Fringe

What, December already? Well, you know what that means. No, not some overfed hursuit man flamboyantly dressed in red velvet slithering down your chimney. Forget about my youngest's sixth birthday. It's the Creative Writing Challenge Game!! I really wanted to participate this month, but I must admit that it is a last minute thing.

This month's theme is a race against time. The words are: India, fog, sausage, donkey, and printer. I wanted to continue the story of Sarah and Parker from the August challenge, so I have first included that entry. An entry which was actually never posted due to computer difficulties. I greatly appreciate helpful, constructive criticism. Enjoy!

* * *
"I am not really sure what to do with you." She turned away from the blackboard, walking through a white cloud as she clapped her hands against her favorite khaki pants. Resuming her seat behind the desk, she stared across at the slumped-shoulders and sad eyes hidden under shaggy russet fringe. She could feel her resolve start to falter.

"The writing assignment was to use ironic humor to expose innate absurdities associated with a current news event or high profile person. A three paragraph draft of song lyrics recounting your misadventures does not even come close. You promised me you were going to take your writing seriously."

He lifted his head slightly, tossing the bangs upward at a left angle, exposing one turquoise-blue eye. "Oh, I am taking my writing seriously. And you didn't get 'satire' out of that? I thought that bit about the 'pottage of human spoils' was particularly inspired."

Sarah sighed. It was best to tread lightly here. That child survived the incomprehensible, and she knew better than anyone else what it felt like. She fought the impulse to hug away the boy's demons. It was too complicated in her current position to offer much beyond verbal condolences and encouragement.

"Perhaps you'll be a renowned lyricist, and there is no question you have a way with words. You are one of the brightest students I have seen in my ten years of teaching, and I expect great things out of you one day, Parker. But today, I would be satisfied with the simple act of following instructions. You have the ability in that noggin of yours, you just need the determination."

"Because my other option was to write about Robert Smythe. Now there's a high profile person in the news. I could definitely point out some innate absurdities about his existence. With determination."

Sarah caught her breath at the cavalier mention of That Name and unconsciously touched the scar on her forehead. Parker again slumped, determined to pick the fraying threads in the knees of his jeans. Sarah shifted her gaze to the window, watching the crazy November squirrels greedily snatching their last treasures in anticipation of the first snow. She could not help reliving what had happened fifteen years before. And so she could not see the slight glint in those blue eyes hidden beneath the fringe.

* * *

Sarah looked at the clock, wiping the late-August sweat from her brow. Just three more hours until her flight to India. Who would have thought a shy little mousy girl from such a podunk town would be awarded a spot in a prestigious foreign exchange program. It was so scary and exciting all at the same time. How would she get along with her host family? How would she be treated? What if she hated the food? The closest thing to Indian food she had ever consumed was from the frozen food section at the Harris Teeter.

"Dad! Why don't you get air conditioning put in? It is 1996 for, Christ's sake!" She wiped more sweat from her face, wondering if it was truly from the heat or just nerves. She woke up with the feeling that she was not going to get her family to the airport in time.

A skinny, russet-haired boy popped his head in her room, uninvited, as usual.

"Hey, Sparrow, come eat your last meal, I mean breakfast. In honor of your trip I got Ma to make donkey sausage and monkey bacon. I sure hope they weren't related to your host family."

Sarah playfully punched her brother. She was going to miss him the most.

"You dork! The cow is sacred in India, not the donkey! Hey, hand me that itinerary from the printer, will you? I really want to get to the airport soon, and maybe showing that to Dad will speed up his snail-paced morning routine."

"Here's your precious itinerary, don't you have it memorized, Little Miss Brightest Bulb in the Pack? And now, to show your undying love for your only baby brother, you gotta give me your No Doubt cd."

"Deal. Now out with you."

Sarah chastised herself in the shower for whistling. She could remember not to wink or touch people with her shoes in India, but not whistling was going to be a hard task. She couldn't help being happy all the time. Wiping the steamy-fog from the bathroom mirror, her attempt at lightening-fast grooming was interrupted by a commotion downstairs.

"Hey! Whatever is going on down there better not make me late for the airport! Only two more hours until my flight. Move it, people!"

