Wishful Thinking

Me On My Wedding Day

There was excitement in the air.  Around me people moved swiftly with props, lights, and their constant chattering about my dress, make-up, and hair.  I could not care less.  Just mere hours ago, in front of our family and friends, surrounded by green cymbidium orchids and white hydrangeas, we were pronounced ‘husband and wife.’

I was now a married woman, to the man of my dreams.  I love you, I love you!  I wanted to shout.  But instead I just smiled for the camera, trying to look calm in spite of the giddiness I tried so hard to repress, lest it burst out of my chest.  I wished time would slow down so I could commit to memory every detail of this day, but I guess it did not wait for anyone—not even the bride.

Later there would be a dinner reception, but that was still hours away.  Having just finished taking the group pictures, the photographer turned his full atention on me and was now clicking away like the paparazzi.   I felt like a deer caught in the headlights.

My fingers, encased in fitted gloves, gently traced the delicate lace that was my wedding dress.  The gold band on my left hand reminded me again of what just took place earlier that morning.  My heart skipped a beat.  He’s mine!   Forever.  I will make him so happy, he’ll never regret this day.

A voice telling me to turn my head the other way woke me up from my reverie.  That was when I caught his silhouette.  I knew those features by heart.  Clad in a black, double-breasted tuxedo, leaning against the wall deep in conversation with one of his groomsmen, he looked like a hero.

My knight in shining armor.   My other half.   My husband.

Looking at him, I was filled with certainty.  Of my destiny and the rest of my life.

With him.

This week's RemembeRed prompt: Some say a photograph steals the soul.  This week, show us yours: take us into the moment that photograph was taken.  Show us who you were then and what the photograph means–in 300 words.

Also linking up with:

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

A Quiet Place

This week's RemembeRed prompt:  Where is your quiet place?  What does it look like?  What happens there?  Word limit is 200. 

 

It was long past midnight.  

I leaned back, my neck resting on top of the cushioned seat.  My fingers, uncurling from their positions on the computer keys, intertwined above my head as I stretched my arms upward.  I gave out an involuntary sigh.

   

Muted lights from the pool below cast shadows that danced outside my windows.  I breathed in deeply, noticing subtle traces of stargazer lilies emanating from the reed diffuser I had placed nearby.  Shades of pink--my favorite color--in mismatched prints and patterns, surrounded me.  Pictures of my daughter, scattered all around the room, smiled at me, warming my heart instantly. 

I smiled at the thought of my little one nestled underneath her blanket, most likely dreaming of pixie fairies and rainbow unicorns.  My other-half in the room next door, looking more like the man who fell in love with me than the one who broke my heart to pieces when he let his guards down in his sleep. 

The dimmed light from the chandelier washed over me like a halo.  Sitting behind the desk at the corner of my study, while the rest of the house was peacefully asleep, I thanked God and said my prayers.  I felt my faith restored, my hopes took flight, and all was right.  At that moment, when silence reigned and darkness ruled, contentment, so elusive during the day, was finally mine.   

Pivotal Conversations

This week's RemembeRed prompt:  Recreate a pivotal conversation with us this week.  This is a memoir.  Limit to 300 words.

“... but we have a responsibility!  We were married before God.  Surely that’s worth something!”

My body shook with each sob.  It took all my strength not to scream those words at him.  Exhaustion came bearing down on me, emotions past and present that were impossible to unleash in his presence.

“Well, have you thought that maaaybe I just don’t want to work on ‘us’ anymore?" he shouted at me. "There.  I’ve said it, okay?  We were never compatible.  We shouldn’t have gotten married.  It was a mistake!!!” 

His words stung.  Sitting on the sofa across from me, I saw his eyes, filled with fury, staring back at me.  I could sense his patience slipping away with each passing second.

My mind wandered to another time and place.  He had told me we needed to talk, and so there we sat—me in an old t-shirt and shorts, and him across from me in his work clothes.  For a while there was only silence and my rapidly beating heart.  Afraid to look at him, I braved myself for bad news. 

Suddenly, he blurted out, “What are your dreams?” 

