New Leaf

"Littlest Things" - Lily Allen



Paris, Autumn 2013.

It is late in the afternoon.  A bus approaches, and at a nearby stop, a woman sweeps her hair back and adjusts the sling to her messenger bag.  With a loud hiss, the door slides open in front of her.  She quickly steps inside the bus, passes the ticket to the driver, and walks to a seat several rows down.

Turning her body towards the opened window, she sinks deeper into her seat.  She lifts her face to the wind and finds its coolness a nice contrast to the warmth underneath her jacket.  She takes in a view of her favorite city—a beautiful mixture of faces, shapes, and colors that blurs and sharpens according to the bus’ speed.

The sight of a young couple kissing catches her eyes, prompting images from ten years past to flash before her eyes.  Clasped fingers and matching gold rings... Honeymoon suites and rumpled sheets... Slow kisses on street corners, and sweet, sentimental gestures.  Moments belonging only to those who believe that true love never dies.

The bus slows down near her destination: a massive steel structure that looms over her as she steps out from her ride into the sidewalk.  A place where memories past and present collide.  She knows what comes next.  Remembrance of a familiar face behind a camera, beckoning her to smile at this very place.

Her feet continues their steps across the pavement, under the shadow of the tower towards the open grounds beyond.  The air is colder now and the wind stronger.  Her eyes focuses on the trees ahead, their golden leaves glimmer against the setting sun.

The phone in her hand rings.  She picks it up, already knowing who the caller is.

“I see you,” she can hear the smile in his voice.

In the distance, a figure holding a phone in his hand comes into view.  Smiling back, she shakes her head, the last remnants of her past disappearing as love’s new face replaces the old.

She whispers softly to the wind, one last farewell to a bygone romance: “I’ve loved you. I always will.”

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt: First, find the song that will be played during the pivotal scene in the movie based on your magnum opus. With that song playing, write that pivotal scene – it’s your choice whether you write it as a screen play or as it’s played out in your novel.  Feel free to embed the song to your blog post . . . you have 300 words

Playing Dress Up

This week's RemembeRed prompt: With Halloween approaching, many of us are revisiting fond memories of trick-or-treating, favorite candy, and parties. For Tuesday, reach back to a costume that made an impression. Was it yours? A friend’s? Maybe it was a costume you never got to wear. Show it to us with your words, draw us into the emotions it evoked at the time.  Word limit is 400.

 

One minute we were Sweaty, Lips, and Mouthy; the next, we were Queen of Hearts, Pink Pirate, and Red Riding Hood.  Bought just days earlier, the costumes were corny, not to mention a little slutty.   Compliments of last minute shopping for the Halloween.

"I can't believe I'm wearing this sh*t," Mouthy said as she tied the cherry-red cape around her neck.

Lips had just finished wriggling her legs into a pair of black tights.  “Whew,” she puffed.  She took one look at Mouthy and burst out laughing.

"What?" Mouthy demanded.

"What’s a Playboy sign doin’ on your cape?" Lips chuckled.

"What the f*ck?!?  Did you see this?!?" Mouthy pointed to the small white bunny emblem on her cape that we didn't notice before.

We looked like a couple of boffos.  Hands still shaking from mirth, I attempted to draw a perfect heart shape on my lips with a bright red lip liner.

"Dang, my armpits are sweating.  Where’s the deodorant?" Lips took off her velvet pirate coat.  It was bubblegum pink with gold trimmings and white lace on the collar and sleeves.  A criss-cross of gold ribbons decorated the front.

"Mouthy, your boobs are about to pop out of your corseted top. How do you manage to make every outfit look x-rated?" Lips chuckled.

"Shut up, Lips," Mouthy replied then looked at herself in the mirror.  "Sheeeeit, we look like skanks.  Sweaty, I'm SO blaming you for making us do this!"

We howled again.

"Come on, it's fun... Besides, I'm wearing this... um, milkmaid slash Queen of Hearts costume ain’t I?  You’re not the only ones who’re embarrassing yourselves," I giggled.

Two black arches now covered my natural eyebrows.  The same shade of deep sky blue as my dress rimmed my eyes.  I’ve drawn lines below my eyes, the same way circus clowns did theirs, to resemble eyelashes.  At the corner of my left eye were two black tears, shaped like upside-down hearts.

