tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42168365420010737322024-03-13T09:36:27.333-07:00Karen's Make Believe WorldWhere I write about the stuff that happens to the people that live in my brain.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-77931780363412664822011-10-21T08:35:00.000-07:002011-10-21T08:35:49.536-07:00TrappedThe assignment this week is to express or elicit fear in 160 characters or less:<br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/red-writing-hood/" target="_blank"><img alt="Write On Edge: Red-Writing-Hood" src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/redWritingHoodButton.jpg" style="border-bottom-width: 0px; border-color: initial; border-left-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-top-width: 0px;" /></a></div>
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<b>I'm stuck at the light. It's still red. Why isn't it turning green? Why? Oh no. He's coming back.</b>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-54681056181441354352011-10-14T15:10:00.000-07:002011-10-14T15:10:36.950-07:00TattooBecause I really like these writing memes but so frequently forget to write them the night before, I've started playing a new game with myself. By the time I have a chance to think about it on the day it's "due", I check the linky. If there are fewer than 50 links added, then I have to run and write something fast. If there are more than 50, I'm off the hook.<br />
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It's been kind of a fun exercise and I've written a few things that surprised me. It's usually not edited (much) and not particularly well thought out, but it's getting words down and thinking in a new way. And I love it.</div>
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This week's topic is tattoos. Why is it important? What does it mean? The word limit is 300 and this one is 264.<br />
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Con crit is always welcome!<br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/red-writing-hood/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/redWritingHoodButton.jpg" /></a></div>
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Amber walked past the shop three or four times before sucking in a deep breath and the courage to step inside.<br />
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A bell jingled on the door overhead and she stood in a tiny waiting room. A fluorescent light flickered, casting an eerie glow on the walls and making her feel dizzy. Or maybe that was nerves.<br />
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“Hello?” she called. The only sound was a faint buzzing from down the hall, which stopped at her voice.<br />
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A man appeared, younger than she expected, and cleaner. His hair was short and he had recently shaved, and his clothes were neat, almost professional. When he asked, “Can I help you?” there was a lilt to his voice and she thought he was probably a decent tenor.<br />
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She breathed easier now and pulled a folded page from her pocket. “I’m here for a tattoo. Can you do this?”<br />
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He answered yes and then studied the design. “I’m finishing up with someone now. You wanna come back in about 30 minutes?”<br />
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“I’ll wait,” she said and sat on the lone plastic chair beside a table covered in design books.<br />
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Amber had never considered herself the type to get a tattoo. Had tried to talk Trista out of both of hers, and the next one she was planning. But Trista was gone now. Lost in a night of stupidity and alcohol. When Amber found the design among some of Trista’s things, a swirly pattern of shapes and letters, she kept it. And now she was here, honoring her best friend in the only way she knew how.<br />
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“Ready?” The man reappeared.<br />
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Amber nodded. “I am now.”Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-75533242031963267612011-10-07T09:42:00.000-07:002011-10-07T09:43:01.953-07:00Hawthorne HallThis is a little taste from the novel I'm currently working on. This week's Red Writing Hood prompt is all about setting, and this is a scene I just wrote. I kinda like it.<br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/red-writing-hood/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/redWritingHoodButton.jpg" /></a></div>
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A walkway led between two old, white buildings into a wide courtyard where a large fountain gurgled and most students passed by without seeing the beautiful sculpted figures at the center. They were unrecognizable to me, but there was something in the way they rounded and glowed in the daylight that spoke peace. I’d bring Twila here later and ask her about them.<br />
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There were numbers on the buildings and Hawthorne Hall was off in a secluded corner of the quad, shaded by jacaranda trees that stubbornly clung to the last of their purple flowers. The front door opened automatically as I approached, and the rubber soles of my shoes squealed loudly on the tiled hallway as I looked for the stairs. </div>
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The second floor was carpeted, an ugly, stained, gray Berber that was probably next on a long list of renovations and updates. The offices ran along one side of the corridor, doors in need of repainting, windows covered in flyers and announcements and years old tape that had never been scraped off.<br />
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There was something in the way years of school history layered upon themselves that made me feel at home.</div>
Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-4861934442246611372011-10-04T00:02:00.000-07:002011-10-04T00:02:41.814-07:00TradeToday's Write on Edge prompt is memoir. And the assignment is to conjure an image, a person, a season. Or a moment.<br />
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Here's my attempt. In *approximately* 100 words. Constructive criticism is always appreciated.<br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/remembered/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/remembeRedButton.jpg" /></a></div>
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The tremor was worse. It had given way to shaking. Terrifying, unnatural shaking. At the traffic light, I halted, waiting for the green. The light changed, but I held my breath, not exhaling until I was through the intersection. The car lurched. "Please," I begged. "Just a little more." With another shudder, we crested the hill, rolled into a turn at the next street, and steered into a parking lot. She waited for me. Pale blue and sparkling in the morning light. An hour later, I took her with me. My heart was heavy as I drove away from 100,000 miles of memories. And it was full of anticipation for a new adventure.</div>
Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-70747934866943857022011-09-22T23:08:00.000-07:002011-09-22T23:08:09.118-07:00Uptight Lawyer Seeks Free SpiritI haven't done one of these in ages. I don't know why. Every week, I really want to. But then time gets away from me and I just don't make it a priority.<br />
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I saw this week's prompt, though, and it was too much fun!<br />
