Peep Show

Here is the next "peep show" at my novel. I'm getting ready to link up with Write on Edge and their Red Writing Hood prompt tomorrow:

Dante, via Write on Edge

Kate was wary of a couple of the dancers. She was wary of Brandy. She was nice to her because she gave her crystal here and there. Kate and Marisa preferred coke but would take crystal when coke wasn’t around. Brandy was intense. She was young and cute, but there was an edge to her, like she was moments away from snapping. She was hyper. She was sweaty. If she would take another shower, reapply her make-up, and calm down a little, she’d be a whole hell of a lot sexier, Kate would think. Brandy did well with tips because she was athletic and could do all kinds of tricks and spins with the pole.

The look in Brandy’s eyes scared Kate. Empty and desperate. Brandy would openly stare at other dancers, the Amazons. You could just tell that she was jealous. Or something. It made Kate wonder what was going through Brandy’s head.

Kate was adamant that she not become like Brandy. Kate knew that she was no saint. She took any drug that came her way, but she still felt like she had things in control. She felt like she didn’t look like she did any drug that came her way. But, Brandy made Kate wonder. What kind of line was there to be crossed? How many more drugs before I look like her? How many more months in this place? Then Kate would reassure herself. I do not look like Brandy. I will not look like Brandy. Everything is fine.

Marisa liked to tell herself the same thing.

Marisa, who could not be found sometimes, and then would show up. I’m fine! I’m fucking fine. Let’s do this.

Marisa would saunter off in heels that looked as if the point could cut glass, and she would kill it. She would get on stage and move like the world was in her hands. Like she could squeeze the money from any sucker off the street. Then, darkly, through her hair, she would look around a room full of desire and need, and all she could see was darkness.

................

If you'd like to read more on Kate and Marisa:

Who Do You Think You Are?

What if God was One of Us?

A Night With No Limits

Wine a Bit. You'll Feel Better.

The RemembeRED memoir prompt at Write on Edge this week is to write about wine, coffee, or chocolate.

One of the best vacations my husband and I have ever taken was in the wine country. Are you surprised? I didn’t think so.



We talk about it all the time like it is part of an era gone by. Vacations are a whole lot different nowadays with a child.

We had been to Sonoma before this trip. This particular trip was more off-the-beaten-path, north of Sonoma/Napa, north of Santa Rosa. We were in the Dry Creek and Russian River Valley around Healdsburg and Windsor. We stayed an entire week at a small resort and mostly did biking tours of the surrounding wineries. (It helps that I have experience with biking and drinking as I explained here.)



Although I would never call myself an athletic-type, I can kick ass physically sometimes. I just typically keep my prowess on the down low.

The hazy memories I can recollect include the fact that a majority of the pourers at the wineries were intoxicated at some level. Rarely, did we pay for a tasting, and the pours were typically generous.

The most memorable winery was Christopher Creek. We happened upon it by accident down a gravel road. The pourer was a warm, friendly man with a generous spirit. The grounds were simple, but the views amazing, so we bought a bottle and picnicked there.



Armida was interesting as well. The vineyard dog greeted us at the entrance and walked us up to the tasting room. Once inside, he passed out at our feet. The pourer inside was blasting Pearl Jam and seemed to be quite intoxicated. He sold us on a special vintage called “Poizin” – a Zinfandel.

We biked over this bridge a few times on our journeys over the Russian River.



We took two days off from biking while we were there to enjoy the resort pool. So, if we were not drinking and biking, we were drinking and swimming.





We had no child at the time. We would roll up to the pool with our cooler and plastic cups. When laying in the sun, I listened to my iPod. At the time, I listened a lot to Gorillaz, specifically Clint Eastwood:

"I ain't happy but, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine, in a bag
I'm useless, but not for long
The future is coming on...

Finally someone let me out of my cage!
Now, time for me is nothing 'cause I'm counting no age."

I could barely hear Richard laughing at me as I sang and rapped along to the tune no one could hear but me.

I am now totally lost in reverie, hoping for warmer weather and moments of lying like broccoli with ENTIRE VINEYARDS of wine nearby. Sigh. Summer?? Vacation?? I need you now…

Who Do You Think You Are?

I am linking up with Write on Edge for the Red Writing Hood prompt this week. The focus is on conflict, inspired by this quote:

"It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence."
Mahatma Gandhi (1869 – 1948)

I am bravely sharing an excerpt from my novel. You can read more about Kate and Marisa here, here, and here.