"How do I look?" Mouthy asked.

Her short dress, white covered with red lace, resembled a piece of lingerie more than a Halloween costume.  The white legging she wore toned it down a bit, but she still looked like Hugh Hefner's version of Red Riding Hood.

Lips grabbed the camera as Mouthy pretended to curtsy.  They took turns posing in front of the camera.

"Sweaty, you done yet? Get your butt over here!!" Mouthy yelled.

Adjusting my wig to fit more securely on my head, I paused to savor the moment.  I heard the clicking of the camera accompanied by flash lights.  Lips and Mouthy chortling like a couple of school kids high on sugar.  I was happy.

"Coming!" I answered.

TOY, My Love

This week’s Red Writing Hood prompt:  Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.  Your text must elicit or express fear.

 

Just in case you're not familiar with text message shorthands:

• F2F: Face to face
• TOY: Thinking of you

Personal Ad

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt:  We want you to write a personal ad for your character, like one you would find on a dating site.  Make it interesting, unexpected.  Is there something your character is trying to hide that you can tell by reading between the lines?  Would we know which character it was (if you have a recurring one) by reading the ad?  Will something be revealed?  If you are going to do creative non-fiction, write an ad for a friend – or an enemy.  And we’d like you to do it in 300 words or less.

Okay, so obviously (and I do hope it's obvious) I'm NOT writing about myself here.  I chose to write a personal ad for 'an enemy.'  While the above character was inspired by someone I know (yep, I'm evil), please note that this personal ad is purely fictional.   Please don't hold me liable if for some reason you think it's you.

Most Likely To... Fall Head Over Heels (Red Writing Hood version)

This week's prompt: to explore romantic heartbreak. For you fiction writers, here’s a chance to really delve into the psyche of your character. For you non-fiction folk, well, maybe it’s into your psyche you must delve. We all remember that first love, just like we all remember when our hearts broke for the first time.  Write a piece – 600 word limit – about the first heartbreak your character or you experienced.

Note:  A short while ago I wrote a post, titled Most Likely to Fall Head Over Heels, which is part of a series of posts titled Most Likely To..., that tell the story of my life.  When I read this week's prompt, I wanted to write a new post, but at the end, I chose to submit a revised, shortened version of Most Likely To Fall Head Over Heels.  I thought, not only would it be repetitive to write about the same subject (my first heartbreak, that is) twice, but the original post described what I felt perfectly and I would not have it written in any other way.

Leigh and I were the last to arrive at the meeting place. I literally had to keep biting my lips to keep myself from blurting stupid things like, "I love you, Ash. Will you be mine??" Right away I knew where he stood in that room. I could've spotted him from a mile a way, in a sea of a thousand other faces. I felt a smile escaping from my lips when he finally saw me.

And then I saw his hand. It was holding someone else's hand.

I wanted to hate her, but damn it, she was so nice. Truly, sincerely nice. And it wasn’t her fault I fell in love with her boyfriend. Still, it felt like somebody ripped my ribcage open, threw my heart on the floor, then stomped it to pieces.

I couldn't believe Ash had a girlfriend.

What hurt the most, was that I actually got to talk to Ash that night. Really talked. About nothings and everything. We sat next to each other on the bar while everybody else were on the dance floor. The loud music meant we had to whisper in each others’ ears so that the other could hear.

Being that close to him took my breath away. I noticed how his eyes crinkled at the ends whenever he laughed. How his voice reverberated in my ear and how his lips were only a few inches away from mine... How I caught him looking at me and then looked away as soon as our eyes met...

And so I fell even deeper. Even though I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help it. I wanted that voice, that laughter, that person who listened and told me stories as we sat there just the two of us on that bar. I wanted him. I didn’t want that night to ever end.

But it did. We were still talking, oblivious to the world around us, when Ash's girlfriend suddenly came into view. I had forgotten about her, and now she’s back from the dance floor, reminding me all over again that I was intruding on someone else’s territory.

We all went home shortly afterwards; most of the guys were already trashed and the girls were complaining that their feet were starting to hurt from all the dancing on killer heels. I could see that Leigh was in her happy place: sober enough to behave, but not likely to notice my absence from the dance floor earlier.

Good, I wasn’t in the mood to explain anyways.

