rejected. His lips whispered small prayers that she would give in soon as he tried to sleep at night.

His lips let out the groans of pleasure when the relationship was finally consummated, and relaxed in way that he hadn’t in longer than he could remember during the afterglow. His lips whispered the three little words that would confirm her growing suspicions so soon after.

His lips expressed concern for her well being, smiled at her grace, froze at her toughness. His lips displayed a firm commitment to the life they were building together and espoused the dreams they shared.

His lips made promises for better times when life’s inevitable tide turned and grew stiff at the edges as his smile faded. His lips gravitated towards the rigid line they would hold as he pressed on through hurt feelings and daily annoyances.

His lips spat bile towards the object of his affection when the plans were interrupted and refused to offer any show of support to her attempts at reconciliation. His lips held that firm, immovable line as her tearful apologies went unheard.

And in the end, his lips had just a few more wrinkles and lines around the edges than they had before. Signs of the events which had taken place, sediments in the landscape.

K is for Key

 

Source: E How

Mitch had never let him into his room before so after dinner when he nonchalantly invited him up he didn’t hesitate.  But he couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at Sherrie as he passed her.  She smiled at him, careful to face away from her son’s retreating form.  They both knew this was big.

He quietly followed him up the stairs, almost holding his breath in anticipation.  It had been 8 months since Sherrie had brought him home to finally meet her son and he’d sworn to himself that he was going to be laid back about it.  He never pressured him in anything, never forced an interaction.  When he sat silent and brooding at dinner he’d try one, maybe two questions about school or a project he was working on and then drop it.  He’d endured the silent treatment over countless dinners.  He’d ignored the many eye rolls Mitch overtly gave him when he discussed his job, which he’d said was “So-o-o boring”.  He’d never lost his temper, never accused him of being harsh.  He knew that if he was going to get in it would be because he let him in and nothing would make that process any shorter than he wanted it to be.

Now as Mitch pushed open the door covered in stickers and hand-drawn “Do not enter” signs he felt like he was being admitted into an exclusive club.  Mitch walked inside, flipped the light switch on the wall and sat down at his desk.  The walls were nearly covered with posters, framed pictures, and book shelves.  He wanted to look around, take in every detail.  But Mitch was bent over a drawer at his desk, pulling out a box, and he knew he had to be interested in only what he’d brought him there to show him.  He walked over to the corner where his desk sat and stood, waiting to be invited to sit down or whatever he may want him to do.

“You can sit on the bed,” Mitch said over his shoulder.

He looked over at the bed which was covered in a rather thick layer of clothing, books and a few assorted magazines.  He hesitated for a second, unsure what was ok to sit on and what wasn’t.  He settled for a perch on the edge where a bare patch of comforter shone through the tangle of shirts and blue jeans.

Mitch spun around in his chair to face him with a large postal box in his lap.  He didn’t say anything, but simply waited to be invited to look at his treasure.  

“So,” Mitch said, pulling open the lid and shifting the box forward, “these are my keys.”

He looked in and gasped, he couldn’t help it.  He’d never seen so many keys in one place, not even at the hardware store.

“Wow…” he said, allowing his awe to fill his face as he looked over the mass of cut metal pieces and plastic rings.

“You can touch ‘em if you want,” Mitch said.

He reached out and picked up a large, golden key with an layered base and long flat edge on the side.  He brought it up close to his face and looked at it closely.  “Where did you get all these?”

“Some of ‘em I found- just on the street near the bus stop or on the light rail.  Most of ‘em mom gave to me from the junk yard,” he said, pushing keys around as he explained their origins.  “I actually bought a big box of them online, but that was before I was really serious about it.”

He kept turning the key over in his fingers, pondering the burning question but unwilling to ask it.  Mitch’d tell him if he wanted.  If not, he’d wait for another day.

“You wanna know why I collect them?” Mitch asked, his hair hanging in his face the way it did when he was defensive.

He smiled at him and nodded, just once.

“I like to think about what they are, you know?  Like, these aren’t keys, really.  They’re like, dreams and stuff,” he said, keeping his head down.  He picked up a key with a small square base and held it up.  “Like this is the key to the lock on somebody’s shed where they keep their lawnmower and every Saturday they’ll open it up and mow the grass so their kids can play on it.”

He placed the key back on the pile gently, as if it would break, and picked up another.  “And this is the spare key that someone gave to their new girlfriend so she could come stay at his apartment sometimes.  And they could, like, sit on the couch and eat Chinese food while watching horror movies, you know?  And this was someone’s first car- the first time they had the freedom to go somewhere without planning it out.  And it would take them to, like, a million places they’d never been before, all just on their own, cause they could.”

With each key his eyes grew a little distant as if he were recalling an image, a place, a memory. 