Despite the heat, Sarah pulled on a long-sleeved t-shirt and long pants so that no potentially insulting skin would be exposed. The banging from downstairs continued, angering her further.

"What is going on? Jacob? Dad? Hey, Ma, what's happening down there?"

The slow, uneven stomping on the stairs startled her. Sarah hid behind the bathroom door. Two could play at that game! If Jacob was attempting to scare her, she'd get him first. The heavy steps stopped outside the door. Was he wearing Dad's work boots filled with rocks?

Sarah jerked the door open to yell at her brother, only to see the school janitor taking up the entire doorframe.

Robert Smythe.

Covered in blood.

And the entire world went black.

* * *

Sarah turned back to the skinny boy before her, still picking at his jeans.

"No. You cannot write about Smythe. But give me something by Friday, and I won't call your uncle in for a conference."

Parker considered the offer, tossed his russet bangs up to the left, and stared at her with a turquoise eye.

"Ok. I won't write about him now. But I can't promise I won't later. Deal?"

"Deal. Now out with you."

Really, it's not you, it's me.

Sigh. It's been one of those days. I really feel guilty complaining about today, because I have nothing really to complain about. Kids a little sassy? Others not cooperating? All the traffic lights turning red on you and the ATM repairman pulls in front of you just as you were about to get money? Yeah? Well, why don't you think about the people all around you who have real problems -- poverty, abuse, illnesses. Hmpf. This is the internal dialogue running through my head ever since I left the Busiest Store In Town. But I was not being so philosophical earlier. Ahem.

It was not one of my prouder moments. With twenty minutes before I had to pick my daughter up from gymnastics, I spotted happy cashier, Sharon, with only one customer, so I took my chances. It was obvious the woman in front of me had her entire month's worth of groceries to pay for, but I thought it couldn't possibly take THAT long. Ha! Five minutes passed, and Sharon decides to play peek-a-boo with the customer's adorable and happy daughter. A few more groceries are scanned until Sharon can no longer fight the kid cuteness and plays patty-cake. I do not lie. About this time, my inner bi-atch comes out. It has been 10 minutes in line, and I am starting to get antsy. An appropriately dramatic sigh with some foot-tapping ensues. The happy customer with the adorable daughter turns around and smiles at me. I am stuck with someone behind me in line, so I decide to wait it out. Five more minutes pass, and, after more play-breaks, Sharon eventually finishes scanning the groceries when . . . wait for it . . . the happy customer with the adorable kid pulls out a two-inch thick stack of coupons! HA! Which Sharon does not know how to scan because they are computer copies.

What happened next was mild, by most people's standards, but I would have been horrified if someone I knew saw my behavior. I snatched up my groceries, mumbled something to the happy customer with the adorable daughter now staring at me about having to go because I was going to "miss my daughter," attempted to chase down the manager to hold my groceries, and, when that failed, just abandoned my cart in the store to flee to my car like a crazed lunatic. As my son, who witnessed this episode, says, "Mom, you lost your cool. But you weren't rude, or anything." Well, at least there's something.

Patience is not one of my stronger character traits. It's not my second, third, or even fourteenth. But I am trying, constantly aware that my kids are watching. And I am ever hopeful that they will end up much more zen-like than me.

So to everyone out there unfortunate enough to witness my melt downs, I am so very sorry. Unless, of course, you are Sharon the patty-cake-playing-cashier. In which case, really, it IS you!

The Start of Something Good . . . .

Who would have thought a short, little bald man, sporting only his underwear and a red curtain cape would radically change our lives for the better. What? No, I haven't hit my head. Nor have I visited the local psychiatric ward (although my kids would probably tell you that I need an extended stay there!). I am speaking, of course, of "Captain Underpants." The hottest thing since mac-n-cheese in this house.

I have been a confirmed bookworm since I recognized letters. I enjoyed reading so much that I often got in trouble for reading to the neglect of every other task. Homework time? Nah, I would dig into "Nancy Drew." Go to the movies? Well, if I must, but I preferred to read a great mystery. I was painfully shy and loved escaping into the worlds that one can only find in books. Reading always has been, and always will be, one of my greatest pleasures.

