The Prom

You were to write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character's. They can be real or symbolic



She was so excited!  He'd be here soon, and she was far from ready.  It was time to get a move on.

She pulled the dress on, viewed herself in the mirror, adjusted the top, straightened the skirt.  Frowned, then smiled.  Too late to hate it now. 

She brushed her hair carefully, pinned back the errant strands.  Makeup, just a touch of blush and lip color, he didn't care for a lot of "face paint".

Finally she opened the box that held them.  Her shoes, dancing shoes.  She was going to the prom, she was going to dance.  They were beige with little pearls sewed to them.  The soles flat for dancing.  She wasn't going to try to impress him stomping about on spiky little heels. These were the shoes, so soft, so perfect.

One last flash by the mirror, she smiled again, pleased with what she saw.  She was
as ready as she was going to be.

He knocked at the door, her mother led him to the living room where she waited.  He smiled at her and held out his hand.  She clasped it lightly and rose to her feet.  He put the precious corsage on her wrist.

"Are you ready to go dancing?" he asked.

"Oh yes!  I am ready!"

*****

The call had come late in the evening.  They needed someone to come identify the body.  This was not a task she wished to do, but she was the one who lived closest.

"I'm sorry you have to do this, but rules and all.  The old lady in the next room was complaining about the music.  We knocked, but your grandmother didn't answer.  We used the passkey to get in."

Her grandmother was sitting on the sofa, dressed in her best old dress.  It looked like she was wearing some lipstick.  Her hair was carefully brushed back.  In her hands, a pressed flower, no more frail than the hands that held it.

On her feet were the shoes.  The shoes she had shown her granddaughter countless times.  Even long after Granddad had passed away, Grandma would still pull out those shoes.  They were wrinkled and pale as the serene face of her grandmother.  Missing many of the tiny pearls. Her dancing shoes, the ones that had helped her win Granddad's heart.

Once Upon a Purr

Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE.



The door opened with only small sound. Six ears perked with curiosity. 
The intruder stepped carefully over the threshold. Twelve velvet paws padded silently from their naps.
The mini flashlight played over someone's belongings. Six incandescent eyes followed the beam. 
The stranger's hand turned the bedroom doorknob. Three tails became exclamation points of shock at the audacity. 
Three growling voices were the last thing the intruder heard before the uncountable talons and teeth began. 

She awoke the next morning to find the back door ajar. How odd.  But, everything seemed in order. 
She opened the cupboard and randomly chose a can. 
"Here kitties, time for breakfast!"
People made fun of her affection for her cats. They didn't get it.  Her cats were her life. 

Calculated Path

This week we asked you to show us how physical beauty can open doors - or close them. How does it make an impact?




Graleon watched from outside the circle of trees. Lyabet was confronting her mother about the "theft" of her youngest child. He was surprised to learn of the boy's ability. He hadn't considered the possibility that these half humans might be more than pets. 

He remembered first meeting Tam.  He'd  been attracted by her beauty, the red highlights in her hair. Her face was lit from within, a rosy complexion. He almost mistook her for an element of Fire, until he saw her eyes.  They were the color of spring. Leaf green, a give away to her true nature.  When he looked into them he saw life.  She was of the Earth, solid and nurturing.

She'd make the perfect mother for his heir. 



 

Paths Crossed

This week, we'd like you to write a scene that includes a happy ending


(If you haven't read here before, you may want to read this and then this ) 

Tamryn Leafeyes, Lady of Tree Cairn, tried to embrace her daughter. “Really, ‘Bet. Would it have been too much to say hello first?” Tam dropped her arms, she wasn’t entirely surprised by her daughter’s anger. She had far overstepped herself this time.

“How do you say hello to someone that has stolen your child, Mother.? Hi, hugs and kisses, can I have my boy back? Pretty please? Speaking of, where is Barry? I'm taking him home. Now." Lyabet had not seen her mother for literally ages. She hadn't changed, elementals, whether earth or air, didn't age at the same pace humans did.

“’Bet, I did not steal your son. I simply wanted to visit with my grandson.”