His question took me by surprise.  I babbled on... something about wanting to be a wife and a mother.  All the while trying not to sound stupid.

I was still chattering left and right when he held my hands, gazed at me and said, “I’d like to make your dreams come true.”

That was the day he proposed to me.  The day that, even back then, I never believed would come.

“Look, I took a sleeping pill earlier, so I’m dazed, okay?  I barely understood half of what you're saying.“  His voice, loud and clear, brought me back to the here and now.  To the muffled sound of me crying, to the pair of eyes that was staring at me.  The same eyes that once gazed at me with love and hope, now held contempt and distaste.

“I’m going to bed,” he got up and left.

      

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

Ten Things You Should Never Ask Your Spouse

Ten Things You Should Never Ask Your Spouse 

(Or Maybe It's Just Mr. LA*)

10) While I prepared the baby, would you help me set up the diaper bag, love?

Most likely outcome: the diaper bag would be filled with all the things you DON'T need.

9) Did you remember___ , back when we were still going out?

Most likely outcome: he doesn't remember, and you'd be pissed off.

8) Honeybun, which color would suit me best?

Most likely outcome: if he knows the answer, believe me, you'd soon start wondering whether or not he really isn't playing for the other team.

7) What's your sexual fantasy?

Most likely outcome: do your really want to open the Pandora's box?  Yeah, I don't think so.

6) Why are your um, 'feet' so... small?

Most likely outcome: would you like it if your hubby tells you your vagina's too large?

5) During sex: Sorry hun, could you perhaps finish off quickly?  I kinda want to pee.

Most likely outcome: sudden erectile dysfunction, followed by possible midlife crisis. 

4) Who's prettier?  Me or her?

Most likely outcome: do you really want to know the honest answer?

3) Would you prove your undying love for me by buying me that diamond on the window?

Most likely outcome: he really doesn't love you that much, and then you'd be heartbroken.

2) Darlin', isn't tomorrow *your* birthday?

Most likely outcome: let the man thinks he's still 21, will ya?

1) Do you love me?/ You cheatin'? Again?

Most likely outcome: it's a no brainer, really.

*  For those of you who's here for the first time (since this is the first time ever I am linking up at Mama Kat's), Mr. LA is FYI my husband.  In a nutshell, five months ago he told me he might be having a midlife crisis.  A few weeks later, he wanted a divorce and confessed that he has not loved me for a good portion of our twelve years together.  Me, always the masochist, insisted we could work things out.  The verdict is still out, at the moment.  Please don't feel bad for me.  This is just some background info.  Feel free to laugh at my post! :) 

>

The End at the Beginning of the Rest of My Life

This week's RemembeRed prompt: In “On Writing” Stephen King wrote, “The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better.”  Write a memoir post – first-person and true – inspired by that statement.  Word limit is 300.

What have I done?  I’ve let someone else in, and now he’s turned my world upside down, making me giddy and smile and sigh like a lunatic.   He was like a madness to your calm, a variability to your symmetry.  He’s taken claim on my defenseless heart, holding it captive, making his presence known.

I still remembered the last time you held my heart in your hands.  Always with gentleness, always loving, always trusting.  Your eyes sang their praises whenever you looked at me, believing in me more than I’ve ever believed in myself.  I felt content, treasured, and safe.  Feelings that were now slipping through my hands, even though I tried to hold on to them, hoping they would forever be clenched in my fists.

Even now, I still reached for you in the darkness of the night.  I missed your familiar scent, faithful smile, the warmth feel of your body against mine.  When I heard his voice calling me--a new term of endearment foreign to my ear--I ached for that other voice.  Yours.

He brought with him looming uncertainties.  I sensed that he would be the death of me, yet I could not resist.  I was now and forever would be his.  You had always been my safe harbor, only this time I could not--would not--find my way back to you.  While my heart still throbbed and longed for you, I knew I had to let you go.

I wished I could have both of you in my heart--the best of both worlds.   I should have known better than to let him in.  But I could not undo what I had done.  I needed him as much as I needed air to breathe.

I could not live without him.   And for that I had to live without you.