And then came children. I suppose it is the inherent arrogance of humankind that we expect our children to be exactly like us. Well, exactly like all the parts of us that we believe are outstanding. The reality is that you have given birth to a completely separate individual who won't act like you do, won't move like you move, won't like the same things you like, and probably will prefer things you cannot stand. While it was quite obvious to us that our son looked exactly like me as a child, it was also quite obvious that he was not shy. AT ALL. So his aversion to reading should not have been a surprise. But it was. Quite a shock, actually.

Starting with kindergarten, nightly reading assignments became a nightmare. A whining, crying, fit-throwing, yelling, nightmare. Since he prefers all things science and nature, I tried Magic Treehouse books. Flat Stanley. Geronimo Stilton. Everything. He was not interested in anything and would merely read because he was forced to read. No more, and no less than what was required. Last week, as a treat, I bought my now eight-year old his first "Captain Underpants" book. The change has been dramatic! He wants to go to bed early so he can read. When we tell him it is time to stop reading and go to bed, he cries that he just wants to read more. And if we have a particularly busy night and attempt to skip reading, he complains such that we make time. It is incredible! And finally, last night, he exclaimed, "Mommy, I just want to go read and go to sleep!" It almost brought tears to my eyes! Finally, maybe my kids can find joy in reading instead of complaining of being bored or wanting to play a video game. I hope there are many, MANY "Captain Underpants" books. Or else we're sunk.

So, here's to you, balding man in tighty-whities. You are my hero!

New Coming

In the spirit of October, I am attempting, once again, to post something for the Creative Writing Challenge Game hosted by M.L. Garrett, of Someday, When I'm Famous . . . .   This months words:  Depricate; finesse; gemma; mailed fist; and varicose.  The theme was jealousy, and the image was of gummy bears on a blue bedspread.  It was written quickly last night, there are spacing and voice problems, and it can use a lot of fleshing out.  But I had fun doing it.  Please be kind! 

*   *   *




New Coming.

            Olivia shut out the crisp, October evening with the faint scent of burning fireplaces in the distance, savoring the aroma.  Despite the chill in the air, she refused to burn anything in her  townhome’s fireplace; too many ashes, too much dust!  She quickly wheeled the overstuffed banker’s box marked “Parker v. Coming,” to a precisely-sized nook by the front door and placed her keys squarely in the center of the Blue Willow dish on the buffet.  The clock on the mantel announced the 7:00 hour, an unusually early return from the firm.  But Olivia had already clocked  sixty hours by that Friday, and she could easily make up the remaining twelve hours on the weekend. 

            After changing out of her navy suit and into her Emory Law sweats, Olivia turned on the television for company and surveyed her home with furrowed brow.  Deciding which section of the home to clean first would be difficult, but it had to be done before she could even begin to relax.  Her deliberations were disturbed by the obnoxious ring-tone on her phone.  Russell had recently programmed the thing to ring, “I Kissed a Girl,” anytime he called her.  She laughed, making a mental note to change it immediately. 

“Hey, Liv, whatcha doing?”

“If you must know, you’re dating the most ass-kicking second year associate in the firm’s history.  I’m finesse personified!  The lawyer for that spooky funeral director, Coming, looked uneasy.  I’m on track to be the youngest partner ever.  So, I thought I’d take it easy tonight and come home.”

“Ah.  And by take it easy, you mean you’ll be cleaning the house from top to bottom, right?  I was actually calling to let you know that I’m going to be late coming home from the nursery tonight.  But I guess that won’t matter, since you’ll be busy.”

Russ was a perfect match for Olivia.  He accepted her compulsions without ever feeling the need to depricate.  They were a part of her, just like he was becoming a part of her, too.  Maybe she would finally get what her spoiled sister had: a husband, 2.5 kids, a dog, and a house. 

“Aren’t you jealous?  Well, you know, its has been a couple of days since the last thorough cleaning, and this is a prime opportunity.”

“That’s fine, Olivia.  I’ll come and help once I get off.  I just need to help Frederick with a new hybrid orchid we’ve developed.  Remember, the one with the rare purple blooms?  It developed a kiki where the blooms fell off.  We’ll get a gemma from it, and propagate from there.  It’ll be a best seller!” 

