A Losing Proposition

Gary and I were sitting in his sister's car, AC blasting to ward off the DC September heat, sharing a Dean and Delucca prociutto sandwich when he turned to me with a conspirational smile. I smiled back, already excited to join him on whatever off the wall adventure he was about to suggest.
"Dude, I have the best idea!"
"Great! What is it?"
"Well, you know how neither one of us has a girlfriend or a boyfriend right now?"
"Don't remind me - I'm trying hard to forget it..."
At that point, my heart was beginning to beat a little faster. I'd never really thought of Gary in that way, he'd always been a really fun buddy who was always game for a party. But he was decent looking and I was crazy lonely. I was beginning to wonder if today was going to be the first day of a glorious relationship - one that could lead to marriage and kids one day.
"So dude, I was thinking that maybe we should hook up, you know, while we don't have anyone else."
"Are you for real! You mean, just hook up, no relationship, no commitment, just until something better comes along?"

Gary turned to me, still smiling, still proud of his stroke of inspiration.

"Yeah, so what do you think?"
"What do I think? I think you're an a**hole, that's what! Take me home, I'm done hanging out."
"What? You don't think it's a good idea? I thought you had nothing to do all afternoon? Why do you want to go home?"
"Just take me home."
"Are you pissed?"
"..."
"Why aren't you talking? Are you mad at me? What did I say? Why are you mad?"
"Look - I'm not mad - just take me home."
"But, I thought we were going to go to the music store?"
"Just take me home ... NOW."

And that day marked the end of a beautiful friendship.

The Fiction Friday prompt for today was: Write about a failed proposal.

Tutu Monstrosity

Jane sat on the hard slatted bench, fidgeting nervously with her shirt buttons. The bench was digging into her legs, undoubtedly making unflattering red marks that would soon be visible to the other moms when she stood up. She looked around, glancing at the wall clock, wondering how much longer she was going to have to wait. She was just thinking that she'd never noticed how grating the peptobismo-pink walls of the dance studio were, when Miss Patti opened the door with a flourish. She beckoned the mothers in with a smile meant to be dazzling but that came off as forced.

Jane quickly removed her pumps and stepped into the brightly list studio. She smiled at Lindsey. Her baby looked so adorable in her black tutu with pink tights - she was the exact image Jane had pictured during pregnancy when she'd dreamed of having a daughter. Jane congratulated herself for having done such a good job with her hair today - not a strand was out of place in the pink chignon pocket. All the little ballerinas looked beautiful, but Lindsey was clearly a cut above the rest as she beamed back at her mother with a broad smile. Even though she was only four, it was already clear that she had a dancer's lean build.

Jane tore her eyes away from her daughter, and turned her attention back to Miss Patti who was addressing the moms from the front of the room. Jane couldn't help but reluctantly admire the woman's toned body as it reflected on all sides in the mirrors around the room. She had to be at least sixty, and her butt and thighs were carved like marble. The definition in her black-spandex clad buttocks became even clearer as Miss Patti bent over to pull out of a cardboard box a sample costume the girls would be wearing at their recital.

It was hard to tell because it was still wrapped in plastic, but it did not seem to be pink. Jane felt a twinge of disappointment which quickly turned to fury when Miss Patti proudly held up a leopard-skin monstrosity. She started gushing about how much fun the costume would be and how well suited it would be to their tap number, but Jane had trouble hearing her over the roar in her ears. There were also a couple of girls crying. The rigid smile on Miss Patti's face grew even tighter as she interrupted her speech to address the growing anarchy. "Now now girls, you are going to be the hit of the recital! You will be wild! This is nothing to cry about. This costume is much more fun than a boring old pink outfit."

Jane swallowed hard, trying to control the tears she could feel brimming on her eyelids. She couldn't cry in front of Lindsey, who was actually oblivious to the commotion, chatting with a little friend. Jane had to have a good attitude, but she felt so powerless to help her daughter. With just a few weeks to go before the recital, it was too late to order more costumes and she couldn't deprive Lindsey of the chance to perform.