A Token of Remembrance

This week's RemembeRed prompt:  Conjure something in 100 words.  An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like.  But don’t tell us what it is.

They came in shades of pink.  My favorite.
Petals so soft, like whispers, blushed shyly from where they nestled against the leaves.
Like a bride on her wedding day.
Enchanted, my lips began to form a smile; a contented sigh on the brink of escape.

“... I don’t love you... I haven’t, for a long time...”

Flimsy whims shattered like broken glass.
Their jagged edges pierced through my skin, shooting pains and despair into my veins.
One pink bloom for every empty promise.  A token of remembrance for a love long gone.
On top, a store printed card that dared me to defy...

“Happy Anniversary”

How It All Began: Screenplay

This week's RemembeRed prompt:  Congratulations!  Your best selling memoir has just been optioned by a major motion picture studio, and the producers want you advising on the script.  Write the opening scene for the movie.  Would you begin with a visual montage?  Voice-over?  Flashback or forward?  A conversation?  The trick here is to look through a lens. The camera needs to tell the story through visuals, action, dialogue.  

*Editor’s Note: Let’s keep it under 500 words. Economy of words is crucial when writing for the performing arts!

INT. SWEATY’S CHILDHOOD BEDROOM – NIGHT (EARLY 1980s)

A child’s bedroom dominated by the color pink. A single bed lines up one side of the wall.  Next to it, a small desk, on which sits a pile of textbooks and scattered hand-written papers.  A single pencil and an eraser with dark, rounded edges lie abandoned on top of a half-filled paper.

7 year-old SWEATY sits on the edge of the bed.  Tear-marks streaked her reddened cheeks, where her MOTHER had repeatedly slapped her earlier. Her head bent low, she tries to stiffle a cry and avoid her mother’s eyes.

She tries to stay as still as possible.  Her stiff arms glued to the sides of her body, palms tucked in underneath her bottom in an effort to stop herself from shaking.  The fistful of hair that her mother had yanked out lay tangled, awkwardly separated from the lopsided ponytail that now hangs low on her back.

Mother stands a feet away from Sweaty and looms over her.  Her left hand is on her hip, while she waves her right hand in the air as if trying to make a point.  One sees anger blazing in her eyes, the muscles in her neck and face bulging as she shouts every word.

MOTHER (V.O.)

(shouting)

How many times do I have to tell you? Which part don’t you understand?? What are you, a stupid idiot???

You know what you are? A stupid, inconsiderate, spoiled little brat!!!

Sweaty bends her head even lower as Mother leaned closer. Her body stiffens up even more, preparing for more blows that are sure to come.

MOTHER (CONT’D)

(shouting)

Why you, ungrateful child!  Isn’t it enough that I work day and night for you, while that bastard you call Papa is out there having the time of his life, dating different women... not giving a damn about earning enough money to help me raise you!  You still have to give me this crap at the end of the day??  When are you going to start thinking about other people instead of yourself?!?

Mother points towards the papers on the desk.

MOTHER (CONT’D)

(shouting)

I hate it when you put me in this position!  It’s late, I’m tired, and I still have to teach you this how many more times? Think!

 (screams) 

Think!!!

At her mother’s scream, Sweaty starts to tear up once again, but quickly bites her lower lip to quell her sobs.

SWEATY (V.O.)

(whimpers)

Mama, I’m sorry...

Mother points her finger, and uses it to push Sweaty’s head backwards.

MOTHER (V.O.)

(shouting)

Sorry? Sorry?? Bullshit!

Let me tell you something, Sweaty, and you better listen.

(screams)

Listen!!!

(speaks loudly)

There are only three kinds of people who makes it in this world. Those who are rich, those who are beautiful, and those who are smart.

You are not rich, and most certainly not beautiful. That leaves you with smart. So think, Sweaty, what’s left for you if you’re not even smart?

CLOSE UP, Sweaty crying and shaking with sobs.

FADE OUT:

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

I submitted this post for Freefringes.com's Lovelinks # 25

If you like this post, would you kindly vote for me by clicking on the star underneath Sweaty's Avatar here? (Voting will be from Thursday 6:30 am to Friday 6:30 am. All times U.S. eastern daylight, -4 GMT)

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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.