Just as I was about to climb into Leigh’s car, I saw that Ash turned his head around and looked in my direction. My heart did a little flip, but the sight of his girlfriend walking alongside him blew me back to reality. I quickly averted my eyes and went inside the car.

I told myself I wasn’t going to see him again. Seeing him would only hurt me more because I knew I would fall deeper in love the more I knew him. Could this 'love' be any more one-sided?!? Afterall, Ash had a girlfriend, and I didn’t see him dumping her anytime soon. Especially for someone like me.

I cried when I got home that night. I cried for days after that. I kept telling myself that I was an idiot of the highest caliber, because why cry for someone whom I had only met twice, talked for a total of three hours at most, and had a girlfriend!

Leigh asked me to go hang out with Ash and his brother again a few more times after that night. I always came up with some excuse not to go. She started to give me these funny looks, but I didn't care. My heart was broken. I felt broken.

Then, three weeks later, I got a phone call.

It was Ash.

----------------------------------------------------

**You can read the original, extended version of Most Likely To... Fall Head Over Heels here.

I Used To Love You, But Now I Hate You

Jeans. They can evoke so much emotion in us: the hot jeans we wear on a date, the skinny jeans we can finally fit into, mom jeans we vow never to wear, the comfy jeans we’ll never throw out.  The assignment this week is to write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – in which jeans play a prominent role.  You can even write an ode if you’re so inclined.  Word limit is 600.

I remembered the days when jeans used to be the one thing I couldn't live without. I could wear jeans morning, afternoon, and night.  I felt that I always looked good in jeans.  Needless to say, I hearted jeans.

Fast forward twelve short years later, if there is one thing in my wardrobe that I hate the most, it is jeans. Nowadays, I cringe whenever I open up my closet and see the section where I put all my jeans.  My hatred increases exponentially in regards to my weight.  Whenever I feel skinny, the hatred waters down into a mere dislike.  The opposite and my hatred would quickly grow into loathing.

It doesn't matter what kind of jeans it is--skinny, bootleg, flare, straight-leg, low-waist, high-waist--trying to close the only gawddang button on that thing is already enough to inspire a panic attack.  I swear, it used to be a smooth, simply slip-on kind of thing! 

Okay, I admit, maybe a bit of wiggle-wiggle.  No biggie.

Now?  No amount of jumping up and down, lying-down while buttoning, sucking my breath until my lungs were on fire, would make the whole process any easier.  My biceps got muscle aches just from trying to pull the two bloody ends together.  Not to mention the raw blisters on my thumbs.

And on the few times that I managed to actually button it up, surprise-surprise, the job's not done yet!  I had to manually tuck in a few inches worth of "love handles" (aka "fat" in my dictionary) into whatever invisible space left between the jeans and my bunched up skin.  Which by then would have started to show ugly crease lines from having been forced into something that's way too tight.

Huffin' and puffin', I would then look at the general result, shudder at the possibility of my jeans bursting at the seams, and then went on to worry about choosing a top that's loose enough to camouflage whatever blop left on the top of my waistline and yet still shapey enough to give the illusion that yes, I have a waist.

No belts were necessary.  There's no way the jeans would ever slide down, what with all those skin I've tucked in underneath the waistline.

Whoever said that the longer you wore your jeans, the less snug it would feel... YEAH, RIGHT!  If you keep wearing it for the next six months without washing it, maybe.  But I'm a mommy, so I don't have the luxury of not washing my jeans for the next six months.  My daughter likes to hug me and she's only come up to my waist.  I don't want her to catch any unwanted critters that might reside on my unwashed-for-six-months pair of jeans. 

So let me tell you what happens during the times I've managed to button up my jeans.  I would've thought the thing couldn't feel any tighter, right?  As soon as I sat down, I felt like I had just been punched in the guts.  Slowly but surely I could feel all those extra loose skin I had so painstakingly tucked in started to unravel and escape from the confines of my jeans.  I could even feel the spilling skin folding over and touch the metal coldness of my jean's button.  I would look down and see the slowly expanding and multiplying folds of skin underneath my loose top.  At which point I would then take a handful of Tums because I would be getting a serious case of heartburn from all that pressure on my tummy.