......................

Kate locked eyes with one of the men on the couch. Sure enough, he motioned for her to come over. Coke was lined up on the table. She kneeled at the coffee table, took a straw, and snorted a line. She sat back to drink, to wash the drug down her throat. She lit a cigarette because it was a drug’s best companion. Now she just wanted to get the hell out of there.

She did not know these men. She did not need to know these men. She hated them. They were friends of her boss. Her boss, who was in the other room with Marisa. Her boss was a disgusting man. He was short and fat with thinning dark hair. He was mean. The only time she ever heard him was when he was yelling at the girls. “Get on the floor, you lazy bitches! Let’s go!” Otherwise, he stood in the corners and watched. Sometimes he spoke with other men.

Kate and Marisa did their motherfucking jobs and hoped to have no interaction with the man.

Which was why Kate could not understand, even through the haze of her thoughts, why Marisa went to a bedroom with him. Probably, fear took Marisa to the bedroom with him, and fear kept Kate right where she was.

She dared not ask any questions and instead watched the smoke swirl through the fluorescent lights of the kitchen. The music was loud, drowning out the conversation of the men around her. She never seemed privy to the conversation of men around her.

Kate started to hear sounds coming from the hallway. Her body instantly perked up, on alert.

“Get the fuck out of here! You fucking slut!”

Kate licked her finger, reached over and dipped into the coke on the table, sucked it off and rubbed her gums in a split second. She jumped up, ready to go. Before she could see anything, she heard scuffling in the hallway, then a thud. Kate rushed over and saw Marisa face down on the carpet, but she was quickly getting herself up.

Without saying a word, Marisa looked up at Kate with a face that said, Let’s get the fuck out of here. Her lip was bleeding.

Down the hall, Kate could only see the shadow of him. “You’re fucking fired! I never want to see your skinny ass again!”

Without ever saying a word, they both walked out of the house. On their way through the kitchen, Marisa grabbed the half empty bottle of whiskey.

Kate never asked what happened in that bedroom. From the look on Marisa’s face, the topic was off-limits. She only drove them away as swiftly as she could, away from a situation that could have been a whole hell of a lot worse.

(I deeply apologize for going over the word limit for the prompt this week.)

Who Do You Love, Baby?

This week's Write on Edge Red Writing Hood prompt is to tell a story with this picture as a prompt:



I am revisiting my fictional character, Kate and Marisa. You can read more about them here and here.

...............

“Yes, I absolutely want real mayonnaise. It wouldn’t be a BLT without it,” Kate said.

“Just checking,” the waitress said, giving a smile and collecting the menus off the table.

“Mayonnaise is gross,” said Marisa, giving Kate a face.

“I was waiting for you to say that,” Kate said. “The fact you don’t eat mayonnaise or bacon is downright prissy and stuck-up.”

“No, it’s healthy. And you’re a bitch.”

“Smoke much?” Kate asked Marisa.

“Bitch,” answered Marisa.

“Well, maybe I’ll feel a little better once I hear from fuck face.”

“I always know you’re really into someone when you use terms of endearments like ‘fuck face,’” Marisa said. “Is he the reason we’re here anyway, stuffing ourselves with fried food and Long Island Ice Teas?”

“You can thank him later,” Kate said.

“I thought so.” Marisa looked at her friend for a moment, considering how to choose her words. “Kate, when are you going to figure out that this guy really is a…fuck face and move on? I want Kate back! You know, the free spirited girl who doesn’t care what anybody thinks of her, much less a total idiot who can’t see the fucking hot, amazing woman in front of him.”

Kate only stared blankly back at Marisa.

“I don’t care what anyone thinks of me. Right now, I only love mayonnaise. And bacon,” Kate said.

Marisa sighed. “I’m gonna go smoke a cigarette.”

Kate took the opportunity to text Fuck Face.

Hey, Marisa’s talking bad about you. Like you always say she does. I think I agree with her. Fuck off.

The waitress approached the table. “Your food is almost ready. Do you need anything while you wait?”

“Yes, we’ll take another round, thanks.”

Kate went outside to share the cigarette with Marisa.

What if God was one of us?

“You still seem so…numb.”

“Well, maybe it’s the medication, doc. I don’t really understand how I’m supposed to ‘fix’ my head when I’m taking all the shit you give out here.”