“You have two grandsons. The one you are visiting with, and the one you left behind. The one that thinks he’s not good enough to go with the, ahem, nice lady.”

Tam sighed , “I know. I have two grandsons. But, I couldn’t bring the other through the earth. And? Perhaps had you told me yourself of these grandchildren, instead of having to hear it from Graleon,” Tam shook herself in disbelief, “we could have set a much more pleasant visit.”

Lyabet remembered the last time she seen her father, Graleon. He’d told her how much he missed and loved her. In the same breath he’d called her babies animals. Her jaw tightened at the memory.

“You know how your father feels about humans, ‘Bet. You should have come to me. I understand. I had human babies. Once.” Tam turned away.  When she turned back, Lyabet could see traces of tears.

“Mother,” she reached out, almost shyly, laid her hand on the other woman’s shoulder, “ I know about them, I know about the trees. And, I know how this path may end.” Lyabet gently turned her mother to face her. “I know you understand, it’s just been so long since I’ve seen you. Father raised me, you didn’t seem interested…”

“I was interested! You were a child of my blood, the baby I wouldn’t have to plant a tree to remember. But, you were more the child of your father. Air, not Earth. I couldn’t teach you of the air. He could, he did. He did, and was so smug.” Tam waved a hand to dismiss the thoughts of Graleon. “’Bet, I have always loved you, always wanted to have you with me. It just didn’t happen the way I wished.”

Lyabet drew a breath, the anger receding as she made a quick decision. “Maybe it’s time we got to know each other. Perhaps we have some catching up to do. Get Barry, we need to go back now, time is different here.”

Tam looked at her daughter with raised brows,“We?”

“Yes, Mother. We. Three. Now” She could only hope her husband would understand.

>>>>>>>
　
Chuck wasn’t sure what woke him. A change in air temperature, a thump in the backyard, but he jumped from the sofa where he’d dozed off. “Beth? Beth is that you? “

A woman with leaf green eyes and brown hair that glinted with autumn highlights stepped into the room. “Yes! Yes Chuck, we are home!”

He jumped back, reaching for anything that might pass as a weapon, “Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my house!”

He was answered by the patter of little feet, and a sweet voice calling, “Dadda! Dadda, I here! You miss me?”

We Used to Sing

This week's memoir prompt asked you to dig deep to find what, from your childhood, you still know from heart.


"Chickery chick, cha-la, cha-la
Check-a-la romey in a bananika
Bollika, wollika, can't you see
Chickery chick is me?"

"Mairzy doats and dozy doats
And liddle lamzy divey
A kiddley divey too,
Wouldn't you?"

"Down in the meadow in a little bitty pool
Swam three baby fishies and a mama fishie too
"Swim" said the mama fishie, "Swim if you can"
And they swam and they swam right over the dam
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
Boop boop dit-tem dat-tem what-tem Chu!
And they swam and they swam right over the dam"

"I went to the Animal Fair
The birds and the beasts were there
The big baboon by the light of the moon
Was combing his auburn hair"

"Wintee Wee was painted on a saucer,
Song Fong Lo was on a fan.
Song Fong Lo, he came across her
On a dressing stand. 

Wee, please come with me,
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land. 

You step off your saucer, I'll climb off my fan
And we'll go back to dreamy lotus land..."

These are songs my grandmother and my mother sang to us as we were growing up. 
We'd sing in the car on long trips. 
We'd start singing while playing cards. 

My grandmother had a very expressive face. During different songs, she'd roll her eyes or grin maniacally. 

My mother's version always had a swing or Big Band edge to them. 

Either way, I remember the words to them all. 

Except the last one. The words defy me to find them all. It's a sad love lost song. For Winty
Wee is made of china. She slips and falls from the dressing stand. 
(we had it wrong. Lyrics found: I posted them on RandomRants. The button is on the right.

The Path Before

We'd like you to write about what your character wants most.
To read more of the story: The Paths of the Elementals

Tamryn Leafeyed, stood quietly, watching the two boys play. The older boy playing with plastic trucks and cars. The younger boy playing with whatever he found. Pebbles, sticks, blades of grass. Their father peeking out the back door regularly.