Multiply the whole experience above three folds once you drink a glass full of water, and five folds once you're through with appetizer.  By dessert, I would have to unbutton that damn button, which feels better than orgasm at that point, and breathe a long sigh of relief.  That feeling is short-lived, however, once I realize I've got to button the whole thing (the extra skin, the f*cking love handles, plus the appetizer, main course, and dessert) up again before getting up from my seat.  I tried walking around with my jeans unbuttoned once, but I ended up looking like I had grown a d*ck, which was not exactly the look I was going for--ever.

Despite owning a complete collection of jeans that encompasses three four different sizes, the whole thing that I described above?  Happened the last time I tried on the largest size I got.

Death by Fart

This week’s assignment was simple: write a story of your choice. The catch? Write it as a tweet. Use only 140 characters – including spaces.

 

“Death resulted from accidental fire caused by fart.” 

I never handled such a case before, but someone had. Trembling, I dialed her number.

A writing prompt by:

 

The (Spy) James Who Loved Me

The assignment:

This week, we gave you the beginning and the end of the story – sometimes the very places we get stuck – and asked you only to come up with the middle.
You were to start your piece with “We had to leave immediately” and end it with “And then we realized we were already home.”  Limit is 600 words.

The Spy James Who Loved Me


We had to leave immediately.

James quickly cut the restraints on my arms and feet.  The concrete door that had locked me from the outside world was now a mangled pile of rubble.  The light and smoke from the hole on the wall stung my eyes, having been accustomed to the dark for so long.

James scooped me up from my fetal position on the filthy floor into his strong arms.  I wanted to say something, but my mind felt disconnected from my body.  All I could think of was how good it felt to be that close to James.  He smelled like bourbon and gunpowder; the latter roused me out of my dream-like stupor back to the situation at hand.

We had to get out--alive.

I tried to gather my surroundings, but lifting my head sent it spinning, and everything went blurry.  My eyes only caught glimpses: of sparks coming from charred wires hanging above, crimson bodies scattered like ragged dolls, and cement walls with no windows in sight.

I knew James was moving as fast as he could, but deadly bullets continued to close in on us.  The roar of machine guns and voices shouting in a language I didn't recognized echoed from every direction.  Metallic smell of fresh blood saturated the air.  Panic started to unfold from deep within me, making me nauseous.

Sensing my distress, James tightened his hold of me and said, “I’m here, Sweaty sweetheart… I’m here.”  As always, his voice did wonders to my body.  I wished we were somewhere else, ripping at each other’s clothes, tasting and pleasuring our bodies into sexual oblivion, instead of being in this hell hole!

We reached an emergency staircase where the air smelled like sweat and piss.  We were climbing up the stairs when I heard a loud snap.  James stumbled, but quickly regained his footing.  I lifted my hand to gently caress his jaw, silently thanking him for risking his own life to save mine.  I didn’t realize I was crying until I tasted saltiness on my lips.  James, I love you.

James suddenly spun around, in his right hand was his beloved Walther PPK semi-automatic pistol.  He fired at our chasers below, then aimed upwards and fired some more.  Two bodies fell off from the railings above.

James continued upward towards the rooftop.  I wiped the tears from my cheeks using the back of my hand, only to find it smeared with blood.  That’s when I noticed the growing red stain underneath James’ tuxedo.  He’d been hit.

“James, let me go. I’m slowing you down,” I managed to say.

“I’m not leaving you behind. Miles better get that helicopter ready for when we reach the top.”

Just when I thought we would never reach it, we saw the opening to the rooftop. Outside, we saw the helicopter, its rotor blades sending swirls of dust and debris our way. James moved sideways to shield me from the headwind.  Let’s go home, James…

I felt another pair of arms taking me away from James, but I didn’t want to leave his side.  I kicked and screamed for James, but I was too weak to put up much of a fight.  Then I heard a shot and saw James fell down on his knees.  His eyes were looking straight at me, his lips forming the words “I love you.”

And then all hell broke loose.

Bratatata

Bratatatatatatatatata….

On my TV screen, Daniel Craig—in his James Bond tuxedo--was being chased by the bad guys with machine guns.  I had fallen asleep watching Casino Royale.  I couldn’t believe it was only a dream… I was totally enjoying my role as James Bond’s girlfriend!   We were fighting to get home...