“Excellent, a little hostility. Perhaps we’re starting to feel something?”

“Isn’t it a little unproductive to use sarcasm with your patient, doctor?”

They sat there looking at each other with polite smiles.

“Listen, Kate. I’m not trying to bullshit you. I’m just saying that you’re here for a reason. Let’s not waste our time.”

“Fine, then. I’ll try to be a little more exciting. For the sake of progress.”

The doctor only gestured. Begin, her hand invited.

Kate sighed. “Well, if you can't tell, I’m a little angry. I don’t see the point in anything. I fucking trust no one, and when I’m really at my worst? I think, I should be dead, and Marisa should be here. As if it couldn’t get any worse, I remember, why would I want Marisa to suffer through any more shit? Maybe I should just join her.”

The doctor held Kate’s eyes for a moment. “I can’t imagine the pain you’ve gone through. I simply want you to have hope that hope exists. I don’t expect you to have that right now. I expect you to believe that others have that hope for you. That is all. And I hope it is enough.”

Kate had been ready to retort, to build one more layer of brick through the wall of anger she had created, but something about the words the doctor had chosen caused her to pause.

What was it that Marisa had always said? We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. Kate thought of that then.

The doctor smiled, seeing the shift on Kate’s face. “I think I’d like you to think about that for today.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Kate.”

“See ya, doc.”

Kate walked out into the hall toward the common area, unsure of what she wanted to do, unsure of what she felt. Then a soft melody coming from the TV pierced straight through her and unleashed a torrent of memories.

A female singer was plainly singing to the screen, soulful and pure. What if God was one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger all of us trying to make our way home.

Kate walked quickly to her room, shut the door and stood on the other side. The sobs came fast and hard. The bricks fell fast and hard. The wall she so carefully kept was crumbling all around her as she slid to the floor and gave in to the grief.

.....................................

The Red Writing Hood prompt at Write on Edge this week was to write a story in which your character is inspired by music.

I have chosen to write a new scene for my book and share it here. I have written of Kate and Marisa previously here.

Fires for Dummies

I'm linking up with Write on Edge for their Red Writing Hood prompt this week:

Write a piece of fiction around the holiday season that begins with "The doorbell rang" and ends with "snow began to fall." Stick to 300 words.




The doorbell rang, but I was already at the door. I had heard him pull up in the rumble of his truck. I had taken another quick look in the bathroom mirror and sprinted to the door, then cursed myself for being apparently out of breath.

Deep breaths, I thought, slowly blowing the air out my lips.

When the bell rang, it was like a gunshot to my heart from anticipation.

I opened the door with a practiced smile. Standing there, with a box and clipboard, was the UPS man.

“Evening, ma’am,” he said, thrusting the clipboard toward me, “Sign this.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” I said. I looked past him at the street and there was the big brown van, rumbling in the street.

I gave his clipboard back and took the box. My eyes searched down the street for another truck. Seeing nothing, I shut the door.

I opened the box with kitchen shears. A white sweater, matching scarf, and a card was inside. I quickly ripped the envelope open, and from the card, a piece of paper fell.

It was a printout of an Internet page: “How to Build a Fire for Dummies.”

The day before, we exchanged texts, excited about being together again. I had texted, Too cold here. Can’t build a fire without you hunny. Don’t no how. Need my man. I had meant to be clever, to give him a double meaning.

I read the note inside the card.

I have to stay another day. I’m so sorry. Keep warm and I’ll see you soon! XOXO

I put it all in the box. I put the box in the fireplace and lit a match. Outside, snow began to fall.

A Night with No Limits

This week Write on Edge challenges us to write a short non-fiction or fiction piece about a road trip or a journey.

Mine is fiction and may or may not be from a book I'm writing. I'm shy about that. I just chose a quick snippet of it. It's the first snippet that's ever been shared at all here.

...............

The first stop could not be too far. The celebrating had to begin. An event that would cut the line between Before and After. Right off Interstate 17, traveling the lonely high desert of Arizona, there was one place that begged for a visit. What the universe knows, but people only wonder about, is that every single driver who has passed by the Rock Springs Café (with a sign boasting World’s Best Pies!) has wondered what it would be like to actually stop and take it in.