She remembered watching other children play. She and their father laughing at their antics.

Their father, a beautiful man, skin the color of rich earth. His eyes darkest brown.  She had hair of brown with hints of autumn red, eyes the color of spring leaves.  Her skin lighter, touched with the blush of ripe peach.  Together they had seven beautiful children.

She was happy, she had love. She gave and received love. Love from the beautiful man. Love from the seven beautiful children. She would be happy forever.

Except, they didn't have forever. Tamryn Leafeyed was an Earth Elemental, a force of nature. Yet, she had no power over time, and it went by more quickly than she had imagined it could. The beautiful man became old, though never less beautiful.  When his life ended, she was shocked even though she had known it would happen.

Her seven beautiful children grew to adulthood almost overnight. They had children of their own. Her beautiful grandchildren. 
Her beautiful children became old. When the first of them died of old age in her arms, her heart shredded.  She suddenly understood the consequence of the path she had chosen.

Tam planted the first of seven trees

She stood within the circle of the seven ancient trees, holding the hand of the little boy she had brought with her. Her youngest, newest grandchild. A grandchild that could hear and feel her presence, half human, half elemental.  A child that maybe had forever.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She never should have hugged that other boy. The other grandchild. The one whose oh-so-human heartbeat still vibrated in her arms. The beats counting down to the end of his days. She wanted so much for him to hear her. To find that her blood was there.

She wanted so much to have them both...forever.

Grains of Sand

So this week, we want you to write about sand.


"Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives"

This is the opening line of a soap opera I've never watched. But I love the line.  

I was enchanted with hourglasses when I was young. Watching the sand gently flow from top to bottom. It seemed to take a long time to build below. The grains bouncing on the empty glass.  Yet, as more sand flowed, the faster the top emptied.  A hill mounding, the grains of sand rolling down the sides.  Then suddenly, the last grain falls. Time has run out. 

Life is much like that. The first years, baby steps and potty training and losing baby teeth, barely cover the bottom. The memories bouncing about like a toddler's attention. 

Moving into teens and young adulthood, a hill begins to form. A woman begins grow.   Making choices, climbing uphill, sliding down. Climbing again. 

As the years pass, the sands flow quickly. I've reached that place where the bottom of the hourglass holds more than the top. The sand slipping away at an alarming pace.  I wouldn't want to return to the beginning, but if I could just turn the glass now, gain a little more sand.  A little more life. I still have so much to do. 

What will be left when the last grain falls?  A legacy of accomplishments? Or just a pile of sand?  

No Special Path

The prompt:Aaah...jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it.

And now we'd like you to write about it. We'll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.

And it can be fiction or non-fiction. Word limit is 600.



Mommy had given him hugs and told him he was special. She'd tucked him in tight and kissed him good night.

Then she left to find Barry and bring him home. Because, Barry really was special. Barry could hear Mommy when she was away. Barry could make the air move like Mommy did. Barry was special, like Mommy.

Darren couldn't do those things. He was just Darren, not special. So, Mommy put him to bed and went to find Barry.

Darren crawled out of bed and went to Barry's room. Mommy had given Barry some pinwheels to practice making the air move them. Darren stared at them, waved his arms like he'd seen his brother do. Nothing happened, they didn't even wiggle. He wasn't special at all.

He'd make them move anyway!  Swinging his arms wildly, he knocked them all to the floor. Then kicked them, making some of them come apart.

"Darren? Are you in bed?" He heard Daddy coming to the stairs. He shoved the broken toys under Barry's bed and scurried back to his room.

He was under the covers when Daddy checked on him, "Hey, buddy, you ok?," Daddy ruffled his his hair.  "It's not your fault Darren."

"I know Daddy. Is Mommy home yet?"

"No, buddy, she'll be back when she finds your brother"

"What if she can't find him, Daddy?"

Daddy gave him a hug and kissed the top of his head, "she'll find him," Daddy tucked the covers back around him. As he was leaving, Darren heard him whisper, "She has to."

