Thinking

This week's Red Dress Club prompt is to write about the picture below.

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...

As always, constructive criticism is appreciated.

I'm not taking one.

I don't care that she brought them in "just for me." I'm not doing it.

Really? Pink? 

She did it on purpose. She knows I can't resist the pink frosting. 

Usually. 

I will today. 

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.

Hearts are stupid.

What are they? Left over from Valentine's Day? That was like a month ago. 

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.

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? 

I want that donut.

It's begging me to eat it.

But she'll just love that, won't she? She's been trying to sabotage me ever since I fit back into these jeans. 

I love these jeans.

More than I'll love that donut.

I'll just eat half. Someone else will finish it. Just a little taste. 

Ah, hell. What's one donut gonna do?

The Favor

Today's theme for the Red Dress Club is "Detour."

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.

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.

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.

“Jason?”

My heart skipped. It was Holly. I tried to play it cool. “How’s Oklahoma?”

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.”

“Of course.”

“Hey, listen, I only have a minute because I have a meeting, but can you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” I said, and meant it.

“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.”

“No problem. When do you need it?”

“Yesterday.”

As I inched along the freeway, I eyed the southbound side where vehicles were actually moving. “Within the hour work for you?”

“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.”

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

“Fine,” I said with a glance at the clock on the wall. This should have been done 30 minutes ago.

"It’s $12.80.”

“Twelve eighty? Where’d the eighty come from?”

“Plus tax.”

“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?

He shoved a page into the feeder. Then the next. Then he slammed against the side and swore loudly. “Jammed,” was his only explanation.

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.

“Oh, there it goes,” he said. “It was dialing.”

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.

“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.

“Just wanted you to know that fax was sent. Did you get it yet?”

There was a pause.

“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.”

I squeezed the steering wheel until my knuckles turned white. "No," I said. "No problem."

When I arrived at work two hours later, no one noticed.

A Lovely Bunch of Coconuts

I'm back!

I know. I haven't written anything here on this blog in, like, two weeks. But I have a good excuse, really.

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.

But anyway, that's not why you're here. You came by for this:

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.

"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.

"What is it?" I sniffed at the contents.

"Just try it."

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."

Still, I hesitated. The kid ate Play-doh, after all. His palate wasn't exactly picky.

"You'll like it, I promise. And if you don't, there's a whole box of fudge-sicles in the freezer."

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.

A strange combination of crispy and creamy mingled with sweet. I smiled. "What is it?"

"Fresh coconut," Grandpa said, as if the answer should have been obvious.

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.

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?"

I raised my hand with pride and hope of another taste.

For Sale

It'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.

Constructive Criticism is always appreciated. And craved, really. Because how can I improve otherwise?

FOR SALE OR TRADE

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.

Snow Day

It'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.

The sun was bright in that deceptive way that makes it look much warmer outside than it really is.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"That's not allowed!" I said. "Won't I go to jail?"

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.

There was lunch and sledding and a lot of stumbling, but mostly laughter.

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.

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.

The Picture

It'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.

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.

One night, Charlie couldn't sleep. After several fitful hours, he rose from the bed and wandered downstairs. The house was silent.

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.

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.

He stopped.

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.

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.

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.

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.

He'd barely had time to pick up his suitcase before being descended upon by three boys his own age. John, Tim, and Billy.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The picture, though. That, he kept.

Riot

My 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.

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...

I could never have imagined finding myself in the middle of a riot, but there I was. 

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.

"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.

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.

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.

I pushed on, weaving and ducking and dodging and desperately searching for signs of my friend. But she had vanished.

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.

"Amy?" I whispered desperately. Hundreds of screaming, angry people drowned out my pitiful plea. I could barely hear my own voice.

"There you are!" She found me then, relief and beer across her face.

"I don't know what happened," I said. "You were gone."

"I thought the worst when I lost you so I tried to go back, but there were just too many people." 

The shouts grew louder. We needed to get out of there.

"Okay," Amy said, "which way to the subway station?"

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.

The subway station was on the other side of the tumult which was still growing and inching closer to us.

Then the whole world shifted.