Moonlight competed with the flickering neon, a perfect combination on a night that had no limits. They were still buzzing with drug, ready for more drink. Kate pulled in to the gravel parking lot and felt the slowness of the car approaching the old building. Oh my god, they’re going to think we’re weird, Kate thought as she looked in the window where people sat at stools like they had sat there forever.

“This is going to be fun,” Marisa said, giving Kate a wink.

“Let’s do it!” Kate said, shutting off the car, feeling better already in the influence of Marisa’s confidence.

...............

Ok, I'm stopping there. I feel shy, like I said. Let me know what you think!

Very Scary to Me

I'm getting ready to link up for Red Writing Hood tomorrow at Write on Edge.



The prompt:

Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters. Your text must elicit or express fear.

Here's mine:

You are the coolest mom in our wine group!! Thanks for agreeing to host the Girl Scout Troop meeting this morning at your house!! See you in 10 minutes!

Google Images

The Cost of Expensive Taste

I'm participating with Write on Edge for their Red Writing Hood prompt this week. It is a picture prompt:

I decided to have a little fun.


The Cost of Expensive Taste

“Do you think there’s too much beige?” she asked, cocking her head and staring at the newly hung paintings in her front room.

“Oh god no, darling, it’s chic. It’s very chic. Besides, we offset it with the muted claret. It’s all the rage, you’ll see, but don’t get me wrong, you are unique. No one has a home like you, I promise you that,” the designer trailed off, chuckling nervously.

“And, is that wrought iron?”

“Well,” he guffawed, “with Brazilian Rosewood accent!” He whispered conspiratorially and leaned in. “You can’t even get that legally anymore,” then looked in her eyes with a knowing look.

She slit her eyes and stared back at him in silence, appraising what he had just said.

“Hm,” she said.

They both turned and looked again at the room.

“You know, it’s important to me to be…understated,” she started.

“Yes, absolutely.”

“The rosewood accent. I like that. I was afraid it was all a little…overdone.”

He held his chin, intent on her words. He looked down, shook his head, “No, no. It’s not overdone. I know you have superior taste. I have been sure to –“

“That’s enough. Send me the bill and I’ll have Jaques take care of it.” She turned on her heel and left the room.

The assistant approached the designer.

“Brazilian Rosewood?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t believe you. How do you think of this stuff?”

“Come on, let’s go celebrate and have dinner at Terzo Piano. I hear they are showcasing some new beige art!”

They walked out and just laughed.

Shout Heard Round the World

Not only is it Jean Friday at work, but Write on Edge has invited us to write to the prompt: jeans. I am going to take this opportunity at the end of the week to re-post something I wrote earlier this year about that very subject!



“I’M IN MY PRE-PREGNANCY JEANS!!!!” I shrieked excitedly from the upstairs landing, thinking perhaps my announcement could be heard around the world.

I had no idea that at that moment, Parker was walking down the stairs. The manic, celebratory wail must have been a shock to his little system because the poor little guy fell on his butt and slid all the way down to the wood floor below and then laid there, stunned.

I was undeterred.

I pranced downstairs (hoping the top of my butt didn’t fall out of the top of the jeans at the same time) to flaunt my stuff.

My husband hadn’t even turned around at the sink while washing dishes.

Apparently, I was the only one heart-attack excited about this news.

Of course, I did stop for a moment to pick Parker up, twirl him around, and pat his head reassuringly.

Never mind that I literally, physically had to stuff the remaining top of my butt into the damn jeans, but they were zipped and buttoned and I could walk in them.

It was success.

It was the sweetest success I’ve had in years. I am high. Still.

(Update: I'm still rockin' the jeans!)

Last Cigarette

Write on Edge challenged us to write about a "season of change":

I loved sitting outside in the dark all alone, smoking a cigarette. “Healthy” types probably don’t think this is very zen, but really, it was almost like meditating.

Everything was so still, and there were plenty of stars to stare at between the clouds. My cat was lit up in the window, staring out at me with contempt.

My husband had left out of town that morning, and I could come out here as often as I wanted without judgment.

The only problem was, I was smoking my last cigarette.

In the morning, I will go and buy some more, I thought.

I took a drag.

If it’s positive, I won’t go buy any, and that will be that.

The next morning, the first thing I did was pee on a stick. I didn’t buy any cigarettes.

Ruthless

Red Writing Hood is now Write on Edge.