She glared at Miss Patti, wondering what on earth had possessed her to pick such a hideous outfit. At that moment, Miss Patti met her eye and her smile faded for a moment as she winked coldly at her. Jane suddenly realized that she was the one to blame. It seemed like her blog wasn't as anonymous as she'd thought after all. Miss Patti must have read her post poking fun at her the other day. She must not have found it funny.


Today's Fiction Friday Prompt: Write about a leopard print dress.

Night is my Playground

Photo courtesy of Photo Bucket - Rema XO.
I'm a little late with my Fiction Friday post. The prompt this week was: Pick a character who loves the dark, and tell us why. Avoid the obvious choices: stealth, monsters, sex, and anything else you immediately thought of.

At night, I am finally safe; safe from the harmful rays of the sun. I wait, hiding behind my blackout curtains, until I see the neighbor's lights wink at me as they blink on one by one, beckoning me out. The twilight of sunset is pure torture for me, as even the sun's weakening rays could cause me irreperable harm, blistering my skin within minutes. I've succumbed to the temptation a few times, desperate to see some natural colors, but have the scars as memories.

When night finally falls, like a comforting blanket, I flee from the home that is my daytime tomb. I walk miles and miles every night, hungry for the stimulation of real sights and sounds, not filtered through the tv screen. If I feel the need for real distance, I'll even ride my bike and cover thirty or forty miles. I can't drive a car as I was not able to take the test at night. Even if I were licensed, I don't think I would chance getting behind the wheel. There are just too many fluorescent lights on the highway, at rest stops and in the toll plazas.

Although the night is my prison, I don't hate it or resent it. Night is my time. Night is my domain. It's the only time when I can pretend to be normal for a few hours. In the darkness I can't see the scars on my hands or the pity in other's eyes as they look at my freakish face.

At some point, every night I make my way to the train tracks, my chosen spot, my favorite spot. I have a little flashlight to guide my steps through the field. Next summer, in early August, when the field is still full of lavender, I'll make my way to the railroad tracks for the last time. I like to imagine that my last sensations will be of the warmth of a summer night coupled with the delicate aroma of flowers. Then the blackness of night will wrap around me forever.

Luck Turns...

A few weeks ago on Fiction Friday, we wrote about a very unlucky character. Today's challenge is to have his or her luck turn around. It was so painful to write about this poor guy the last time, this should be a piece of cake!

Once the doors of the ambulance closed, it took me a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting inside the truck. Then I noticed the paramedic who was busy working on my legs. She was so beautiful that I got scared I had died and gone to heaven and was in the presence of an angel. I didn't want to speak in case she disappeared, but she broke the spell by looking up at me with a warm smile. "I hope I'm not hurting you too much," she said. It seemed like she was speaking to me, but girls like that don't generally speak to guys like me. I craned my head around to see the lucky guy she was addressing, but the shooting pains throughout my body made me collapse back down on the gurney. I shut my eyes, overwhelmed by the pain. I felt a cool touch on my wrist and opened my eyes. She was bent over me and I could feel her sweet breath on my face. Her face was even lovely with a frown of concern. When she saw that I hadn't fainted, she smiled. "Don't worry, you're in good hands. I'm going to make sure you get better really soon." I'm not sure if it was the pain, or my unusual good fortune, but everything went black, and I fainted.

Six days later, I was able to return home. I still wasn't convinced that Joyce was a mortal human, as she truly seemed to be sent from God as a reward for being a decent guy, but I didn't want to jinx my luck by thinking about it too much. True to her word, she hadn't left my side for the entire time I was in the hospital. She'd made sure I was comfortable, that my casts were set well, and that I had my favorite foods. She had even fed me with her own hands so that I wouldn't tire myself out! And now she was wheeling me back to my apartment. Robert had come to visit from work, ostensibly to pay his condolences, but I could tell that it was to make sure I wasn't faking it. Once he'd seen Joyce, his entire attitude had changed. He couldn't believe that such a hot girl was taking care of me.