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The prompt this week is to write a personal ad for a character. This is for a FICTIONAL CHARACTER. This is NOT about ME.<br />
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<a border="0" href="http://writeonedge.com/red-writing-hood/" target="_blank"><img src="http://writeonedge.com/wp-content/images/redWritingHoodButton.jpg" /></a></div>
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Whenever people ask me about myself, I never know quite what to say. How do I tell you who I am in just a few paragraphs on a site where you're browsing through profiles, looking for someone who's pretty enough and interesting enough and funny enough to convince you to say a simple hello? I can walk into a court room and tell a judge and a jury why they shouldn't send my client to prison for the next thirty years, but telling you why you should give me thirty minutes over coffee? It's not quite as easy.<br />
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But I'll give it a shot.<br />
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I've run marathons on five continents and I'm on the waiting list to run in Antarctica in 2014. I first ran a 5K a few years ago to support a friend's foundation, but quickly learned how much I love it. Running relaxes me. It helps me unwind after long days in the office.<br />
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I combine my love of running with my love of travel. Like I said, I've run marathons on five continents, but I've traveled to more than 60 countries and every state. I'm working my way through Canada next. Some people collect shot glasses or post cards. I collect stamps in my passport.<br />
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I'm looking for someone who isn't threatened by a self-sufficient career woman that works long hours and loves every minute. Someone with a carefree spirit to balance my structure and routine. Someone spontaneous and with a sense of adventure who loves life and doesn't take things too seriously. And, preferably, someone who can cook.<br />
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I can't wait to hear from you!<br />
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<br />Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-87473632005750334392011-07-12T09:23:00.000-07:002011-07-12T09:23:02.265-07:00I Pledge Allegiance...<div style="text-align: left;">You really want to know my most embarrassing moment?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, too bad. I'm not sharing that one. But here's one I don't mind telling you about:</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i856.photobucket.com/albums/ab126/kates78/rememberedbutton.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The first time I went through customs, I traveled alone. I was twenty years old and far less confident than I pretended to be, but I managed to navigate the labyrinth that is the Toronto International Airport and locate my Canadian hosts on the other side of the International Arrivals gate. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The American had arrived.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was there on Official Business. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Official business as the California representative to Ontario, Canada for an international youth organization.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This was an important trip and a lot of people were excited to meet the blond girl from California. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">So excited were they that a big meeting was scheduled to invite all the local chapters and all of their members to attend. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was a whirlwind of meeting new people, mostly teenage girls, and I was unused to being the center of attention. Though I won't pretend I didn't love every minute of it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The meeting began and I put on my best Serious Face. I was, after all, expected to be a good example to the fine young ladies in attendance and to represent California with pride and dignity.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The Canadian flag was presented and I joined in a rousing chorus of<i> O Canada</i>, an anthem I am proud to know by heart.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And then, out of respect for their visiting foreign dignitary, the American flag was presented and those Canadians rang out an impressive rendition of the <i>Star Spangled Banner</i>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Followed by my own national anthem, the young lady conducting the meeting followed our custom and invited me to Pledge Allegiance to my flag. I stood there in that room full of Canadians. The only American. I smiled wide with my hand firmly over my heart and began.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I stopped. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What's the next line? How does it go? Oh my gosh I'm butchering the pledge in front of a whole bunch of foreigners! I'm embarrassing my country! I'm a national disgrace! What comes next?? I can't believe I don't remember!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A woman near me whispered, "And to the republic..."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I gasped.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>"And to the Republic forwhichitstands, </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>one nation under God, </i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>indivisible, withlibertyandjusticeforall."</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My cheeks burned with humiliation. I'd forgotten the very pledge I'd been reciting since the age of 5. I'd had to be prompted. And, even worse, I'd had to be prompted by <i>a Canadian</i>.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It doesn't get much more embarrassing than that.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Well, except for this one time. At the beach...</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-58950843415355820942011-06-16T23:19:00.000-07:002011-06-16T23:22:25.223-07:00Beautiful<div style="text-align: left;">It's time again to play with the girls from the Red Dress Club!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">This week's prompt is about physical beauty and how it can open (or close) doors.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I honestly didn't take my time with this one. I just threw something together because I want to get back into the habit of participating. So it's really not edited and I'm sure I could make it infinitely better with a bit more attention, but, as always, I'm open to feedback.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>April reached for her glass of water, sipping carefully through the straw. She didn't want to smudge her lipstick, after all.<br />
<div><br />
</div><div>He was talking about something. His job? His relationship with his mother? </div><div><br />
</div><div>She didn't know. She'd lost track, her mind instead focusing on the blond curls that played at his ears, drawing attention to impossibly high cheek bones and a perfect jawline. His eyes were a shade of blue she'd never seen before. They were the color of the sky on a particularly vivid and cloudless day. </div><div><br />
</div><div>He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She raked her fingers through her brown hair. Every trace of curl had vanished before she'd even reached the restaurant. And she was certain the pimple that had been threatening to appear on her chin had finally reared its ugly head. She laughed at something he said, using the moment as an excuse to cover her mouth, hiding the teeth that desperately needed braces. She tried to laugh with her mouth closed, but knew that just made her face look weird.</div><div><br />