The prompt is to write a story the length of a tweet - 140 characters. Mine is 128 characters without spaces and 157 with spaces, so I figure that's the right compromise.

I chose to think of a character - someone ruthless (way more ruthless than me), someone fun, someone who makes mistakes and bad choices, and we all love her anyway.

Here it is:

“No love for the haters, motha fuckas!” she screamed out the metro bus window. She sat back in her seat, smiling at the look of shock on her co-workers faces.

A Favorite

I am grateful to The Red Dress Club this week for providing me the opportunity to link up one of my favorite Red Writing Hood posts. I have started back to work, so a little rewind action is appreciated!

Enjoy one of my favorite fictional pieces I have written for Red Writing Hood.

The Christmas Party

I sat in my usual hiding spot at the top of the stairs, peeking down at the scene below. My father, my embarrassment of a father, was in the middle of one of his favorite jokes. It was like driving by a car accident. You don’t want to look, but you have to.

“So then the guy told the doctor, I don't smoke cigars anymore, but now I can't go to sleep at night unless I have a cigar shoved up my ASS!!" my father finished with an almost manic shout.

I shut my eyes and cringed.

Why do they all think that is so funny? It’s disgusting! HE’S disgusting! I thought.

The drunk idiots were all crammed into our living room on a snowy December evening. My parents’ Christmas party was a popular annual event. Not that my father ever needed an excuse to drink. The Christmas party just meant he could do it with an audience besides his own family.

They must all tolerate him. They must laugh at his jokes to not be rude. Surely, they must hate him just as much as his own daughter does? I wondered.

In spite of my own disgust, my father always seemed to be the life of the party. There was no way I could respect this scene if my father was the person all these assholes adored. Without having had a drink myself, all I could see was a sloppy, old loudmouth – way past his prime.

I had lost respect for him long ago. It had all become too much. Too much drinking, too much yelling, too many secrets, too many excuses, too many broken promises.

Personality does not make up for a complete lack of basic human decency. Why doesn’t anyone else see that?

I turned my attention to the blond woman that had been laughing a little louder than the rest at my father’s jokes. She moved closer to where my father was standing and stumbled a little on the way there. My father reached out to steady her arm, causing her drink to spill over onto the carpet. They leaned into each other, giggling like school kids.

My eyes narrowed, focusing in for even a hint of familiarity. I didn’t have to look very hard though. My father’s hand moved down to the woman’s butt, squeezed it, and stayed there.

The woman acted like nothing was happening. She only continued to give my father smiles here and there.

My eyes frantically scanned the room, the faces, for my mom.

There sat my mom on the couch next to no one. She was as still as a statue. Awkward in a room full of easy movement and blurred edges. Her gaze was trained on my father and the blond. Her expression was defeated. Hopeless. Empty.

Tears stung my eyes as I longed to comfort my mom. How much would she have to go through because of him? How much was enough? What the hell would it take for her to DO something about all this?

Pity turned to anger growing in my belly. He may be my father, but I am NOT like HIM. I will NEVER be like him. He is a disgusting mother fucker. Somehow, I will make him hurt.

The resentment sat with me like an old friend. Eventually, I grew tired keeping watch. I slipped quietly back to my bedroom, which felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.



Here was the prompt:
Is there someone who drives you crazy? Someone who really gets under your skin.

It doesn't have to be someone you know (although it certainly can be). It could be someone famous. Or even a character in a book.

Now, write a first-person piece - as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you. For instance, maybe there's a good reason why they eat with their mouths open, or why they use sarcasm as a weapon.

Her Own Dreams

She had the place to herself. No TV, no sports announcer shouting at her, no boyfriend filling the space beyond capacity.

He thought she had a photography appointment while he was out. As if she needed something productive to be done if he wasn't around.

All she needed was the silence and the absence of him.

Soon, she would pour another glass of wine. Maybe she would grab a cigarette from her secret stash.

She heard the clicks getting faster, and her heart rate sped up for a moment. Then, the final Snap!

She got up to check the self portrait. Satisfied, she printed the image, happy with her idea to capture the moment. She grabbed a metal thumbtack, pressed it into the top of the picture into the wall above her bed. Lest she forget how good she felt at that moment. Grabbing a black Sharpie, she penned a title at the bottom of the picture:

Starting NOW.

Walking to the front door, she checked the locks again and picked up her phone from the side table. A text was all he deserved.