Falling

Note: I chose this post for the final (Week 4) voting at Lovelinks #26, because it speaks of someone who held a very special place in my heart.  If you enjoyed reading this post, would you please vote for me here?  Thank you so much!!

For this week’s memoir prompt, we’re going to let narrative take a backseat.  Choose a moment from your personal history and mine it for sensory detail.  Describe it to us in rich, evocative details.  Let us breath the air, hear the heartbeat, the songs, feel the fabric and the touch of that moment.  Let’s keep the word count to 500.

It was long past midnight.  The light from the street lamps formed halos against the night sky.  The light turned green, and once again we were moving.

“Please, stop,” I silently begged to the ticking clock, to the moving wheels.  When they didn’t stop, I wished the road would grow longer, farther, endless.

Our easy banter earlier had ceased, now replaced by an uncomfortable silence.  It was a song that saved us.  A song which you had put on repeat and had been playing for three or four times when I finally realized it.  Giggling, I asked you if I had heard correctly, to which you answered, “And you just realize this when?”  Then you burst into laughter.  I loved that laughter.

“You’re so lame,” I said, but it wasn’t long before I laughed too.  You started making funny faces and soon we were laughing like nobody’s business.

I was still laughing, happy inside this little time bubble, when I turned to look at you and saw you smiled.  There was no doubt this time; it was a smile meant only for me.  I could feel your eyes beckoning me... our eyes locked, and in that fleeting seconds, your eyes said it all.

Gentleness.  Love.  Desire.

Without looking away, you moved closer, your eyes holding me captive.   Everything else ceased to exist; except you.  My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears.  My chest felt as if it would soon explode.  Flowing outward from my core, through my veins, filling up every corner, every crevices, was a languid warmth that quickly turned into scorching heat.  My body shook, as if in fever.

I could smell your warm breath on my face.  It smelled like your favorite peppermint gum laced with the sweet smell of liquor.  So close... but not close enough.  The mere inches between us became intolerable.  I shut my eyes.  “Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me...” my heart chanted, keeping my brain under its spell, forcing it to abandon all reasoning.  My heart had always been yours and it was now begging me to hand it over.

Then I felt it.  That first touch when your lips met mine.  It felt like home.  My heart was bursting with so much love and hope, it hurted.  As our kiss deepened, our bodies started to mold into each other.   My hands found their way into your hair, where they lingered to caress, to feel, to remember.  I could feel your hands on my face, holding me tight as we kissed ourselves into oblivion.  And then your hands were all over, exploring, grasping, squeezing and stroking.  My body felt like it was on fire.

A series of tap finally made their way into my consciousness.  I realized the car had stopped moving.  We must have arrived at my parents’ house.  “Ma’am, we’re here,” told the driver.  Too embarrassed to reply, I softly whispered in your ear, “I have to go.”

You looked up from where you were kissing me on my neck, eyes all hungry, hair tousled from my touches earlier.  Without saying a word, you cupped the side of my face and you gave me the most gentle kiss.  We smiled at each other and said our goodnights.  You waited until I got through the door before you left.

That morning you left me a text message.  You had decided to go back earlier to the city where you were studying at the time.  The last few words were blurred by my tears: “I’m sorry.  Please forgive me.  I can’t.”

A prompt by

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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 :)

WANTED: Some Sex

This post is based on this week's TRDC Write On Edge's Red Writing Hood prompt: 
Let's get all steamy up in here and write about sex.  But there's a twist.  You can't write about the act.  I don't want to read about any heaving bosoms or girded manhood (please tell me someone else giggled besides me).  Limit is 600 words. It can be fiction or non-fiction.

WANTED: Some Sex

Gosh, when was the last time I had sex? Honestly? Ages ago. I can’t believe I’m actually going ahead and writing this prompt. Because this is as good as it gets: I haven’t been getting any.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about, or wondering why this girl isn’t gettin’ any, let me explain it in a nutshell: my husband says he doesn’t love me anymore, and we might or might not be getting a divorce. But, I’m not here to complain about that. I’ve dealt with that.