Olivia reprogrammed her ringtone to “Every Rose Has Its Thorns,” by Poison, chuckling to herself.  It was much more appropriate to announce calls from her horticulturalist boyfriend.  Turning to the imagined disarray in her living room with mailed fist, Olivia began to tackle the dust on the ceiling fans as she worked her house from top to bottom. 

“We interrupt this program with breaking news in what we are calling the, “Heartless Souls” case.  Investigators say an eleventh victim has been found.  The latest body, like the other victims, was missing his heart and was found sitting on a park bench near the lake, posed as if he were fishing.  The victim has been identified as Samuel Jones.  Neighbors say Jones kept to a precise schedule and rarely left home after 6:00 p.m.  While investigators refuse to comment, sources inside the department confirm that, like the other victims, Jones’ home showed no evidence of a break-in, was locked from the inside, and the television was on.  Investigators are asking for your help in solving these crimes.”

Olivia stopped dusting to listen to the breaking news.  The rash of peculiar, unsolved deaths frightened her, and she quickly bolted her door.  While the goofy name the newscasters gave the case took away some of the seriousness, it was still comforting to her that Russell was coming home shortly.  She quickly finished dusting, wiping down, sweeping, and then mopping, before reheating  some pasta for dinner.  Looking over some notes from the Parker deposition at the kitchen table, she planned to research out-of-state cases on mistreatment of the deceased by a funeral home and the family’s resulting emotional distress.  But she was still perplexed by the behavior of one of New Coming Funeral Home’s assistant directors.  John Barnaby sweated profusely during the deposition, carefully selected his words, and repeatedly glanced toward the head man himself, Robert Coming, before answering.  Olivia almost laughed at Barnaby’s constant denials that New Coming Funeral Home had anything to do with the “shortening” of Michael Parker’s 6'5" body to fit into a cheaper, 6' casket. 

                                                           

As if on cue, Olivia heard the New Coming Funeral Home commercial coming from the t.v. in the other room.  Robert Coming’s head took up the entire screen, while he stared, unblinking and cold, into the camera, stating that funerals are expensive everywhere except at New Coming.  The commercial unnerved her every time she watched it.  His angry, hungry demeanor.  The way his varicose eyes stared through her, piercing her very soul.  But her thoughts were again interrupted by her telephone.

“Hello?”

“You need to know that he does it.  He craves it.  He needs it.  He . . . .”

“Who is this?  What are you talking about?  Please speak up, I can barely understand you . . . ”

“This is Barnaby.  You have to know he is not normal.  Not . . . human.  He has to eat to survive, and he can do things.  Things other people cannot do.  He needs a heart.”

“What are you talking about?  I will have you know, Mr. Barnaby, that I can and will use any information you give me against your employer in this lawsuit.  And if you are speaking of Robert Coming, I’d be the last person on the planet to disagree with you that he is inhumane and heartless.”

“Listen!!  Something worse than the treatment of Parker is happening.  Something bigger.  Any further investigation into this matter will place you in grave danger!  End this lawsuit now.  He has ways of . . . getting to people.  He . . . .”

“Hello?  Hello?”

Olivia hung up the phone and decided to go to bed.  Barnaby’s dropped call unnerved her, and she needed something sweet to distract her.  Tonight’s selection of tropical fruit gummy bears would hit the spot.  Reclining on her soft, French blue bedspread with her snack, she turned on the television, searching for some guilty pleasure, when the New Coming commercial came on again.  It was hopeless.  Not only had her busy day been consumed with the Parker v. Coming case, but now her evening was, too. 

“Funerals can be expensive, but not at New Coming.” 

Olivia felt uncomfortable staring into those eyes.  She leaned in closer, and it seemed Robert Coming’s head leaned in closer, too.  She was transfixed, her heart inexplicably started racing, and it was difficult to swallow her candy.

“Come to New Coming.”