"I'm done. We're done. You cannot change my mind."

She turned her phone off, poured that glass of wine, and turned on the radio. Dancing, for the first time, without fear of pleasing anyone but herself.


This was a picture prompt for Red Writing Hood at The Red Dress Club, inspired by the image above.

Burning Soles

My feet are killing me! I really just want to go home! I thought, but I dared not say anything. I wanted my visiting friend, Jen, to have fun. I did not want to be a fun hater, the party pooper, The Debbie Downer.

We maneuvered through the crowd to get to the dance floor. People pulsed and bounced to the popular, local band all around me. I tried not to wince in pain with every move. I tried to look like I was having fun, but I uncharacteristically could not wait for the song to end.

The balls of my feet pressed down into the unforgiving, hard soles of the cheap high heels. I looked down at my burning feet as though I would see smoke coming from my toes. Instead, I saw freshly manicured pink toenails. The turquoise and brown sandal heels with delicate straps still looked perfectly cute with my jeans.

The damned shoes had betrayed me. I had worn them many times before, dancing the night away. I had just always been too drunk to feel the pain. Tonight, I was sober, very sober.

As the song ended, I shouted over the noise to Jen, “Let’s go outside for a minute!”

“WHAT?!”

“Outside!” I practically shrieked and motioned her with me toward the door.

As we pushed in between people, I actually felt scared. A bar was usually a playground for me! Tonight, I looked at the wasted faces constantly passing by and thought, These people are capable of anything! Look at them. They are operating on the lizard part of their brains! They have no good sense. No good sense at all, and god knows what could set them off!

We got to a patio table and sat down. “I’m sorry! I just need to get some air for a couple minutes. My feet are killing me!”

“That’s ok!” said my good, dear friend.

“Hey, what’re you ladies up to?” a boy stupidly asked while taking a seat at our table.

I decided to be amused by this boy (well, I guess he could be called a “guy,” but certainly not a man). I looked at him with a small smile on my face and just shrugged my shoulders a bit.

“Well, I gotta say, you’re lookin’ good t‘night!” he slurred at me.

A loud, guffaw of a laugh burst out of my mouth. I couldn’t help myself. It all seemed so absurd. Jen sat back in her chair, watching with a smile on her face.

“Wha?” the boy said.

“I’m pregnant,” I said.

There was a moment, just a moment, of silence.

“So?” he decided to say.

“Listen, thank you for the compliment, that’s very nice. I’m just out with my friend, I’m married, I’m pregnant, I’m sober, my feet hurt, and I’m not in the mood for any shenanigans,” I said. Pregnancy is like truth serum! I thought.

Without another word, the boy pushed back the chair and walked away. I looked at Jen.

“You want to go home?” she asked.

Oh thank god! I thought. “Yes. I’m so sorry, but I really do just want to go home,” I said.

I have never worn those shoes again.


This post was in response to the Red Writing Hood prompt: Shoes.

Imitation of Life

The sound of brush on canvas was all she desired to hear. The tension of the day almost released through the quick movement of her hands. Her subject this time was the massive, breathtaking landscape of The Grand Canyon, but if you looked closely, the detail given to a pack mule was beyond intricate. She had spent countless hours perfecting this part of her current piece without quite understanding what drew her to it. As she banged the brush on the side of the easel, shaking off water, her husband walked in and stood behind her.

She could hear him breathing behind her, and then a low burp that he tried to mask by slowing blowing it out.

"What is that? Are you in here drawing a jackass?" he asked.

She said nothing and only waited for him to leave.

He chuckled. "A freaking donkey," he said, shaking his head and walking away.

We all carry our loads, she thought.



This was a piece for Red Writing Hood. Write a flash fiction of 300 words or less with the following inspiration: LIFE.

The Christmas Party

I was very intrigued by The Red Writing Hood prompt for the week:

Is there someone who drives you crazy? Someone who really gets under your skin.

It doesn't have to be someone you know (although it certainly can be). It could be someone famous. Or even a character in a book.

Now, write a first-person piece - as if YOU are this individual. Write from his or her perspective and include the things that really bother you. For instance, maybe there's a good reason why they eat with their mouths open, or why they use sarcasm as a weapon.

This can be completely fictional or you can base it on a real-life person.



This is a piece of fiction (although I started with a real-life person in mind)...I chose someone who gets under my skin really bad because she is so cold and judgmental. Uptight. When I thought of a scene to explain reasons why she could be this way, it turned into a sympathetic piece.