I just haven’t dealt with the lack of sex yet.

My besties Ms. Lips and Mrs. Mouthy would testify that I’m not [usually] a very sexual person.  In fact, they’d laugh and tell you, “You’re actually talking sex with Sweaty? Seriously?!?” I’d like to think it has something to do with the anti-depression meds that I’m taking, but mostly it’s probably just my tendency to be on the extreme side of things.  Somewhere in my mind, the fact that I am a ‘mommy’ had apparently short-circuited my libido fuse. For years following my daughter’s birth, sex was the last thing on my mind.

But to give me some credits, no, I wasn’t always like this. I used to buy racy—really racy--lingerie and wore them.  I’ve had frantic sex while my cousin was banging on the front door of my apartment.  I’ve had sex videotaped (uh huh. Let’s hope you won’t see it anytime soon on the internet.  That would NOT be cool).  I’ve had sex naked on a beach under the moonlight (oh yes I did).  I’ve had sex in front of mirrors too (kinky, but true).

Then, slowly those lingerie were replaced by boring, but oh so comfy, grandma panties and wire-less sports bras. Forget late-night fumblings underneath the blanket, I need my beauty sleep! Gone was the spontaneity, replaced by practicality:

• ugh, do I really want to take another shower?

• And re-apply my day/night face/eye/neck cream/serum?

• Honey, can you go brush your teeth first, and while you’re at it, wash ‘you-know-what’ junior a bit, and perhaps put on some cologne and/or that aftershave that I like?

• Oh but my head has found that perfect spot on the pillow already and if I were to move…

• Um, can you not touch my hair too much, I just had it styled and it’s such a pain to put it back together afterwards.

Okay, so where was I? Oh yeah, the lack of sex, when you’re [possibly] going through divorce.

Given my previous record when it comes to sex, you would’ve thought that I would have no problem whatsoever dealing with this little ‘inconvenience.’  But oh no, not I!   I didn’t mind not having sex when it was my choice, but the moment it became a no-choice, that’s when my body decided, hey, some a LOT of sex would be good.

No kidding, those reverse psychology bullsh*t apparently works on me. I want what I cannot have.  As always.  For the first time in years, I want to wear those racy lingerie again.   I want to feel breathless, my pulse quickens, my sense heightened.   I think of the pleasures that comes from lying entangled, limbs to limbs, skin to skin, just tasting the taste and inhaling the scents off each other’s skin.  I want to be desired, touched, filled, consumed.   I want it fast, slow, roughly, and gently.  Oh for f*ck sake, what I want to say is, JUST GIVE IT TO ME already!!!

So there.  That’s my take on sex.  Right now I’m so horny I could hump a tree.

-THE END-

I, the Ugly Duckling.

This post is based on this week's RemembeRED prompt, which was:

Everyone remembers that first inspiration or mentor in their lives that made them want to be or do something in their lives, whether you actually followed through with it or not. Tell us about that inspiration/mentor. How did they affect or change your life!  Let's keep your posts to 500 words or less.

I, the Ugly Duckling

There is a time in every girl's life when she wakes up not caring about how she looks and by the time she goes to bed that night, it's all she could think about.

For me, it happened when I was fifteen.

My mother had been nagging at me for weeks to pay more attention to how I looked.  “A little bit of make-up would do you a lot of good,” she kept on saying.  I ignored her. 

I knew that my mother was beautiful because people told me that all the time.  I also knew that I did not look like her.  My mother always looked her best.  She would tease her hair at the crown and curl up her eyelashes even if she was just going to bed.  Her bathroom drawers were filled with rows of make-up, hairbrushes, and beauty creams and lotions.  I treated them with fascination, but never with interest.

One day, my mother had tea at her friend’s house, where she met her friend’s 16 year-old daughter named Claire.  By the time she got home, my mother could not stop talking about her.  Apparently, Claire was not only smart and brilliant, but she was also a beauty. 