And then I realized we were already home :)

All Because of Photography

This is my attempt at fiction based on The Red Dress Club's Red Writing Hood prompt:

Write a short fiction or non-fiction piece inspired by any or all of the photo below. Word limit: 400 words.

All Because of Photography

Bloody hell, how do you use these things?  Those photography blogs made it look so easy!  So easy that I was stupid enough to tell him that photography was my ‘thing’ and thought I could get away with it. 

But how else could I get his attention?  We’ve passed each other at least a few dozen times on the way to class.  He never gave me any sign he was aware of my existence!  I was beginning to feel hopeless when finally… FINALLY…I ran into him while running errands for my dad. 

He was looking at some photography magazines.  Quick, think of something!  I made my way towards him, cleared my throat and said, “Excuse me, can you pass me that magazine there?”  The magazine that ‘happened’ to be directly in front of him. 

When he looked up, I swore I had stopped breathing.  I tried to look calm—as if meeting a 6’2” gorgeous hunk with eyes as blue as that shoes I just bought at H&M was nothing out of the ordinary.  His eyes widened with recognition, his lips smiled the smile I had dreamt of for, oh, a zillion times.

“Hey, don’t we go to the same school?”

I said, “Really…?  Now that you’ve mentioned it…”

“Did you want this magazine over here?”  He passed me the magazine I had asked earlier.

“Um, yeah, thanks.”

“Are you into photography?  If you are, that’s awesome!  I don’t know many girls who’re into photography.”  He looked at me expectantly.

“Well yeah, but I don’t usually tell people about it…” Oh my God, tell me I didn’t just say that!

“Cool!  Listen, I go to the park on Sundays with my camera.  Wanna join me?”

My big mouth answered, “Sure, that would be fun.” 

“Here, give me your number, and I’ll call you to confirm time and place?”

I gave him my phone number.

“Sorry, I didn’t get your name…” Oh.My.God, he blushed!!!

“It’s Rose.  But my friends call me Rosie.”

“Nice to meet you, Rosie.  I’m Gabe.”  I know.

“Hi, Gabe.”  I was SO going to melt into a puddle right there.

I deliberately made my way to the cashier, paid for the magazine.  I was going to exit the door when he called out, “I’ll call you!”

I did not reply, just waved back at him like the cool girl that I was.

Well, that’s how I got into the mess I’m in right now.  Not only had I spent all my savings on buying not one, but two cameras, but I also had no idea on how to use them, even after spending hours trying to understand those useless manuals. Sh*t, sh*t, sh*t, what am I going to do??? 

To My Unborn Child

Did you feel that, Unborn Baby?
That's my heartbeat.  My love.
My life.
Did you see that, My Dear?
For all the could have beens.
My tears.

I've met you deep in the recesses of my dreams
I held you in my arms til you're asleep

You're my joy that will never be
The laughter that soon turns to debris

Did you hear that, Winter Sky?
That's your name.  My pride.
My breath.
Did I not speak of you enough?
All that lay within.  Those years.
My fears.

I never thought of you not ever being
A little too late now for my pleas

Did you know that, Unseen Child?
You're alive. Here. In my life.

My Happy Ending

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt is to spread a little joy and write about happy endings.  Obviously, I sucked big time, as you can see from my friend's Shanimals' Crackers' comment below.  LOL.

I waited for him in the rain, beneath the sequoia tree.  With my eyes closed and my hands locked in prayer.  He told me he's leaving on a trip to no-man's land; who knew when--if--he's coming back.

There was the sun, and then the moon.  But it kept on raining where I stood.  Beneath the sequoia tree, where last he said goodbye.  Away he went, without a backward glance, on a trip to no-man's land.

Love stood by, but he kept on walking.  He had forgotten, you see.  About our sequoia tree.  That's why, he said, "don't wait for me.  Let's say goodbye, for it's dawn, and I'm gone to no-man's land."

But I knew the day would come when Thy Will be done.  He'd still be gone but I won't want.  Where wings would fly and send me high.  Above, beyond our sequoia tree, that's where I'd be.

Gone, into my promised land.

What Do I Want? What Do I Really, Really Want??

Many thanks to Allison, the mama behind Mama Wants This, who's been such a supportive and loyal friend.