</div><div>What had she been thinking? She'd seen the pictures on his profile. She knew he was far more attractive when she accepted this date. And yet she'd agreed to meet him. </div><div><br />
</div><div>He was nice. Polite. Friendly. If he was arrogant, he was doing a fine job of hiding it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But it was obvious to April in those initial few minutes. This was never going to work.</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-41727551896254794232011-05-30T23:08:00.000-07:002011-05-30T23:08:29.732-07:00A Day Long AwaitedI'm back!<br />
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For short periods of time, anyway.<br />
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I broke my arm two months ago and have been trying to keep it sort of easy just maintaining my regular blog. Anyway, I'm back today with my entry for The Red Dress Club's memoir topic: Graduation. Here goes.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i856.photobucket.com/albums/ab126/kates78/rememberedbutton.jpg" /></a><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">It was time.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I hadn't been nervous until now. Even thinking about all the things that could go wrong...</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>falling down the stairs</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>tripping across the stage</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>the cap falling off</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>getting my gown caught</i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">None of that made me nervous. If any of those things had happened, I would have shrugged it off, laughed about it, and remembered it was graduation and no one would be around to think of that girl who face planted at the feet of the Dean. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I marched the recessional in step behind a stranger. My cheeks burned as I moved ever closer to the door. To them.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I didn't know the last time my parents had been in a room together. Years.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The divorce had been friendly enough. As friendly as divorces can go, anyway. But somewhere along the way, that all changed. Maybe it was when Dad remarried. Or when Mom let us change religions without asking him about it first. Over the years, the friendliness turned ugly until they finally stopped speaking altogether.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">And now they were reunited for my college graduation, which came about five years later than it should have. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My parents are both reasonable adults, civil and diplomatic when the situation calls for it. I learned that from both of them. It's a trait that has served me well in many occasions. Mom even said it would be good to get it out of the way before my brother's wedding a few months later.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I was nervous. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">At the door I said good bye to a few of the classmates who had become friends over the past two years. We hugged and promised to email and were quickly swamped by a sea of crying mothers and proud grandparents and kids that whined about being hungry.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I scanned the crowd as best I could from my 5 feet and 4 inches, but my family was nowhere to be found. My cheeks burned as I imagined my parents going off in opposite directions, refusing to speak or to be seen together. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Would that really happen?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I stopped and took a deep breath and there was a tap on my shoulder.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It was my mother.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Congratulations!" she practically screamed, pride radiating from her pores as she threw her arms around me. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My dad hung back just a bit with my step-mom, my brother and his fiancée, letting us have our moment. When I let go of my mom, Dad stepped forward and offered his own congratulations. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I watched them. Looking for signs of something. Of bitterness or friendliness. Anything that would reveal how the rest of the weekend would go.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Things seemed a little awkward. Or was that just me?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"We were talking about dinner," my mom said, shifting a meaningful look in my father's direction. "But we realized we don't know what's around here. Suggestions?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I laughed. And threw out of couple of ideas. And then I went to dinner with my parents.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
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</div></div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-4796048673934689112011-04-18T11:35:00.000-07:002011-04-18T11:35:21.287-07:00An UpdateHi, everyone.<br />
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If you also follow <a href="http://www.apeekatkarensworld.com/">my regular blog</a>, then you already know I broke my arm a couple of weeks ago. As a result, keeping up two blogs has just been too much.<br />
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I will be back to writing here as soon as I have better use of my right hand. I just wanted to assure you all that I haven't abandoned this space. It's just on hold for a little while.<br />
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Thanks for reading.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-38486668648861171442011-03-25T09:02:00.000-07:002011-03-25T09:08:20.710-07:00ThinkingThis week's Red Dress Club prompt is to write about the picture below.<br />
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I decided to try writing a stream of consciousness type post for my character. This is still fiction, but who knows what may come out...<br />
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As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3IXKVtRqqDo/TYy4HTUkmuI/AAAAAAAABTo/dPvL7z547tA/s1600/donut.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="227" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-3IXKVtRqqDo/TYy4HTUkmuI/AAAAAAAABTo/dPvL7z547tA/s320/donut.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I'm not taking one.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I don't care that she brought them in "just for me." I'm not doing it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Really? Pink? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">She did it on purpose. She knows I can't resist the pink frosting. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Usually. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I will today. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I've been so good this month. Down ten pounds. Fourteen more to goal. I'm not ruining that over pink frosting and those stupid heart sprinkles.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Hearts are stupid.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">What are they? Left over from Valentine's Day? That was like a month ago. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Valentine's Day. That's stupid too. Why does anyone care about it so much? I mean, he "forgot" about it and did I freak out? No. It's not like I wanted to go out. And I don't need any more necklaces. It's just as well he didn't remember.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But seriously? He forgot? Did he set foot in a store this winter? With the red and the pink and the hearts everywhere? Who could forget? </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I want that donut.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's begging me to eat it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">But she'll just love that, won't she? She's been trying to sabotage me ever since I fit back into these jeans. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I love these jeans.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">More than I'll love that donut.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I'll just eat half. Someone else will finish it. Just a little taste. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Ah, hell. What's one donut gonna do?</div><br />
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</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-42588466276952780452011-03-18T00:17:00.000-07:002011-03-18T00:17:12.316-07:00The FavorToday's theme for the Red Dress Club is "Detour."<br />
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I'm sharing a scene with the characters from my current novel. This scene appeared in the very first draft, but was cut when I later decided that it just didn't fit. I now look at it as more of a character development exercise.<br />
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You can give some constructive criticism if you'd like, but be aware that this is a very rough draft and I'm aware there are quite a few flaws. Just wanted to share it for fun.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The cell phone screamed while the traffic refused to move on the 101. I jammed the blue tooth in my ear and punched a button.<br />
<br />
“Jason?”<br />
<br />
My heart skipped. It was Holly. I tried to play it cool. “How’s Oklahoma?”<br />
<br />
I could hear her eyes rolling. “If one more person shoves a plate of fried anything in front of me, I’m going to scream. Promise when I get back that we'll go to that sushi place.”<br />
<br />
“Of course.”<br />
<br />
“Hey, listen, I only have a minute because I have a meeting, but can you do me a favor?”<br />
<br />
“Anything,” I said, and meant it.<br />
<br />
“Can you run over to my place and pick up a file? I forgot to pack it and the girls in the LA office are useless. I need it faxed if you can.”<br />
<br />
“No problem. When do you need it?”<br />
<br />
“Yesterday.”<br />
<br />
As I inched along the freeway, I eyed the southbound side where vehicles were actually moving. “Within the hour work for you?”<br />
<br />
“You are the best, Jason! I could just kiss you right now.” If only. “I’ll text you the number. Thank you so much. You’re saving my life.”<br />
<br />
I squeezed across two lanes crowded lanes to jumped off at the next exit and head the other way, which normally would have come to a screeching halt just because I was in a hurry. This morning, though, the fates smiled on me. It didn't even matter that I would be incredibly late to work. I was on a mission for Holly.<br />
<br />
I let myself into the condo with a spare key. The place was quiet, and I remembered the roommate wasn't an early riser. Holly's bedroom was meticulous. The queen-sized bed boasted hospital corners, the duvet falling perfectly at the edges. The DVDs and books were organized neatly on shelves, alphabetized and categorized. I think she might have opted to be a librarian if she had not had such a keen interest in spending as much time as possible outside.<br />
<br />
The file sat at the edge of the desk and I snatched it without lingering, then clicked through my phone for the nearest copy center and hoping they would have a fax.<br />
<br />
The cross town freeway was too far away, so I inched through street traffic. The school zones were crowded as the schools welcomed a plethora of last minute stragglers.<br />
<br />
It took thirty minutes to get to the copy center and I cursed the clock the entire way, hoping the boss hadn't yet noticed I wasn't at my desk.<br />
<br />
I pulled into the Kinko's lot, dashed inside and ran to the counter, slamming the file down. The tattooed, pierced college student behind the counter stared at the pages for a second. “We charge four bucks per page, man.”<br />
<br />
“Fine,” I said with a glance at the clock on the wall. This should have been done 30 minutes ago.<br />
<br />
"It’s $12.80.”<br />
<br />
“Twelve eighty? Where’d the eighty come from?”<br />
<br />
“Plus tax.”<br />
<br />
“Whatever. Fine.” I threw a twenty down on the counter and drummed my fingers. The kid counted change back slowly before turning his attention to the pages and the fax machine. Could he dial the number any slower?<br />
<br />
He shoved a page into the feeder. Then the next. Then he slammed against the side and swore loudly. “Jammed,” was his only explanation.<br />
<br />
Great. Just great. Holly hadn't called back yet. I hoped that was a sign her meeting had been delayed. I checked my phone again, just to be sure while the kid at the counter beat the fax machine without mercy.<br />
<br />
“Oh, there it goes,” he said. “It was dialing.”<br />
<br />
It felt like another twenty minutes before I blinked back into the sun and jabbed a number on the phone. Holly answered midway through the second ring and sounded surprised.<br />
<br />
“Hey, I’m just getting out of a meeting. What’s up?” She sounded chipper, and I relaxed a bit, after bracing to be told off for the delay.<br />
<br />
“Just wanted you to know that fax was sent. Did you get it yet?”<br />
<br />
There was a pause.<br />
<br />
“Oh yeah, someone is just handing it to me right now. Thanks. You didn’t have to do that. One of the girls in the office came through after all. I hope this wasn’t too much trouble.”<br />
<br />
I squeezed the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "No," I said. "No problem."<br />
<br />
When I arrived at work two hours later, no one noticed.<br />
<div><br />
</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-74393452829174502492011-03-14T22:34:00.000-07:002011-03-15T08:18:34.904-07:00A Lovely Bunch of CoconutsI'm back!<br />
<br />
I know. I haven't written anything here on this blog in, like, two weeks. But I have a good excuse, really.<br />
<br />
You see, I've FINALLY gotten back on track with finishing my novel. Finally. And I'm going to finish this draft by March 31st if it means going a week without sleep.<br />
<br />