I had always been smart and brilliant.  Even my mother would agree to that.  But nobody, most certainly not my mom, had ever called me a beauty.  I would not have thought twice about Claire if she was only a beauty.  But Claire was both: smart and beautiful.  Right there and then I decided to hate Claire, whom I never met before.

Weeks later, the same friend had once again invited my mother for tea.  This time I was to come along, because wouldn’t it be wonderful if her daughter and I became friends!  I was NOT excited to meet the smart and beautiful Claire.  I already decided to hate her, remember?  Plus, with my mother launching her usual tirade against my hair and my wardrobe choice, I was nervous.

I knew it was Claire the moment she opened her door.   

She was everything my mother said, and more.  Claire wasn’t drop dead gorgeous, but she knew how to dress herself up.  Suddenly I noticed her perfectly arched eyebrows, the eyeliner that emphasized her eyes, the tint of mascara over curled eyelashes, the hint of pink blush on her cheeks, and the pearly lip gloss on her lips.  She wore a simple cardigan set with capri pants.  I was star-struck.

When I got home that day, straightaway I looked for my mother’s cosmetics.  For the first time, I saw the endless possibilities they offered.  I went to bed that night thinking about how I could dress myself up, how I could be both smart and beautiful, and how I could finally have a chance with Peter, this cute boy with dimples that was on my yearbook team.   

I never saw Claire again until a few years ago, at a friend’s wedding.  At first she didn’t recognize me, but then I introduced myself.  I told her she had inspired me, and even though in the beginning I had many more failures than success (just ask my Mother, she had the pictures to prove it), it had all been worth it.  This time, it was Claire’s turn to gush, “But you’re so beautiful!  I just couldn’t picture you any other way.”       

A Little Bird Told Me...

   
This post is based on this week's RemembeRed prompt by the Red Dress Club, which is: Write a post that either starts or ends with the words "Lesson learned."  Word limit: 400 words.

A Little Bird Told Me...


Mother, what are you doing? Why did you wake me up from my nap?  Please don't push me out of the nest!  It's cold out there... 

No, no, no... I'm still sleepy, Mother.  I can barely open my eyes.  Would you please stop nudging me?  Fine, fine, I'm moving!

W-w-wait a minute, where do you want me to go?  There?!?  But I thought...  Ha! Mother, you are so funny!  Of course I won't go there.  Wh-what?!?  I have to?  No, that's too dangerous, you told me so before!

NO!  Mother, why aren't you listening to me?  Would you STOP that??  I can't do that yet, remember?  Besides, I'm hungry, Mother!  Why didn't you bring me any food?  Ss-sst-stop please... whoa, be careful, Mother, I almost fa--

(shrieking) Aaaaaah!!!! Helpppp!!!!  Help me, I'm falling!!! 

(swooshing sound)  Oh thank YOU, God!  Thank goodness you're good at flying, Mother!  You saved me!!  I would've died if you hadn't caught me!  Please take me home now... I want my nest!

Ah, there it is!  Home sweet home.  Boy, what was that all about??  Can I go back to sleep now?  No, no, no... what are you doing, Mother?  Stop pushing me!  Why are you doing this?? Oh no, not again... Wait, did you do that on purpose the first time?!?  What's wrong with you, st-sto...

(shrieking) Aaaaah!!!! Helpppp!!!  You want me to what??  I can't, I can't fly!!  Oh God, oh God, I AM moving my wings, Mother!!!  Nooo, I'm still falling... Help, somebody help!!!

(swooshing sound)  Mother, thank God you've come to your senses!  Please don't let me go!  Yes, I want to go home!  It's much safer up there... and I'm hungry. 

Just drop me off at the nest, will you, Mother?  We'll just forget this ever happens, ok?  Oh no, not again!!!

(shrieking)  What the...?!?  Fine, you want me to fly?  I'll show you 'fly'!!!  See... see... I'm already moving my wings, but I can't fly!  I'll soon die and it's all gonna be your fault, Mother!  I'm SO gonna... hey, HEY, lookie here... I'm not falling... Am I... Mother, I'm flying!  I'm flying!!!!

Lesson learned.

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???