“And this one,” he said, taking the key from his hand and holding it up as it were a holy item, “this was a young couple’s first house.  The one they moved into after the baby was born.  The one where they’d mark his height on the doorframe of the kitchen and put up a nightlight so that he wouldn’t be scared of the dark…”

There was moisture in the corner of Mitch's eye and he looked down again, embarrassed.  He wanted to comfort him, to tell him that his family wasn’t gone, it was just changing.  But he wouldn’t undermine him that way, he’d earned his sadness.

He let him sit with his head down, gauging the moment in silence.  Then quietly, softly he said “This is seriously cool, Mitch.”

Mitch looked up at him suddenly, a quizzical look on his face, like he was surprised.

He just smiled wider at him.

“You know,” he said, looking down at his box of dreams, “you’re pretty cool, too.”

He resolved to buy the ring he’d been eyeing for Sherrie right there and then.

J is for Jack

Source: Color Up Poker

"That was your rent money."

He wasn't sure where the voice came from or why he hadn't heard it before... before he lost his ability to afford a place to live.  What the hell?  How could he have let it get so bad?  How was he going to get out of this?

He did his best to try to calm himself- he was sure that veins popping out of his forehead and a glean of sweat would be sure-fire signs to the others to be as merciless as possible when it came time to call.  But his heart wouldn't stop its fight to escape from his chest and his shirt suddenly felt like it was made of molten lead.  Maybe he could fold and explain what had happened and they'd let him go...

He hazarded as casual a glance as he could manage around the table.  Chris was the only person he knew even in passing and he was, if he was really honest about it, kind-of a dick.  And none of the other players looked like the kind of people you'd want to owe money to, for any reason.  Chris had warned him, he remembered.

"These guys are tough, man- seriously," he'd said.  But by that point he'd already downed a few beers and a high-stakes poker game seemed like the best way to possibly spend an evening.  How he could be so stupid?

"Please God," he thought to himself, "please just get me out of this and I swear- I promise you, I will never gamble again."

The next card slid in front of him and he looked at it.  A jack of diamonds.  He looked at his cards again- he already had a jack of hearts in there.  If he got another... but three of a kind wasn't going to get him out of this.  Not with these guys.

Maybe if he just folded and then tried again with another hand.  But looking at his chips let him know that after the buy-in he'd have nothing to raise with.  Shit.  He felt the room getting heavy, the air harder to breathe.  There was no way they didn't know he had nothing.

He handed over the three cards in his hand which threatened to destroy his existence and was glad to be rid of them.  He didn't know what he was hoping for, really.  Luck, that was pretty much it.

The first card came.  He grabbed it, unable to play it cool.  Jack of clubs.  Oh my god- maybe...

He held his breath without realizing it and his entire body froze.  The next card came and then the next.  He couldn't move, couldn't reach out his hand to look.  This was it- make or break, triumphant or devastated.  He reached out his hand as if trying to not to be seen by anyone and pulled the cards in.  He looked at them.  A three of hearts and... the jack of spades. 

He didn’t dare let himself move or smile or even look up.  He kept his head and down and prayed.  “Please let that be enough.  Please let that be enough…”

The dealer made the call and the cards were shown.  A full house.  Two pair, aces high.  A flush, diamonds.  And three of a kind.  He turned over his cards and silence fell over the room.

“Screw you, man!” Chris yelled at him.

All the breath went out of his body and he slumped backwards into the chair.  He’d made it.  Thank you, God.

Chris pushed the pile of chips at him, rather than let him collect them and immediately started to deal again.  He put his hand out to protest but then thought “Can’t cash out immediately- they’ll be mad.  Just fold a couple of times and then you can leave.”

He picked up the card and looked at it.  Ace of diamonds.  Well, maybe he could play one more hand…

I is for Identity

Source:  lindseywildcat

She wasn't the needle in her arm.
But that's what they made her out to be.
She wasn't the unwilling prostitute.
But that's what they saw.
She wasn't the virus in her blood.
She wasn't the scars on her arms or thighs. 
She wasn't the homeless shelter runaway.

But she didn't know who she was.
So she couldn't tell them.

H is for Hymnal

 

Source: Me, taken in Glencairn Museum

They sang the songs of the savior.  They sang the songs of the dead.  They sang the songs of the beginning and the songs of the end.  They sang the songs of triumph and those begging for protection when the strength of their faith was tested.  They sang together and their voices rose up until the heavens themselves caught fire with their songs and burned with their devotion.

But they were only men, not immortals.  They could not carry the songs forever.  And as they died their voices died with them and their songs were etched into their talismans which were buried with them to carry them safely to salvation.

As the years turned into centuries their voices and the power of their songs were forgotten.  Their language died as all those who spoke it moved onto the afterlife; leaving only the symbols of their faith behind them.

But the incense still marked the pages of their scriptures and their songs were still there for all to see.  And the reverent maintained them in their chapels and cathedrals as testaments to what was.