When we walked into the building, Fat Norma was in the hallway. When she saw me, ambling along with my cane and my casts, she started racing to the elevator to pull her usual shut the door in my face stint. Joyce sized up the situation immediately and briskly walked to the elevator to claim it. She smiled tersely at Norma, and said, "I'm sure we can all fit in here nicely." Norma had no retort and was forced to wait a few minutes for me to make my way to the elevator. When we got to my floor, Joyce escorted me out. When she had her back turned, I looked back at Norma and winked. I wasn't sure when my luck would run out, but it felt good to be a winner for a change!

Intaglio

This week's Fiction Friday prompt is: Without it up, use the word Intaglio in your fiction friday entry.



The doorbell rings. I peek out of my window, hoping to see the big brown UPS truck I've been waiting for the last few days. I jump up in joy when I spy the bare white legs under the tell-tale brown shorts of the driver walking briskly away. I wonder if he has a choice of shorts or pants and actually chooses the ridiculous shorts. I push that random thought out of my head to run down and get the treasure my little short-clad elf has left me.

My Intaglio is finally here. I had ordered it the first day it was available to the American market. All the articles about it, first in the Italian press, then in the American press raved about it. I couldn't wait to see it, hold it, touch it. I couldn't believe that it was mine.

My friends told me that I was crazy to spend so much money on an Italian gadget. They tried to get me to change my mind, to use the money to go on an exotic vacation, but I could not be swayed. I knew the Intaglio would change my life.

The package was satisfyingly large, but it was devoid of any flashy branding, except for its unusual midnight black color. I bent down to pick it up and had to kneel down as it was heavier than I imagined. I carried it into the house, grunting with effort, but being extremely careful not to drop my $5000 loot. I was going to be eating a lot of plain pasta dinners to help my budget recover; I didn't want to break it before it had a chance to revolutionize my life.

I grabbed the scissors from the drawer and sliced open the box. I slowly slid the shiny black machine out of its styrofoam prison and placed it triumphantly on my counter. My decrepit little kitchen was transformed by the magnificent Intaglio.

I plugged it in and grabbed the porcelain espresso cup I'd purchased just for this occasion. I easily found the drawer for the coffee beans, poured in the water, and pressed the espresso button. The Intaglio came to life with thrilling hissing noises. The gleaming computer screen next to the espresso icon flickered, and turned on, revealing the face of a gorgeous Italian man. He was my Intaglio match of the day. He flashed me a dazzling smile and his "bonjourno bella!" was crystal clear on the state of the art speakers.

Sometimes It's Best to Stay in Bed

I knew I had overslept as soon as I saw how bright it was outside. I looked over at my alarm to understand why it didn't ring.
Turns out the stupid cat knocked over my water glass, again. Must be some sort of passive aggressive way of telling me to sleep less. Maybe some more therapy sessions would help. But no time to think of that, I had to focus on getting to work to avoid being fired. Thanks to the frigging cat, this would be the fifth time this month that I walked in after 9:30. Robert would not be pleased, again.

I raced out of the apartment, and yelled at Fat Norma to hold the elevator. She actually flipped me the bird and smiled evilly before the doors closed in my face. I realized that my shoelace, which I had forgotten to tie in my rush to get out the door, had made it in the elevator. I felt a strong tug on my right foot before it snapped off - breaking my new $200 Johnson and Murphy loafers.

I decided that I could not take the time to wait for the elevator, and took my chances with the stairs. It was only 15 flights, not too bad. I didn't see the banana peel until it was too late. Due to my speed, I basically took flight over the 12 steps until the next landing. I landed, hard, and could not get up. Everything hurt, my back, my legs, my arms... I was shot.

As the ambulance pulled away, I hoped that I would at least have a cast to show Robert the next time I made it in to work. Perhaps that would save my job.

This post was inspired by the Fiction Friday prompt: Sketch out a character with wildly bad luck. Make it a character you like, as we will use her again.

Obsession

James couldn't picture the color of his wife's eyes anymore. He couldn't remember the last time he'd really looked into her eyes. Lately her eyes were fixated on one thing - the giant IMac screen in their kitchen. With its bluish glow reflected in her brown eyes, it seemed as though her eyes had morphed into a new color, like those people who get colored lenses and create unnatural looking eye color combinations.