But anyway, that's not why you're here. You came by for this:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i856.photobucket.com/albums/ab126/kates78/rememberedbutton.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The vinyl kitchen chair stuck to the backs of my legs in the sticky summer heat. I gulped Kool-Aid, staining my upper lip a brilliant shade of fuschia and continued the search through a pile of cardboard pieces, finally locating the last corner of the puzzle that started to take shape on the table.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Here, try this." Grandpa held a bowl to my level. It was filled with white chunks of something I had never seen before. Not in that form, anyway.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"What is it?" I sniffed at the contents.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Just try it."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My younger brother Marc left his seat with a loud snap as vinyl peeled away from his skin. He grabbed a piece from the bowl without waiting to find out what it was. With a full mouth he pronounced it "delithuth."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Still, I hesitated. The kid ate Play-doh, after all. His palate wasn't exactly picky.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"You'll like it, I promise. And if you don't, there's a whole box of fudge-sicles in the freezer."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The promise of fudge-sicles was enough to convince me to do just about anything. I reached out and found the smallest bit, turning it over in my fingers, inspecting it carefully before committing my suspicious taste buds. Marc was reaching for his third by now and I shoved the piece in my mouth before I could talk myself out of it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A strange combination of crispy and creamy mingled with sweet. I smiled. "What is it?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Fresh coconut," Grandpa said, as if the answer should have been obvious.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I was puzzled. Coconut came in shapes besides shredded? And shredded coconut had never tasted as delicious as this treat. I snagged another before Grandpa could take the bowl away.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Three weeks later, my third grade teacher began a unit about Hawaii. She pulled out a bowl filled with chunks of something white. "Who can tell me what this is?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I raised my hand with pride and hope of another taste.</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-90090474898281874772011-02-25T12:23:00.000-08:002011-02-25T12:23:37.893-08:00For SaleIt's time for another writing prompt from The Red Dress Club. This week's assignment is to write an eBay/Craig's List ad selling/giving away something from an ex. Mine is fiction. And an attempt at the male point of view.<br />
<br />
Constructive Criticism is always appreciated. And craved, really. Because how can I improve otherwise?<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">FOR SALE OR TRADE</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">One dog. Breed? Don't know, don't care. It's small and it barks. Just like she did. All the time with the barking. Perfect for home with too much self-confidence that needs to be taken down a notch, or for someone who needs their entire schedule dictated by the tiny bladder of the most demanding bitch on the planet.</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-51515937284687974532011-02-21T20:14:00.001-08:002011-02-22T21:40:48.532-08:00Snow DayIt's time for another writing prompt from The Red Dress Club. Only this one isn't fiction. Tuesday is all about memoir. Which means, this is a true story.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i856.photobucket.com/albums/ab126/kates78/RButton.jpg" /></a></div><br />
The sun was bright in that deceptive way that makes it look much warmer outside than it really is.<br />
<br />
A yellow scarf was wound carefully around my neck. I tugged at it with a mittened hand, unaccustomed to such trappings. The matching wool cap made my forehead itch, but pulling it off made my unprotected ears too cold. I kept it on.<br />
<br />
We left the truck parked beside the road and hiked up a small hill, my six-year-old feet sinking into the several inches of fresh snow that had fallen the night before. Dad proclaimed it the perfect place and gently lobbed a snowball in my direction. It landed on my shoulder and I giggled as I tried to match his ability in the craft and toss of a perfect snowball.<br />
<br />
My mother and little brother were supposed to be there, but they were home with the flu. So it was just me and my dad. All day in the mountains, playing and laughing and freezing.<br />
<br />
I had to go to the bathroom. Immediately. We found a restaurant that had a bathroom out back. There was a sign on the Women's Room door and though I could read "Out of Order" I didn't know what that meant. Dad told me I'd have to use the boys' bathroom and I panicked.<br />
<br />
"That's not allowed!" I said. "Won't I go to jail?"<br />
<br />
He grinned at my childish fear and assured me that I would not, in fact, go to jail if I used the boys' bathroom. He also cautioned me not to make a habit of it. It was an unnecessary warning. I've never used the men's room again.<br />
<br />
There was lunch and sledding and a lot of stumbling, but mostly laughter.<br />
<br />
Over the years, my relationship with my father grew distant. Strained. There was less laughter and more fighting. And every time I started to believe that he'd never really loved me, I thought back to that day in the snow. A day when it was just me and him. A perfect day when I was the only one that mattered.<br />
<br />
Things between us are better now. I've grown up and so has he. It isn't perfect, but there are moments now when I remember what it felt like to be that giggling little girl.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-26221512895182039222011-02-17T23:13:00.000-08:002011-02-17T23:13:46.682-08:00The PictureIt's time for another Red Dress Club writing prompt. This week's assignment is to write about finding something in a closet or a drawer and what it means to the character. I think the item was supposed to be an article of clothing, but, well, I tweaked it. Because I can.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Charlie Simmons didn't have any friends. They didn't much suit him. His carefully constructed life was free from the obligations required by social interaction. He preferred, instead, the warm company of Tchaikovsky and Pinot during the unproductive hours of a quiet evening.<br />
<br />
One night, Charlie couldn't sleep. After several fitful hours, he rose from the bed and wandered downstairs. The house was silent.<br />
<br />
In the kitchen, he glared with disgust at a carton of milk. There was nothing wrong with the milk, other than the fact that it was milk.The housekeeper purchased some each week when she went for the groceries, insisting that it was healthy and he might like it if only he would try. For months this standoff had led to nothing more than a lot of wasted cartons. Still, he stood there staring at it. Until, without thinking, he poured himself a glass.<br />
<br />
A light was on in the office. He couldn't remember leaving a light on, but the glow illuminated the carpet around the door. He pushed open the door, half expecting to see someone at the desk. The room was empty and he shook his head at his own foolishness, crossing the Persian rug to snap off the lamp.<br />
<br />
He stopped.<br />
<br />
The closet door was open. Just a few inches. The housekeeper had probably missed it earlier when she was cleaning. Charlie tried to push it closed, but it was stuck on something. He tried again. Still nothing. He pulled the handle and the door swung out, revealing the obstruction. A half-open box lay on its side, the fall from a shelf causing its contents to spill at his feet.<br />
<br />
A t-shirt. A ball. Several books and a few baseball cards. Trinkets from a long-forgotten childhood sentenced to an eternity on the top shelf of a rarely used closet.<br />
<br />