Darren's tears fell quietly on his pillow. Because Daddy thought Barry was more special, too.



This is after Beth/Lyabet leaves to reclaim her youngest son. You can read about that here: http://elsetimeandotherwhen.blogspot.com/2011/04/another-path.html

Alone

This week's RemembeRED prompt was to write about a time something seemingly terrible happened, but looking back, it brought something wonderful.



"We're pregnant," she whispered. It was only three weeks and she didn't want to spread the news yet. But she was so excited, they were ready to add to their family. 

I smiled with her, asked all the appropriate questions, answered a few she had for me. 

Yet, I could feel little excitement. What felt was loss. My daughter had made that final step away from me. 
No more spontaneous lunches. No more just dropping by randomly. 

I was not ready to be a Grandmother. I wasn't old enough. I had little patience for babies and young children. It's the way I was made. 

As my daughter grew, we had become friends. Now, my friend wouldn't have time for me anymore. 

As she made plans and picked names and furniture and baby clothes, I kept my sadness hidden. 

Delivery came, I was proud of her. She did well. She had a healthy baby boy. 

Time passed, I saw little of her for several weeks. She called for advice now and then. She called to cry her frustrations. 

Then, she needed a babysitter. And I got to spend my first alone time with the baby. The first of many times. 

Now, I have a two year old grandson. A bundle of hugs and energy. Gramma's boy. And he is all boy. Trucks and fire engines. Running and giggling. 

There is a granddaughter now as well. It took some time for me to see the gifts I was receiving. I have two new little people to fill my life.  

And I still have my daughter, my friend. 

In Care of the Grim Reaper

The prompt: "write a formal complaint letter to your deepest, darkest fear."



Dear Death,

You don't know me. You never will. I'm an Elemental you see.  Immortal.

I know you have issues with my kind. You feel cheated.  I understand, I think. You have a job to do, and my kind don't contribute to your cause.

Nevertheless, I'm writing to ask a favor of you.

I have chosen to take a human husband. I know you will come for him one day. I have accepted that.

However, we have had two children. Beautiful babies of mixed heritage. They are growing up so quickly. I cherish each new milestone. Yet, I tremble at every new step.

Because they are half mortal, half human.  I fear you will try to take them one day.

You will come to call them away from me. It makes no difference how "old" they will be.  They will still be my babies.

However, they are also half immortal. I believe that should be enough to remove them from whatever list it is you keep.

If you do come for them, be aware, I will be there. I will fight you with every ounce of my energy. As an Element of Air, that energy is rather formidable.
  
It would be much better for both of us if you simply bypass my children.

                              Sincerely,
                              Lyabet/Beth
                         AirElemental/Mother

Hummingbird

“Give me a memory of the color red. Do not write the word 'red' but use words that engender the color red when you hear them. For example: a ruby, a tomato, fire, blood.




Iridescent in the sunlight. Zipping about on emerald wings. 
Flashing a throat patch of ruby sequins.
When he hovered in shadows, his patch sparkled still, so dark it was almost black.  Like patent leather, the lack of direct light not hampering his glow.
Then a stray sunbeam would strike him, igniting his candy apple calling card.

Drought

The Prompt: "This week, we're giving you a photo to take you back in time."

It's late June.  The spring rains have come and gone. The heat and humidity feel more like late July. The yard is scarred with cracked earth.

The flowers and vegetables, planted with hopes of summer color and fall bounty, are withering. The new fruit trees are trying desperately to force young roots deep enough to find water.

Every day, in the late afternoon, he pulls the hose behind him. He goes from garden to garden, sapling to sapling, soaking the soil.   Leaves that have sagged under the midday sun begin to rise with tentative hope.

He waters the new grass, but most of the precious liquid runs into deep fissures, never touching the young roots.  The only thing that keeps this spot green are old, established shade trees.

As the sun lowers in the sky I join him. We walk each garden together, assessing each plant.  We wish it would rain. We wish the stifling heat would ease. We wish for winter.