James rued the day he'd walked into the Apple store. He'd been easily seduced by the flawless design of the IMac. He had never thought that he would describe a computer as beautiful, but there simply was no other way to describe it, and the price couldn't be beat. He never would have bought it, even if it had only cost a dollar, if he'd known it would cost him his wife.

The IMac was, as advertised, truly plug and play. It was up and running as soon as he connected the power cord. They had all gathered, drawn in by the stunning purple space screensaver. One by one, the kids had drifted off to their games, and eventually James had gotten up to go to the bathroom. Brenda had just settled in on her stool and had never left. A little while later, when he'd gotten involved with his bathroom private time, Brenda had called out to him, all excited about how clear the ebay fonts were on the new monitor. He hadn't her sound that excited in a long time, and it worried him.

Now she was up late every night, monitoring her many auctions. She bought everything on ebay now: clothing, toys, furniture, even collectibles. They'd never been collectibles people - they used to call those people freaks - and they now were the proud owners of a growing collection of creepy bobble head figurines.

Brenda, who had always prided herself on being a supermom, barely noticed the kids. She only bathed them when they complained of being itchy or in pain. She threw in frozen waffles for breakfast and frozen chicken nuggets for lunch and dinner. She forgot to brush their hair and sign their permission slips. Although Brenda was still living with them, still physically his wife and their mother, she had mentally checked out of their lives.

James had tried speaking to her - at first nicely, then angrily, and finally with utter desperation. Nothing got through to her. She reacted with the least amount of word possible, and turned back to her screen. Now he was out of options, he opened the door to the highest bidder and helped him carry the IMac out to his car. James would miss having a computer, but he missed Brenda more.

Conspinkey

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This Week’s Theme: Conspinkey. Don't look that word up, because it doesn't exist. But you're going to use it in your entry. I walked into the Iron Arms and was momentarily blinded as my eyes adjusted to the gloomy smoky bar. I scanned the room as nonchalantly as I could. Then I saw him. I almost missed him; he blended in so well with the other guys at the bar, but the beat-up stetson on his lap set him apart. I walked over to the bar and stopped behind his chair. I coughed the word discreetly into my hand, "Conspinkey." He casually said, "God Bless you. Or is it more PC to say gazundheit nowadays?" I smiled, relieved that I had picked the correct man and that my instinct had been dead on. "Either one is fine with me, thank you. It got chilly early this year, don't you think?" He nodded and replied, "Can I buy you a hot toddy to warm you up?" His innocuous words chilled me to the bone. I squeaked out my answer, "No thanks. Warm drinks don't sit well with me," and I walked out as quickly as I could without calling attention to myself. I needed to make my way to a private contact point as quickly as I could; there wasn't much time to warn headquarters. I'd been prepared for a shirley temple or even a pint of guinness at the worst, but a hot toddy was the worst possible scenario. There was nothing left to do other than getting as far out of the city as possible. This time tomorrow there would be nothing left.

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The Three Little Pigs

Once upon a time, a single mother had her three sons. They lived frugally in a two bedroom apartment on the bad side of town and yet they could barely make ends meet. She worked two jobs to bring in enough money to clothe and feed three hungry boys but it was never enough. She worked so hard and worried so much that she became severely depressed and was committed to a state mental asylum for shock treatments.

The oldest son told his brothers not to worry because he had a plan. He dropped out of high school, a few months before graduation, and began dealing drugs at local strip bars and night clubs. He made decent money, but it wasn't enough, so he began cutting his product with powdered sugar. One night, a dissatisfied customer shot him in the head and he died.

The second brother put his grief aside in order to care for his youngest brother. He knew better than to get involved with drugs. He had heard that you could make a lot of money by working in construction. He dropped out of school a year before graduation and started working as a builder for a new office building. His athletic body was perfectly suited to the work and he was a hard worker. He quickly became an asset to the crew. He joined a union and quickly got a pay raise. He was making good money and got along well with the other workers; he was happy. One day, hungover from too many beers with the guys while watching the game, he tripped while walking on a beam and fell twenty stories to his death.