He scooped the mementos back into the box, brushing his finger against the sharp corner of a picture frame. There were four boys in the picture. All around age twelve. Frozen in time beside a glittering lake, surrounded by mountains and pine trees and miles of brilliant sky. The colors in the photo had faded some with time, but the sudden discovery of the image caused Charlie's knees to buckle and he sank to the floor.<br />
<br />
It was summer camp, some forty years ago. Painfully shy, the 12-year-old Charlie spent most of his time alone. And then, one warm June afternoon, his parents left him at the front doors of Camp Neyati. His mother would come alone to collect him at the end of the summer, after the divorce proceedings were well underway.<br />
<br />
He'd barely had time to pick up his suitcase before being descended upon by three boys his own age. John, Tim, and Billy.<br />
<br />
Charlie touched the photograph, brushing each of their faces as he remembered the details about them. Where they were from. Who their families were. All the pranks they managed to dream up. Flashes of memory became a flood as he thought of archery contests and unauthorized canoe races across the lake. There would never be another summer like the one he spent at Camp Neyati.<br />
<br />
They got together as often as they could. But Billy got sick the next year. He never went to camp again. A few years later, John survived most of the war, only to be killed in a plane crash on his way home. Charlie and Tim eventually parted ways. They had their reasons. Both agreed it was for the best.<br />
<br />
But as he sat on the floor of the quiet office in his empty house, Charlie found himself wishing to talk to his old friend.<br />
<br />
With a sigh, he got to his feet and picked up the box. He had no use for those souvenirs. He would tell the housekeeper to get rid of them in the morning.<br />
<br />
The picture, though. That, he kept.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-79351294976815311642011-02-11T08:29:00.000-08:002011-02-11T08:29:02.923-08:00RiotMy creativity has been on hiatus the last week or two and it's made the Red Dress Club prompts a lot trickier than they should be.<br />
<br />
This week, we've been given the first and last line and have to fill in the rest. I don't know. I guess we'll see how it goes...<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">I could never have imagined finding myself in the middle of a riot, but there I was. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">At first, it seemed like nothing more than a large crowd of rude shoving concert-goers. It wasn't until a wayward elbow connected with my head that it occurred to me something was very wrong.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"This way!" Amy grabbed my hand and began tunneling through the crowd. We ducked to avoid the beer bottles that now flew freely and abundantly through the air.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Chancing a glance over my shoulder, I gasped. People jumped on top of one another, a sea of fists and kicking feet and then someone brandished what looked like a small knife. It was a guy who'd been standing next to me just a moment before.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Amy's hand released mine and panic overwhelmed me. There were people everywhere. Angry, scary, weapon-wielding people that seemed to have no other agenda than creating commotion. The band fled the stage. I'd almost forgotten they were even there.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I pushed on, weaving and ducking and dodging and desperately searching for signs of my friend. But she had vanished.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I burst into the open, gulping fresh air and heaving a sudden surge of sobs as I collapsed to my knees in a wave of relief and lingering fear and a sudden realization that I had no idea where I was.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Amy?" I whispered desperately. Hundreds of screaming, angry people drowned out my pitiful plea. I could barely hear my own voice.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"There you are!" She found me then, relief and beer across her face.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I don't know what happened," I said. "You were gone."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I thought the worst when I lost you so I tried to go back, but there were just too many people." </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The shouts grew louder. We needed to get out of there.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Okay," Amy said, "which way to the subway station?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">We looked up and down the square, searching for signs of something familiar. Which is when it occurred to both of us that we'd arrived from the other way.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The subway station was on the other side of the tumult which was still growing and inching closer to us.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Then the whole world shifted.</div></div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-22970902453352913432011-01-29T09:34:00.000-08:002011-01-29T09:34:06.592-08:00StuckThe Red Dress Club prompt this week is all about being stuck in a blizzard. I took this from a short story I started writing a few years ago. I changed it a little, because that story was actually set in August, and had a lot more to it. I decided to simplify a bit. I hope it works.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><br />
It was barely noon, but the storm's increasing strength had sent the entire town into hiding.<br />
<br />
The Sheriff's office was the last building that boasted any sign of life, and even they were on a skeleton crew. A skeleton crew that consisted of Sheriff Taylor, who was currently out in the big truck, searching for stranded motorists, and Kelly Douglas, who dutifully manned the switchboard.<br />
<br />
There hadn't been a single call in more than three hours. The town was locked down.<br />
<br />
The Sheriff radioed to say that the storm was getting worse and that she should head home before it was too late. She was in her coat and headed for the door before the radio static faded. The switchboard calls would be forwarded so that if someone needed help, they could still reach someone, though when she looked out the glass front doors, she wondered how help could get to them anyway in weather like this.<br />
<br />
Keys in hand, she pushed the door open, but it stopped, stuck against something.<br />
<br />
She peered through the fogged glass. The drift was at least 8 inches high already, and she pressed harder against the door, trying to force it to open against the slushy weight. It moved a little, but not enough to squeeze through.<br />
<br />
She bent down and reached a gloved hand through the opening in the door, trying to push back enough snow to let herself out. Her hand connected with something solid and closer inspection revealed a dark shape, splayed across the sidewalk.<br />
<br />
"Hello?" she whispered.<br />
<br />
The mass didn't move, so she shook it.<br />
<br />
She sat with her back against the door, pressing her feet into the floor and pushing as hard as she could. The door moved wider now, enough that she could squeeze herself out into cold.<br />
<br />
A figure lay face down across the sidewalk. Bundled legs were partially blocking the door. He--at least, Kelly was pretty sure it was a 'he'--didn't move.<br />
<br />
"Hey," she said, shaking the figure. "Can you hear me?"<br />
<br />
There was no response.<br />
<br />
She looked up and down the sidewalk. He needed to get to a hospital, but she would never be able to get him into her car by herself.<br />
<br />