Another Path

The prompt:Someone has stolen something from you (or your character). Something of tremendous value. What will you do to get it back? Or will you give up?

This is about Beth/Lyabet. First introduced here. 



Beth rounded the last corner before home and was confronted by half a dozen squad cars.  Squad cars parked in front of her house.

An officer stopped her as she leapt from her car, asking who she was, did she belong here. She replied to the questions, panic rising in her with each answer

"What's  going on? What's wrong? Are my kids OK? Where's my husband? What is happening?" her voice became louder, shriller as images flashed through her mind, each more frightening than the one before.

Finally a detective walked her to the door. Chuck was waiting inside, the panic in his eyes, mirroring her own. "Barry is missing," was all he could get out.

She felt like she was choking.  "Barry?  My baby?" she thought, "he's only two. Where could he go?  Where is Darren?"

The detective began to explain. "Your sons were in your backyard. The older boy," he flipped through a notebook, "Darren, he's five, right?"
Beth nodded automatically.
"Yes, Darren said a woman came into the yard and talked to them. Then she took Barry's hand and walked by the tree out there. And were gone."

She felt, what?  Faint?  A strange feeling, something she'd never experienced. The droning of the police. Question after question. The same ones, over and over and over.

"Beth!"
"Catch her! She's passing out."
"Give her time. We can get more info later. Not much to do now but put out an alert."
"We'll be in touch. Call if you think of anything"

Silence

"Beth?  Honey, are you OK?"

"What?  OK?  No, no, I am not OK. Where is my baby?" she looked at her husband. Saw the fear, for Barry. For her.  "Please, Chuck, please. What happened to Barry?  Where is he?  Where is Darren?"

Chuck took a breath, let it out slowly. " The boys were playing out back. Darren came in crying, because the pretty lady took Barry, but wouldn't take him"

"What?  Darren wanted to go?"

"Talk to him, Beth, the cops didn't think he knew what was going on. Maybe you can get more from him."

Beth climbed the stairs and found Darren in his room. She wrapped her arms around him, afraid to let go. Afraid he'd disappear too.

"Mommy?  Are you mad at me? 'Cause I let Barry go by himself" his brown eyes, so like his father's, were filled with guilt. "I wanted to go, but the lady said I couldn't. It was a special place. Only Barry could go into the tree."

Tears filled his eyes, "I'm not as special as Barry. I can't hear you like he does,"

Beth's heart broke for him. She wanted to reassure him, let him know how special he was. But, one word stuck in her head.

Into. Into the tree. Not by the tree. Into the tree.

"Darren. What did this pretty lady look like?  It's important. Tell me what she looked like."  As Darren described the mystery woman, Beth's anguish turned to anger.

Beth went downstairs where she found Chuck was slumped on the sofa. He looked beaten.
"Chuck, I know where he is. I'm going to go get him."

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then understanding replaced the confusion. "You know where he is. Are you saying he was taken by your...people, other elementals?"

"Yes." The look in her eyes alarmed him. As well as the way her hair had begun to writhe and float of it's own accord. He was no longer looking at Beth, his wife. He was looking at Lyabet, an element of the air. A force of nature.

"I'm going to go get him."

"Beth," he wasn't sure she would hear him right now, but he spoke anyway, "just come back. Come back with our son."

>>>>>>>>

Lyabet was of air and wind. The old oak in the backyard was of the earth. She had travelled that way before. But it had been a long time. Letting go of her human flesh, she passed through the outer shell of the old tree, reaching its heart, becoming one. She followed the trunk down. Into the roots, into the earth.

It was slower going than she liked. But as she travelled she began to recognize traces of her son. From root to taproot to rock she followed the spark of his passage. Finally to another trunk, in a farther place, she returned to the air.

In front her was a familiar circle of seven ancient trees. As she approached them, a woman stepped from between two huge trunks.

"'Bet you came to see me!  It's been so long!  I've missed you." The woman threw her arms out in welcome.  Lyabet sidestepped the proffered embrace.

She gave one simple command.

"Give him back, Mother."