The youngest brother was now all alone, but he didn't panic or make desperate choices. At this point, he only had a year of high school left. He continued to work hard in school, living on pasta and tuna sandwiches. He took out a loan in his mother's name to cover any unavoidable expenses. He was named the valedictorian of his class and was accepted at Harvard with a full scholarship. He graduated from Harvard in three years with a dual major in economics and english literature. JP Morgan competed with many other investment banks for the privilege of hiring him. They won him over with a starting salary of $125,000 and a company Lexus.

He moved to a nice two bedroom apartment in a fashionable part of New York City and checked his mother out of her asylum. He set her up in the apartment with a visiting psychiatric nurse. He then moved his brother's bodies to a nearby cemetary and commissioned beautiful matching headstones for their tombs. With his family taken care of, he got to work. He dedicated all his waking hours to conquering Wall Street. He became the youngest partner JP Morgan had ever had. His poor mother never spent another minute worrying that the big bad wolf was at the door.

This story was inspired by the Fiction Friday Prompt: Pick a favorite fairy tale or legend. Now briefly describe how you could update it to the modern day.

The Horns

Even at night, in the dark, with just a little wimpy quarter moon in the sky, they taunted me. I could see the moon's reflection in the large Texas Longhorns mounted on the back of the Cohen's house; it was like a circus spotlight. Every time I saw them, I got angrier. Even now that I was finally getting ready to take action, just seeing them made me furious.

Those Cohens had pushed me too far when they ignored my last letter. I am not an unreasonable man. I gave them one last chance. I warned them that I would be forced to take action if they didn't remove that flaming insult, but they didn't even bother to answer. They chose to continue to insult the Roma family name with their insinuations that my wife was unfaithful. When they put them up, I explained to them that those horns mean cuckold in Sicily, but they thought I was being funny. They even laughed when I suggested they take them down. Bet they won't be laughing later tonight. Day after day after day I have been mocked by those horns right outside my dining room window, staring me in the face, hinting that my wife lies with another man.

They tried to tell me that the horns were a souvenir from their honeymoon in Arizona, but they couldn't fool me. I saw how they laughed at me when they thought I couldn't see them. I heard them joke about my anger when they were barbecuing with friends. I won't be the butt of jokes. Especially not when I've been so nice to those people. Soon they'll be sorry that they tried to make a fool of me. No one makes a fool of Tony Roma.

The can of gasoline banged against my knee. The pain snapped me out of my dreams of revenge. It was time to get to work.

This piece of fiction was inspired by the Friday Fiction prompt: Using first person narration, logically describe something that is crazy. Click through to see what others did with the prompt!

Scars

Valerie hated her skin, everything about it: the color, the complexion, the greasiness, and most of all the zits. She had an okay body as long as she limited her Ben & Jerry's Chunky Monkey intake. She'd even heard some basketball players comment on her ass the other day before she had turned around and they'd realized who they were talking about. But then they saw her face and any lascivious yet flattering comments about her bootie just dried right up. Conversation generally stopped when people took in the minefield that her face had become.

She essentially was one big "before" picture for a ProActiv campaign. Unfortunately, she had tried ProActiv, along with every other miracle acne cure out there, but had not had the same success as Jessica Simpson. Her face usually had at least 10 large pimples on the forehead, cheeks, or chin. They were red, inflamed, and impossible to ignore. She spent hours in front of the mirror trying to pop them and when she succeeded, the relief was intense. The aftermath wasn't pretty though. The first few days the zit became a crusty crater and then became a scar. She had dozens of these white scars all over her face, a roadmap to loneliness, a guarantee that she would die a virgin. On bad days, even her best friend Maggie had trouble looking her in the eye!

Valerie had one last hope. There was a little clinic just over the border in Mexico that specialized in these desperate acne cases. They had some sort of weekend treatment based on face masks from some sort of illegal plant extract followed by intense chemical peels. Normally Valerie was skeptical about these types of things, but the testimonials she'd read were so powerful. It really seemed like it was extreme enough to make a difference. Her parents, of course, had refused to help. They just didn't get it. So, she had saved all her babysitting money for the last six months and finally had enough: $1000. Her parents believed that she was going camping with Maggie for the weekend, they'd even given her a little extra allowance to buy camping supplies. She couldn't wait to see their faces when she returned transformed. But she was even more excited to see the basketball players faces on Monday morning!