I joined the Red Dress Club many weeks ago, but until now had been too chickensheet to actually do any of the writing prompts.  This week's prompt has a lot to do with character development: "What do you want?"

It's funny, to be asked about what I want, because it just occurred to me that at least for the last couple of years, I've been living life without really thinking about what I want.  In a way, this writing prompt really made me pause and re-evaluate my life today.

Oh I remembered what I wanted growing up: I wanted to be a full-time wife and mother.  I bought into the whole fairy tale and happily-ever-after idea pretty much as far back as I could remember.  Nothing--not my parents' divorce nor their subsequent failure in relationships, or even when life proved to be way different than Disney's glitter and glow--was going to stand in my way.

At times when my friends aspired to be doctors, engineers, scientists, superheroes, and famous actors, I secretly wanted to be a housewife and stay-at-home mother.  I was too embarrassed to say it at the time, though.  I didn't know anyone else who wanted what I wanted (perhaps those who did were too embarrassed to say it out loud too).  So I came up with a brilliant answer should my aunts, uncles, parents' friends asked me.  I told them I wanted to be a cashier, at a supermarket.  Yeah, brilliant.

Came college time, I still wanted to be a housewife and stay-at-home mother.  But until I actually found a gentleman who would love to marry me and have babies with me, I've got to come up with a back-up plan.  So I studied psychology and economics, just in case. 

I mean,do you know how difficult it was to find 20 year-old boys who just can't wait to get married and have kids?!?  Most of the ones I knew would most likely be running-pants on fire style-in the opposite direction if I so much as mentioned the M word.  And being a young, not-so-bad-looking (ehem) woman, I also preferred young, good-looking (haha) gentlemen closer to my age.  Hey, don't tell me you didn't feel that way!  When you're twenty, anything above 30 or 35 were "eww waaaay too old"--remember those times?

And then there's also the prospect of being disowned by my mother  if she ever finds out that her only child would rather be a housewife and stay-at-home mom than follow her footsteps in attaining at least a PhD. degree.

Of course I've also stopped telling people I wanted to be a supermarket cashier by then.  Now I told people I wanted to be a psychologist, because apparently being a psychologist was more fitting than a supermarket cashier when you happened to major in psychology and economics.

Mucho boyfriends and bad dates later, a man finally decided he wanted me to be his wife and mother of his future children.  And yep, even after I told him all I ever wanted was to be a housewife and a stay-at-home mom. (Yay!  Finally there was someone who didn't run away after finding out that um, his girlfriend actually wanted to settle down and commit! And that there's no such thing as free sex, guys!!!)

Today, I'm no longer a newly married, nor am I a new mom.  In many ways, life has been kind to me and I'm blessed because I am living the life that I've always wanted.  Like any marriage, mine had its ups and downs, but if I had to do it all over again, I would stil choose the same man to be my husband.  I am not the perfect mom, I even had my share of postpartum depression.   But I love my daughter and I treasure every moment of raising her and watching her grow up.

As I mentioned earlier, the prompt to write about "What do I want?" actually made me pause and the more I thought about, the more it scared the living $#!^ out of me.  Why?  Because if I am living the life that I've always wanted, wouldn't it mean that I should be content, or at least smiling my ass off? 

But I'm not smiling my ass off.  So what does that mean?  Did what I want changed somewhere along the way?  Or have I been as blind as a bat, taking for granted what I have, always wanting more?  I asked myself over and over again what I want, but you know what, other than the same ol' "I want to be a housewife and a stay-at-home mom," I honestly don't want anything else.  

Oh, who doesn't want great health, lasting beauty, lots of money, and a string of luxuries;  it's not like I'm going to refuse if anybody were to offer those things to me.  And yes, my husband would probably screamed, "Are you shittin me???" if he ever found out I said this, but the truth is, other than "I want to be a housewife and a stay-at-home mom," there's really, honestly, nothing else I really want.

Let me tell you, even as I'm wrapping up this post to an end, I'm still asking myself this simple, yet mind-boggling, question.  I'll leave you with my final answer--the best answer I can come up with right now.  What I want is to be a housewife and a stay-at-home mom.  But what I need to do right now is to find new ways to appreciate what I have, to realize that I have what I want, and to work on keeping what I have so that when my time comes and I closed my eyes for the last time, I can say that I've lived a life that I've always wanted.