Kelly sighed, pulled his heavy legs away from the door and opened it all the way. Dragging him by the arms took several minutes, but she managed to get him inside, out of the storm, leaving him in the entry while she reached for a light switch. Nothing happened. The power was out.<br />
<br />
She looked down at the unconscious man, shook her head, and disappeared into a back room to find emergency supplies, wondering how long this storm could possibly last.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-33630065783227103472010-12-24T00:59:00.000-08:002011-01-21T14:17:13.865-08:00CharityThis week's writing theme is: Charity.<br />
<br />
This piece is untitled. I'm sorry that it turned out so much longer than I planned.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<br />
Jessi stared at a burned out bulb on the scraggly Christmas tree, ignoring the other kids and pretending not to listen to the adults talking in the kitchen.<br />
<br />
A little boy in thin pajamas wandered out from a bedroom. He rubbed his eyes and smiled at her. She smiled back and gestured for him to come closer. He didn't. He just kept watching, eyes half-closed with sleep. He turned and ran in search of his mother.<br />
<br />
She followed him into the kitchen.<br />
<br />
The boy's mother was crying, but scooped to pick him up and hug him. "I just don't know how to thank you," she was saying.<br />
<br />
When she saw Jessi, she extended an arm, balancing the toddler on her hip. Jessi moved toward her, and found herself caught up in a tight embrace.<br />
<br />
"We need to be going," Pastor Charles said.<br />
<br />
They filed out of the apartment and onto the sidewalk out front, pulling coats closed and tightening scarves against the bitter cold.<br />
<br />
There were six of them on this mission. Pastor Charles had asked six of the youth to help him with the very special task of delivering collected meals to some of the families from the congregation. On Monday, when one of the boys asked how many deliveries there were, Pastor Charles only smiled sadly and said, "Too many."<br />
<br />
It was Friday now. Christmas Eve. And the Johnson house had been their last stop. Twenty-four in all.<br />
<br />
"I'm tired," Mark said. It wasn't a complaint, it was just a fact.<br />
<br />
"I'm cold," Sydney said. Hers was a complaint.<br />
<br />
"How about some hot cocoa back at my house. And I think Mrs. Barlow even left behind some cookies, too."<br />
<br />
They all climbed into the church van for the three block ride back to the Pastor's house. Jessi stared out the window as the others chattered about all the families they had seen throughout the week, comparing most touching moments.<br />
<br />
Within minutes the group was warming up in the Barlows' front room, a tiny fire already pushing away the chill.<br />
<br />
Jessi followed Pastor Charles into the kitchen. "Can I help?" He smiled and shook his head. "No, you should go hang out with the others. I've got this."<br />
<br />
She didn't want to hang out with the others. They were nice enough, but she always felt so awkward around them, like she had so little to offer to their collection of cheerleaders and youth camp leaders. She shrugged. "I want to help you. Where are the mugs?"<br />
<br />
She reached for a cupboard near the sink. Pastor Charles shook his head and pointed to one beside the stove.<br />
<br />
"So Mrs. Barlow is gone for Christmas?"<br />
<br />
The pastor nodded. "Her father is very sick and she went to Michigan to be with him."<br />
<br />
"Why didn't you go with her?"<br />
<br />
He sighed. "There's just too much to do here. I'll be going up there on Monday."<br />
<br />
She frowned. "But you'll be alone for Christmas."<br />
<br />
"Hardly." He poured steaming chocolate into the mugs Jessi had assembled on the counter. "There are plenty of people that will be all alone tomorrow. I've got a lot of visits to make."<br />
<br />
He put the pot back on the stove. The phone rang. "Here. Why don't you start taking these out while I answer this call."<br />
<br />
She moved the mugs to a tray and carried it slowly into the other room.The others descended on it, gratefully accepting the warm beverages with a chorus of courteous thank yous. She muttered a few barely audible responses and retreated to return the empty tray to the kitchen.<br />
<br />
Pastor Charles was off the phone and filling a cardboard box with cans from the pantry.<br />
<br />
"What are you doing?" Jessi asked, eyes wide.<br />
<br />
"That phone call was from Mrs. Jenkins. Turns out they've had a bit of an emergency and, well, it looks like there's one more stop tonight." He continued filling the box.<br />
<br />
"We're going to the Jenkins?"<br />
<br />
"Not 'we.' I should do this one myself. I'll just run out there after I drop all you kids off."<br />
<br />
"I want to go with you."<br />
<br />
He studied her for a long minute, trying to decide how, exactly, to go about telling her no. For such a shy, quiet girl, she could be incredibly demanding when it suited her.<br />
<br />
Finally, he said, "I'm sorry, Jessi. It's getting late. Your parents are going to be wanting you home. It is Christmas Eve, after all."<br />
<br />
She didn't argue or say anything more about the issue until twenty minutes later when the van was making the rounds to drop the teenagers at their homes. When Pastor Charles pulled the van into her driveway, she crossed her arms and said again, "I want to go with you."<br />
<br />
Her father appeared at the front door and Pastor Charles gestured toward him.<br />
<br />
"How are you, Pastor?"<br />
<br />
"Doing fine, John, and yourself?"<br />
<br />
"Could do without the cold." He saw Jessi's folded arms. "What's this?"<br />
<br />
Pastor Charles cast a smirking glance toward the back seat. "I have to make a run out to the Jenkins place. She insists on coming along. Do you mind?"<br />
<br />
Jessi's father shook his head. "Not at all. They doing okay?"<br />
<br />
"I don't know. It sounds like Lou ran off again. Took the car and left Mae and the girls stranded. Just dropping off some things to get them through a few days."<br />
<br />
There was little conversation as they drove out of town toward the small development where Lou and Mae Jenkins lived with their three young daughters. Lou had been out of work for over a year and passed most of his time drinking and spending his unemployment checks at the track.<br />
<br />
Mae met the van in the driveway. Hers were not the happy tears that Jessi had seen from the other families all week long.<br />
<br />
"Pastor, thank you for coming. I'm so sorry to do this to you, and on Christmas Eve."<br />
<br />
"There's nothing to apologize for, Mae," the pastor said gently. "You'll come into my office on Sunday and we'll work out a plan. But I just wanted to bring this to you tonight. I'm afraid it's not much."<br />
<br />
He retrieved the box from the back of the van. Jessi gasped when she saw a small turkey standing on end. Pastor Charles had given up his own holiday dinner to this family.<br />
<br />
"This is more than I even dreamed of praying for," Mae said through her sobs. "I don't know how to thank you."<br />
<br />
"You can thank me by bringing your girls to church on Sunday.That's all I ask." She nodded. "Is there anything else you need right now?"<br />
<br />
Mae glanced at Jessi and bit her lip.<br />
<br />
"What is it, Mae?"<br />
<br />
Her head dropped, her shoulders sagging with the weight of another ruined holiday at the end of another ruined year. "I know where Lou is, Pastor. He's been arrested. And they won't let him out of jail til at least Wednesday or Thursday if I don't bring bail money. And I don't have it."<br />