This fiction was inspired by the Fiction Friday challenge: scars.

Lost Soul

"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year..." Pink Floyd echoed in the cold dark room. The walls seemed to be pulsating with every electric guitar note. Roger Water's haunting voice began again, "wish you were here..." The burning in Jane's throat and chest was unbearable. She had been sobbing, these animalistic, gut-wrenching cries of despair for over an hour. She didn't think she would ever be able to stop, or even want to stop. Every time she took a shaky breath and lifted her head up, she took in the desolate emptiness of the room and started crying all over again. Jeremy was gone. He had finally left her.

She'd been praying for this moment for the last few months; why did she feel so empty inside? It didn't help that he had taken all her stuff. Instead of slinking away like the sleazy rat he had become, he had made a grand exit by stealing all her clothes, furniture, books, even the wedding picture of her parents. All he'd left her, like some not-so-subtle message, was this Bose IPod dock with her IPod. Unfortunately, he'd even taken the time to erase her entire music library, with the exception of this one song.

Jane thought back to the day they had moved in to this Chelsea studio. They were so happy that day, bickering over whose sofa to keep. They'd ended up making room for both couches and had eaten Chinese food reclining Roman-style on their respective couch. They had even baptized both couches that night by making love on one then the other to test out which one was the most comfortable. She had thought she would be telling a G-rated version of their moving in story to their children one day.

Things went downhill fast from that idyllic day. Living with Jeremy was very different than dating him. He was extremely moody, due to a nasty little cocaine habit he'd kept hidden until now. Once she found out and voiced her displeasure, he promised to quit, but he'd just found better playmates. He didn't even try to hide them, often bringing them to the apartment, and introducing her to them. Every once in a while, they would have a nice day together: a picnic in the park or a movie night on the couch, and she would be reminded of why she had moved in with him. Then the phone would ring and she would hear Candy or Randy's voice on the machine telling Jeremy about a great party, and he would rush out of the apartment. Towards the end, she didn't even have the energy to get angry anymore.

Now she was left with nothing more than the wrinkles of disappointment edged at the corners of her mouth. Slowly the power of Pink Floyd's lyrics started to penetrate her self-indulgent sorrow. What kind of message was he trying to send her? Was he telling her that he still loved her after all that? Or was it some sort of threat? A result of some terrible coke-induced delusion? Should she be scared? Her sobs slowed, she started breathing deep, and shivering. She picked her the phone and called 411. "Hello? I need the number of a 24 hour locksmith." It was time to get herself together.

This post was in response to the prompt, use the lyrics of this Pink Floyd song in a fictional piece from Fiction Friday.

Textbook Treason

This piece of fiction is inspired by this week's Fiction Friday challenge - tell a story that unfolds through text messages. (I took the liberty of mixing it up between text messages and IMs).