The Christmas Party

I sat in my usual hiding spot at the top of the stairs, peeking down at the scene below. My father, my embarrassment of a father, was in the middle of one of his favorite jokes. It was like driving by a car accident. You don’t want to look, but you have to.

“So then the guy told the doctor, I don't smoke cigars anymore, but now I can't go to sleep at night unless I have a cigar shoved up my ASS!!" my father finished with an almost manic shout.

I shut my eyes and cringed.

Why do they all think that is so funny? It’s disgusting! HE’S disgusting! I thought.

The drunk idiots were all crammed into our living room on a snowy December evening. My parents’ Christmas party was a popular annual event. Not that my father ever needed an excuse to drink. The Christmas party just meant he could do it with an audience besides his own family.

They must all tolerate him. They must laugh at his jokes to not be rude. Surely, they must hate him just as much as his own daughter does? I wondered.

In spite of my own disgust, my father always seemed to be the life of the party. There was no way I could respect this scene if my father was the person all these assholes adored. Without having had a drink myself, all I could see was a sloppy, old loudmouth – way past his prime.

I had lost respect for him long ago. It had all become too much. Too much drinking, too much yelling, too many secrets, too many excuses, too many broken promises.

Personality does not make up for a complete lack of basic human decency. Why doesn’t anyone else see that?

I turned my attention to the blond woman that had been laughing a little louder than the rest at my father’s jokes. She moved closer to where my father was standing and stumbled a little on the way there. My father reached out to steady her arm, causing her drink to spill over onto the carpet. They leaned into each other, giggling like school kids.

My eyes narrowed, focusing in for even a hint of familiarity. I didn’t have to look very hard though. My father’s hand moved down to the woman’s butt, squeezed it, and stayed there.

The woman acted like nothing was happening. She only continued to give my father smiles here and there.

My eyes frantically scanned the room, the faces, for my mom.

There sat my mom on the couch next to no one. She was as still as a statue. Awkward in a room full of easy movement and blurred edges. Her gaze was trained on my father and the blond. Her expression was defeated. Hopeless. Empty.

Tears stung my eyes as I longed to comfort my mom. How much would she have to go through because of him? How much was enough? What the hell would it take for her to DO something about all this?

Pity turned to anger growing in my belly. He may be my father, but I am NOT like HIM. I will NEVER be like him. He is a disgusting mother fucker. Somehow, I will make him hurt.

The resentment sat with me like an old friend. Eventually, I grew tired keeping watch. I slipped quietly back to my bedroom, which felt a few degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

In the Rain

Today's post is in response to this prompt from The Red Dress Club:

Water gives life. It also takes it away.

Write a short piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements.

In the Rain

Splashing, I was splashing, while the desert opened itself to the cover of rain. What a surprise! The soaking, the downpour, water in every crevice where there was none moments before.

I was out of that house. Out of that house that contained us, shielded us from the sun. A house that kept us in spaces too close. Too close to ignore what we did not want to see.

I was a kid again and the backyard was my bathtub.

Monsoons in the desert are a special kind of storm. Once a year. Water, water, pouring down, flooding the streets that have no plan for this much water. Warm, thick air that feels like relief, so different from almost every other day of the year – in a desert.

I laid down in inches of water, completely free and undone, soaking my hair, taking it all in. Palm and yucca reached toward the sky, not even needing the nurturing it was given.

No one knew I could be so free. I kept myself in a tight bud, all the time, to protect myself from judgment. In my own backyard, all alone, in the rain there was no caution for cleanliness or perfection.

Rain was a welcome respite from the harsh light. A break from the search for comfort under an unforgiving sun.

That house, that house, it stood there and held all of our insides. That damn house. Waiting for me to come back. Waiting for me to return to a tight bud and close the door on freedom and truth.

I would stay in the rain until I was wrinkled and shaking. I would stay in the rain, running and doing cartwheels and rolling on the grass. No one really cared. I didn’t care. For a moment. I didn’t care, and I was free. In the rain.



“And then the time came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was greater than the risk it took to blossom.” Anais Nin

That's Nice

The prompt for this week at The Red Dress Club is to write a piece of flash fiction (no more than 600 words) in which one character cries and one character (could be the same character) tells a joke. I loved this. Right up my alley. Enjoy!