Something was different about this commercial.  Was it new?  The script was different.  Coming’s unnatural gaze seemed to follow her movements this time.  Olivia eased closer to the t.v., wishing she had made a fire that evening, to ward off the chills.  Did Coming just smirk?  A breeze blew her hair towards the television, and she felt compelled to move in ever so closer.  

“Because I’m coming.  I’m coming.  I’m COMING!!”

*   *   *

“Good evening.  Our top story tonight, the strange disappearance of Nelson & Mullins attorney, Olivia Barnes.  Barnes is a Caucasian female, 5'6", with a slender build and shoulder-length, dark blond hair.  Barnes was last heard from by her boyfriend around 7:00 p.m.  When he arrived at her home at 9:00 p.m., he found her home locked and neat, her bedroom television on, and a few pieces of candy scattered on the bed.  Sources inside the police department will not confirm whether this strange disappearance is connected to the rash of odd deaths in town.  Police ask you to keep a lookout for Barnes and contact police immediately if you have any information.” 

Manicure, Spanicure

I do enjoy writing, and I recently was paid for a freelance gig.  Yay!  As a busy mom of two, I thought it was time to treat myself.  There is a very chic spa located inside my gym.  Slate walls, gurgling fountain peacefully dripping down, relaxing music, low lights, and wine.  I am an easy date, I admit it, but atmosphere really is half the experience when it comes to "spa days."  And they were running a special:  $60 for either a mani/pedi or a massage.  Well, call me happy and sign me up. 

But, hmm,  I had a choice to make.  I rarely get manicures, and it has been ages since I got a massage.  I flipped the coin and decided on the mani/pedi.  Boy, what a mistake.  While the woman doing my nails was nice enough, I told her that manicures rarely take with me -- they either chip or dent or run before I can even pay for the privilege.  She assured me that my prior experiences were due to lack of skill on the technician's part, and that this would be different. 

Well, not really.  No foot massage?  That's half the reason to get it done!  And why is it that when I slap a couple of coats of polish on my fingers or toes, it stays on forever, but when a technician carefully places six layers of various stuff on my nails and lets them dry under a special lamp, they ding, dent, smear, chip, or peel IMMEDIATELY, despite my care not to touch them?  I have decided it is a not-so-subtle message from beyond:  stop throwing money away.  I need that money.  Heck, I could have purchased all three (yes, THREE!) colors of polish used in this operation and still donated over $40 to the poor souls struggling to eat in Somalia.  Or Kenya.  Or, anywhere there is a need, for that matter. 

So, I have resolved to do my own. From now on.  And donate more.   (But I think my kids would have actually appreciated me getting that massage--"Look how HAPPY Mommy is!").    What do you think?  Are mani/pedis worth it?   And, while I do not wish unemployment on any of the nail techinicians out there, what could be done in the world if all the women in this country skipped one month's worth of mani/pedis and donated that money? 

And another . . . .

In the spirit of trying new things, I am trying my hand at creative writing.  Mind you, legal writing for the past fifteen-plus years has killed all the creative writing skills I used to kid myself that I possessed.   I have to start somewhere, and today is the day to start.  I have enjoyed participating in Glass Half Full Gal's Creative Writing Challenge Game.  This month, we were challenged to use the words, "misadventure," "satire," "pottage," "noggin," and "russet," with the overall theme of "loss."   I will accept kind constructive criticism.

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Ahem.  Well, I am having technical difficulties.  After several days and no luck, I realize I have no way to convert my wordperfect to word.  I will keep trying, and I am going to eventually post this challenge piece along with the new one for September.  Patience will be appreciated.  On to more interesting topics . . . .

Something New

Here I am, blogosphere.  A newbie.  I never wanted to blog, because I could not imagine someone would want to hear about the time my dog puked on the new rug or the things I find entertaining about my children.  After several rough years, I have decided to try new things.  Playing it safe my entire life has gotten me far, true.  Good grades and law degree?  Check.  Fantastic jobs in the legal system?  Definitely.  Amazing friends and very close family I could see often?  Oh my God, yes.  But I never really tried going out of my comfort zone until I had to move away from all of them.   And while I miss my safe, happy former life and desperately miss my friends and family, I have learned that trying something new can be the beginning of a whole new kind of wonderful.