Summer Song

This week, your memoir prompt assignment is to think of a sound or a smell the reminds you of something from your past and write a post about that memory.  Don't forget to incorporate the sound/smell of your choosing!


Yellowed photos, a half century old. I look at the pictures of times long gone.
The memories faded as the photographs by growing, moving, hustling.
Life goes on, gets in the way.

Until summer.

When I hear the song of locusts. Beginning hesitantly, then gaining confidence and volume. Overwhelming the other evening sounds. Tapering off to start again.

Wave after wave.

I close my eyes. And catch a wave.  Fifty years drop away, and clarity returns.

I can smell the heat of summer evening. Feel the humid air that is August holding me in its damp embrace.

My dusty bare feet are rinsed clean by the arrival of dew on the grass. It's cold is a surprise against my toes.

My brothers and I climb about the old front porch. Standing atop the brick bases that hold wooden support posts . Hugging those posts while moths play daredevil with the dim outdoor porch light.

Across the old gravel road, lightning bugs arise in a cloud from the corn field. Winking yellow in the dusk.  Too many to count. But we count anyway.

A memory recalled with each hesitant beginning.
Coming now, in wave after wave.



Hear the song:  summer song

It's A Dog's Life

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





There's that damn noise again.  I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it and just lie here. 
Maybe she'll hit it again and go back to sleep.

Or maybe she'll get up at this silly hour. 
Sigh.

Alright, I know the drill.  Wait til she puts those wrappers on and head for the bath.

I just had a bath, and by that I mean soaking, last night.  I still feel damp, urff.

I wish she'd talk to me in the morning.  I'd like to let her know I want to go out. 

And I need a drink of water.

But she's busy.  In the bath.  I'll guard the door. 

Here we go!  Food and water!

Damn, I always have to wait til last.  "They" always get served first.
At least my food belongs to me here.  I don't have to share it.  At the other place I had to share.
I didn't get much, the others were bigger than me.

Yay food!  Yay water!

I am not eating too fast.  Yes, I am chewing.

Yes I am! 

Mostly.

Now she goes into the soft chair room.

Alright already, you sit there. 

Sigh.

She's leaving again.  She goes away everyday.  Then she's gone forever.

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock.

He's finally awake.  We go outside together. 

I don't know why.  It's cold and wet. 

We have all those strange little tree trunks inside.  I don't have to go out.

It's too late anyway.

Tick.  Tock.  Tick.  Tock.

I hear the beastly growl!  Yay!  She came back.

HelloHelloHelloHelloHello

I wish she'd talk to me.

Or not.

I don't have any idea why the chair is rocking.

It wasn't rocking when I got up.

I need a drink of water.

Can we go out now?

Can WE go out now?

OK, I want in.

Where's the treat?

I did too do something!  It's by the bath place.

My ball is under that thing.  I can't get it.  I can't get it.  I CAN'T GEEETTTT ITTT!

I need a drink of water.

I'm hungry.  Damn, I'm always last.   

She lets me sit beside her!  On the soft chair. 

For a minute. 

"They" get to sit on her.  "They" don't even give her kisses.

Sigh.

OhOhOhOhOh!

She's going to the bath.  Wait.  No, the food room!  Yay!

She needs me to go with her.  Just in case.  There might be intruders.  I hear a noise.

OK, so it's just "them".

I'll lie here in the middle of the room.  That way I can see everywhere.

OhOhOhOhOhOh!

Back to the soft chairs?

Nope, the tops of the funny looking tree trunks.

What is that wonderful smell?

I'm hungry.  He gives me bites.  She might.  She might.  She might.

She might not.

Back in the center of the food room.  She needs to stand still.  If she stands still, she might not step on me.
 Well, at least she doesn't kick me.  The other place that happened a lot.

I need a drink of water.  WE need to go out.  We, get it?

Sigh.

Yay!  A treat! 
Yes, I'm a good boy.

OhOhOhOhOh!

Now, she's going to the bath place.
I will guard the bath.  She closed the door, but I can keep the intruders away better.

Yay! The door opens!
She has a different wrapper now. 