That's Nice

The three friends sat and listened to Carol cry, yet again, about her inattentive boyfriend. The drama and tears were welcome distraction for the doldrums of their everyday lives.

“And he never even came home until four this morning! What was he doing all that time?” Carol managed to say through her tears.

The friends looked around at each other, not knowing how to console Carol. Everyone knew that if your boyfriend is out until four a.m., he can’t be up to any good.

Kathy decided to try and say something, anything, encouraging. “Oh, honey, why don’t you -"

“He doesn’t even CARE about how I feel!” Carol shrieked, obviously not interested in what anyone else had to say.

Between sniffles and wiping of her eyes, Carol emotionally continued, “This morning, when I tried to ask him where he was, he wasn’t even listening! He wouldn’t even LOOK at me. He just said, ‘That’s nice.’ Can you believe it?!”

“Oh, no,” Kathy said, while the others still just sat with pained expressions on their faces.

Carol’s voice turned sarcastic. “So I said, ‘You obviously don’t care and won’t listen so I’m leaving now. I’m going to lunch with my friends.’ And you know what he said?! ‘THAT’S NICE.’” Carol crumpled into her napkin again and sobbed.

One friend stroked Carol’s back. They sat in a moment of silence.

Just then, their other friend, Carly, arrived. The friends shared a bit of a collective sigh of relief. Carly would, hopefully, be a good distraction to the awkward moment. Carly usually knew how to lighten things up.

Sure enough, Carly looked around and exclaimed, “Why the sad faces? I know what! You MUST hear this joke that Rob JUST told me. It is so great! I have to tell it before I forget it. You’ll love it. It’ll cheer us all up!” Carly gushed excitedly in her usual fashion.

Without waiting for approval, Carly cleared her throat and began the joke with an exaggerated southern drawl.

“Three Southern Belles were out to lunch. The first Southern Belle said, ‘My husband! My husband is the best husband in the whole world! He bought me a three-carat dia-mond ring!’

And the third Southern Belle said, ‘That’s niiiiice.’” Carly drawled dramatically.

“The second Southern Belle said, ‘Well, MY husband is the best husband in the whole world! He took me on a cruise around the world!’

The third Southern Belle just said, ‘That’s niiiice,’ in a sickly sweet way…

…THEN, the first Southern Belle looked at the third Southern Belle and said, ‘Pray tell, what has YOUR husband done for you lately?’” Here, Carly paused for dramatic effect.

“The third Southern Belle demurely said, ‘Well, my husband sent me to charm school.’

‘And, pray tell, what did you learn in charm school?’” asked the first Southern Belle.

At this, Carly looked at everyone with a small smile. In her exaggerated Southern drawl, she finished the joke, “I learned how to say things like, ‘THAT’S NICE, instead of FUCK YOU.”

And, with that, Carol burst into tears again.

Sweet Nothings

The Red Dress prompt this week was to pull out an item from your pantry and incorporate the ingredients in a story. Hey, I may have pulled the easiest thing (organic honey), but I just couldn't make my brain hurt too much this Friday!


“You never call me a pet name. You ever notice that?” He asked.

“What are you talking about?” I said, puzzled.

“Well, most boyfriends and girlfriends call each other things like ‘Baby’ or ‘Sweety,’” he explained.

Eww. I thought. “So, what are you trying to say?”

“It would just be nice to hear you call me something, you know, affectionate. It would show that you loved me,” he said.

“I don’t see why I need to call you some kind of ridiculous name like ‘Honey’ or ‘Sugar’ in order to show that I love you,” I said hotly, starting to feel irritated.

It just didn’t feel right. Nothing about this relationship felt right.

“Can you just give it a try?” he pushed.

I was incredulous. “You want me to say something, even though I find it silly, just because you think it shows that I love you?”

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t find it silly, honey.” His voice was tight. He enunciated each word carefully. Like I was stupid.

“Oh, come on, you know I love you!” I said in a bright voice, trying to lighten the mood.

He stared at me.

I considered my next move.

“Well, which, uh, name do you like best?” I asked.

“Baby. I’d like you to call me ‘baby’ sometimes,” he said. “Like, you could say, ‘How was your day, baby.’ It sounds so loving.”

He was completely serious.

“Um, ok. I’ll try,” I said. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it.

Nothing about this relationship felt right.