<br />
"How much do you need?"<br />
<br />
"It's $500."<br />
<br />
Pastor Charles reached for his wallet and counted out several bills. "All I've got here is about $360. Do you think you can come up with the rest?"<br />
<br />
She could no longer speak. She just cried as she accepted the cash and allowed the pastor to follow her into the house, carrying the box. Jessi stayed in the van. This felt too private and she knew why he hadn't wanted her to come.<br />
<br />
He was back in the van a minute later.<br />
<div><br />
</div><br />
<br />
"That turkey was supposed to be for your Christmas dinner, wasn't it?"<br />
<br />
He shrugged and put the car in reverse, backed out of the driveway and headed back toward town. "Doesn't seem much point in cooking a big turkey for one person."<br />
<br />
She hesitated, wanted desperately to ask her other question, but sure she shouldn't.<br />
<br />
"And that money? That was supposed to be for your trip to be with your family, wasn't it?"<br />
<br />
Pastor Charles looked at her. "The Lord will provide."<br />
<br />
"You don't have anywhere to go tomorrow, do you?"<br />
<br />
He shook his head and though he had sounded so strong all night, Jessi could now see the slightest crack in his confidence. "I have visits to make tomorrow. There are a lot of people that need to be taken care of."<br />
<br />
"But, Pastor, who's taking care of you?"<br />
<br />
He waved a hand. "I don't need--"<br />
<br />
They were back in her driveway now. "You're coming over tomorrow. We eat at 1. My mom will be mad if you're late."<br />
<br />
Without another word, and without waiting for an answer, Jessi jumped out of the van and ran for the house.<br />
<br />
The pastor sat for a minute, watching her go. He smiled just a little, marveling at the unexpected generosity of a teenage girl.<br />
<br />
The cell phone in his pocket rang. It was almost 10pm, but he answered immediately. "Charles Barlow," he answered. "Yes, doctor. I can be there in fifteen minutes."<br />
<br />
Bud Frieberg wasn't expected to make it through the night. The pastor pulled out of the driveway and headed west toward the hospital. There would be no sleep tonight.Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-14019994930569118292010-12-11T17:48:00.000-08:002010-12-11T17:48:22.132-08:00First Love<div style="text-align: left;">Part of the reason I created this second blog was to participate in creative writing memes around the web. One I particularly like is from The Red Dress Club where they come up with a different prompt every week. This is my first attempt.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">The following piece is from the novel I'm currently working on. This piece is not intended to be part of the finished novel, but was an exercise I did as I was getting to know my main characters, Jay and Holly.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><a border="0" href="http://thereddressclub.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://i873.photobucket.com/albums/ab294/eclay03/redwritinghood.jpg" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I knew I was in trouble before I even opened the door. The cinnamon candle again. I hated that cinnamon candle. Almost as much as I hated sharing a dorm with the wannabe sorority girl from Kansas. She and her cluster of highlighted, manicured dunces seemed oblivious to the fact that it was, in fact, a double room. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Confirming my suspicions, I pushed the door open wide enough to retrieve my laptop before retreating back into the hallway. A game was on in the common room down the hall and I'd seen too much of the inside of the library that day already. I sank to the floor and leaned against the wall, silently pleading that They would suddenly find themselves invited to a frat party.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I vaguely heard the elevator door open, but it wasn't until I became aware of a presence standing over me that I realized someone had stepped out of it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Locked out?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">My eyelids cracked open and I saw him. The boy I'd glimpsed all over campus but would never have had the nerve to talk to. He wasn't in any of my classes and we had no mutual friends and I was hardly the girl that would strike up a conversation with a boy who looked like that. With his dark hair and his confidence. I swallowed and waited one moment too many before answering.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"What? Locked out? No."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Ah." He invited himself to sit beside me. "Avoiding your roommate." It wasn't a question, but I answered with a nod anyway. "Who's your roommate?"</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">I flipped my hair in my best sorority pledge impression. "Ashley Browning."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He grimaced. "From Kansas, right?" I nodded again. "She's in my English class. Tough break."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Yeah."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Had I not been sitting, I might have kicked myself for my apparent inability to say something interesting. He spared me by sticking out his hand. I shook it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"I'm Jason," he said. "Or, Jay. Most people call me Jay."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">"Holly."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">He spent a few minutes attempting to pry my life story from me before abruptly standing up and extending his hand again. "My butt's falling asleep. Let's go get some coffee."</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When it came to Jay Merriman, my heart never stood a chance.</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4216836542001073732.post-44133533172699272342010-12-07T21:48:00.000-08:002010-12-07T21:48:58.863-08:00Because I Like Making Stuff UpI'm a writer. Which separates me from approximately 12% of the world's bloggers.<div><br />
</div><div>Er...sorry. I meant 2%.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Once in awhile, on <a href="http://www.apeekatkarensworld.com/">my day blog</a>, I have the urge to share a bit of my fiction. <a href="http://www.apeekatkarensworld.com/2009/09/reading-from-book-of-karen.html">I did it once</a> and received a lot of surprisingly kind words of encouragement. </div><div><br />
</div><div>And, honestly, who doesn't like getting heaped with praise?</div><div><br />
</div><div>Along my ongoing journey toward total blogoverse domination, I've discovered some great writers and great writing blogs. There are exercises and memes and events and I often have the urge to participate. I jut never wanted to fill up my regular blog with fiction. So I haven't done it.</div><div><br />
</div><div>But, the other day, it occurred to me that I just needed a little space where I could share short stories and novel excerpts and characters studies and all the other things that strike my fancy while still writing about all the other stuff from my real life on the other blog.</div><div><br />
</div><div>And so, I present to you my make believe world. The place where you can read about the stuff that didn't happen to <i>me</i>, but to the people that live in my brain.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Feedback is always appreciated. As long as it's constructive and doesn't make me cry.</div>Karen M. Petersonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06972093977468313631noreply@blogger.com1