She goes to the soft chair room.
She's sitting in her soft chair.
It's dark.
It's time to go to sleep.  On the bed.  The floor is cold and hard.
I've been lying on it all day.

Mostly.

It's dark.
It's time to go to sleep.

It's dark.  Sleep.

Finally.  She gets on the bed. 

And throws my ball on the floor.  I wonder how it got under the blankets.

Yawn!  It's been a long day.

Good night my people.


I am off of you! 
I can't help it, I itch!
I AM OFF OF YOU!
Stay on your own side, then....

Not Just Another Donut

But this week's prompt is simple: write a piece, fiction or non-fiction, inspired by the delicious shot. Word limit is 600.

I'm beautiful, a pink delight
A sugar laden treasure 
Plump and moist and sprinkle frilled
A tasty morning pleasure

Little teeth take greedy bites
Tiny tongues lap icing
Sprinkles stuck on chubby cheeks
I find them so enticing

Another nibble, one more bite
Almost to the goal
Hurry now to chew right through
And breach the donut hole 

I have them now, the little brats
Their cheeks I am embracing
With jaws of yeast and frosting glue
A trap of their own making

I'll bet a bright pink donut
Was not one of their fears
I suck them in with greedy bites
Lapping more than tears

I feel so fresh and whole again
I hope it's not too late
To find another hiding place
On some sweet kiddie's plate 

Those Grimm boys didn't get it right
In fact, they seldom did 
They always want to blame the witch
But t'was I who ate the kids

Forgiveless

This week's prompt is about forgiveness. Forgiving others, forgiving yourself. Write about a time of forgiveness.
(Thank you all for your comments. I have edited a bit based on your input. Renee)



All bright and shiny. She sparkled with goodness. She cared about what I said. She comforted me when life was being difficult. 

She was a precious treasure, a golden hearted friend. 

But, then?

She stole from me. She stole from my business. My livelihood. My life. 

She stole my faith in people. And she did it with smiles and sweet talk. 
She manipulated my feelings by confessing to minor mistakes. 

I had trusted her. She became my liaison with the other employees.  They loved her, too. They told her their secrets. 

She took advantage of their trust. She knew things they didn't want told. They closed their eyes to her "indiscretions".

When she was caught?  She was angry. Not apologetic, not ashamed. Just angry, at the person who caught her.  Angry at me, because she couldn't make me believe her lies anymore.   

Now, I am angry at myself.   That I didn't see that the bright and sparkly treasure was base metal underneath. Angry at myself that I cannot forgive her. 

The Path Chosen

This week's Red Writing Hood assignment is to write - fiction or non-fiction - about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?


The eldest dropped at school. The toddler safely at daycare.  Beth headed for her rendezvous.  She'd put it off as long as she could.

Her car nosed it's way down the narrow path. She'd left paved roads and street signs behind miles ago.

The car began to stutter. The track was almost non-existent now. The less defined it was, the less the vehicle cooperated.

"Well, I guess it's by foot already", she thought.

She entered a light woods and found what looked like a rabbit run. She followed it deeper, the trees around her not menacing, but welcoming.

As she continued, she could feel the opening of her heart. Hear the joy as she was recognized. Beth felt them as they felt her. Long before they were in view of each other.

Her steps began to quicken as she got closer to her goal. She hadn't realized how much she missed this place.

When she exited the woods, they were waiting. Asking where she had been. Why she had stayed away so long. Would she stay now. All in a jumble of words and pictures in her head. The only true sound was the singing of birds, the buzz of insects.

Beth sent reassurances of her love for them. They were family, yes. She had missed them, yes. She had taken a different path, she would not be staying.

She could feel the sadness and disappointment like clouds covering the sun. With sighs they began move away.  Soon there was only one.

"Father," she reached for his hand, "it's good to see you."

"Lyabet, you look tired!" he took her hand and led her to sit on a fallen tree trunk. "You need to rest. This life?  This path you've chosen? Doesn't treat you well."

"We've spoken of this before, Father. The outer world is different. Timewise and in other ways. I'm fine, and you know I won't be staying"

"I will never understand!  You choose a man who can't hear or see you as you truly are. You choose to live in silence. In muted light."

"I choose a man who cherishes me."   Beth had heard and said these words before. She had not come to argue the point again.

"I have children, Father. You have grandchildren."  She hoped to see interest at least. Maybe happiness.
What she saw and felt was arrogance.

"Blind, deaf children!  Little animals to wear you down.  You don't need that. Them. Stay here!  Where you belong." And then pleading, "Listen, feel. I know you can feel us. This place. It calls you. We call you. We hear you. They never will."

Beth stood, her anger and grief carefully controlled. She closed her mind. She allowed the feelings surrounding her to fade. She chose to be blind and deaf.

And walked away.

It was dark when she pulled into the driveway. Would they still be awake, it must be very late.

The door opened before she could reach it. Her oldest ran out and threw his arms around her. He was followed by his father, carrying the toddler. Relief showing in his eyes.

"I was afraid. Afraid you'd stay this time. You've given up so much, you've..."

"Shhhh. The little I left behind is nothing compared to what I have now," she soothed her husband, her oldest, still clinging, "Mommy, where were you?"

"I just had to make a little detour, it's alright now"

And the toddler in his fathers arms said, "Me toad dem you comin. I heerd you."

Flavors of Summer's Past

This week's prompt asked us to describe your favorite fruit or vegetable: the first time you tasted it, where it came from, where you were, what memories it brings.

Hot summer days. My brothers and I spent them outside. The half acre field behind the house was our haven. Overgrown, our paths through it well defined. 

Around the house were several trees. All perfect for climbing. 

We ate our first fruits there. 

The old cherry trees, with sappy branches. If we could beat the birds, we feasted on bright red cherries. So tart they made us shudder. 

Wadded up in the weeds were black raspberry patches. We ate them sun-warmed. The berries sweet and smooth flavored, leaving our fingers purple stained from grabbing. 

The old pear tree was stingy. Only producing every other year. Soft yellow-brown fruit. The sugary juices rolling from our chins as we ate. The cores dropped where we finished. 

The old concord grapevine. Almost wild. The skins were eaten first, slightly bitter. Then the meat of the grape. A full, sweet, lightly tart flavor that drew us back for more. 

And on the side of the road behind the field, one neighbor had strawberries. As big as our hands. I think we ate more than he harvested. But he never said a word. 

I miss those days. Eating the gifts of nature at our leisure. The flavors still stamped in my memory. 

Sifting Thought

This week's assignment is to write a short piece, either fiction or non-fiction, about something ugly - and find the beauty in it.




I found a new recipe to try. I read the ingredients list. I read the instructions. I bought the things I didn't have on hand. 

I gathered my goodies on the counter. The ingredients, bowls, a pot, measuring cup, and wooden spoon for mixing. Good to go.
 
The potatoes were quartered and boiling. The ham cubed and set aside. Sour cream and shredded cheese within reach. It was time to mix, assemble, and bake. 

The last step before going into the oven was sprinkling Parmesan cheese flavored bread crumbs on top. 

I didn't have Parmesan cheese flavored bread crumbs. But I had bread crumbs and grated Parmesan cheese. 

So I combined them, pulled out a whisk to mix them together. 

That wasn't working to my satisfaction. Hmmm. 

I went to my cupboard full of baking pans. There in the back I found the answer. 

It was dented a little bit. It was discolored by age a lot. Dusty from years of disuse. But I knew it would do the job. 

The old hand sifter had belonged to my grandmother. I poured the bread crumbs and Parmesan cheese into it. And I began to turn the crank. 

It made a pleasant noise, "shoosh, shoosh, shoosh". 

The crank still had the original wooden ball, worn shiny from use. The metal rod, shaped to fit the sifter canister still brushed the wire sieve at the bottom.  

"Shoosh, shoosh, shoosh."

As I turned that crank, I felt a smile happen. The simple beauty of an old fashioned utensil. Still doing the work it was crafted to do.