SUZYQ: Hey! U there?
AMY269: ☺
SUZYQ: Crazy night, huh?
AMY269: Totally. What happened 2 u?
SUZYQ: Met hot guy. Got digits. U?
AMY269: Got so wasted.
SUZYQ: Brunch Sunday?
AMY269: Same as usual?
SUZYQ: cool. See u.
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From 917-456-2789 Friday 2/1/08 10:30AM
PAUL – HAD FUN LAST NIGHT. YOU HAVE MY # NOW. CALL ME. – SUZIE
From 646-123-4560 Friday 2/1/08 10:31AM
SEXY SUZIE! GLAD YOU DIDN’T FORGET. DINNER 2NIGHT? - PAUL
From 917-456-2789 Friday 2/1/08 10:45AM
SURE! 8. RENARDO’S ON 79TH. – SUZIE
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SUZYQ: He called!
AMY269: Cool.
SUZYQ: Dinner tonight. Totally pumped.
AMY269: Have fun but be careful.
SUZYQ: Got a meeting. Bye.
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AMY269: So? Scoop?
SUZYQ: ☺ ☺ ☺ great guy. Don’t want to get too psyched though.
AMY269: Remember Zach.
SUZYQ: that jerk!
AMY269: Movie or party tonight?
SUZYQ: What party?
AMY269: Mike’s.
SUZYQ: Oh God… I’m not in the mood.
AMY269: Come on…. It’ll be fun. Pick up, that’s me calling.
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From: Suzie Cell Saturday 2/2/08 1:07PM
PAUL, THX 4 DINNER. HAD A BLAST. – SUZIE
From: Paul Cell Saturday 2/2/08 1:45PM
SUZE, ME 2. U FREE WED? SUSHI?
From: Suzie Cell Saturday, 2/2/08 5PM
SURE.
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From: Suzie Cell Sunday 2/3/08 3:30AM
PAUL, I’M SO HAPPY I MET YOU… ☺
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From: Suzie Cell Wed 2/6/08 11:30AM
PAUL – STILL ON FOR DINNER 2NIGHT?
From: Paul Cell Wed 2/6/08 2:30PM
SUZIE, SURE. HAVE TO WORK LATE THOUGH. HOW ABOUT WE ORDER IN AT YOUR PLACE? I CAN BE THERE AROUND 9.
From: Suzie Cell Wed 2/6/08 2:35PM
Sure. 355 W 86 – apt. 15E.
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SUZYQ: Ames!!!! Had dinner with HIM again last night. So fun. ☺
AMY269: Can’t talk. In meeting. Call you later.
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AMY269: Sorry about be4. Wanna come over to watch Lost 2night?
SUZYQ: sure. I’ll bring wine.
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From: Suzie Cell Thursday 2/7/08 10:30PM
PAUL, WORKING LATE AGAIN? WANNA COME OVER? I GOT MORE WHIPPED CREAM... – SUZIE
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AMY269: Hi!
SUZYQ: Hey.
AMY269: What’s up?
SUZYQ: nothing.
AMY269: Did you go out last night with your new guy?
SUZYQ: no.
AMY269: You stayed in on a Friday?
SUZYQ: yeah.
AMY269: Got plans 2night with lover boy?
SUZYQ: no.
AMY269: Come out with me!
SUZYQ: too tired.
AMY269: U OK?
SUZYQ: yeah… just tired.
AMY269: OK. I’ll be at Moran’s if you rally. Brunch tomorrow?
SUZYQ: sure.
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From: Suzie Cell Saturday 2/9/08 7:30PM
PAUL, DID YOU GO OUT OF TOWN? DID YOU GET MY LAST FEW TEXTS AND MSGS? U FREE 2NIGHT? PLS CALL ME. - SUZIE

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From: Suzie Cell Sunday 2/10/08 11:05AM
AMY – WHERE ARE U? I’M AT SARABETHS FOR BRUNCH. DO U WANT ME TO ORDER 4 U?
From: Amy Cell Sunday 2/10/08 11:45AM
SUZE – SO SORRY. HOOKED UP AND JUST WOKE UP. I’LL CALL U LATER.
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From: Paul Cell Sunday 2/10/08 4:05PM
SUZIE – SORRY. THIS ISN’T GOING TO WORK OUT. – PAUL
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SUZYQ – AMES?
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From: Suzie Cell Sunday 2/10/08 4:06PM
AMY – WHERE ARE U? I REALLY NEED TO TALK TO YOU!!!!!!!
From: Amy Cell Sunday 2/10/08 4:08PM
SUZE – SORRY. STILL W/GUY. GOING SKATING. CALL U LATER.
From: Suzie Cell Sunday 2/10/08 4:09PM
AMY – WHAT’S HIS NAME.
From: Amy Cell Sunday 2/10/08 4:10PM
SUZE – PAUL. WHY?

Joy Fire

“Burn baby burn!” The gorgeous flames licked at the sky, their amber glow clashing with the crisp blue April sky. Tammy put her hands on her hips, loving feeling her hipbones through her chinos, and took in the beautiful sight of her size 8 clothes catching fire.

The last six months had been long and hard but well worth it. The beauty of the blaze almost made up for all those nights without chocolate. Now all that hard work was behind her, burning in that gorgeous bonfire. If her fat clothes didn’t tempt her, she would finally have the discipline to keep her sweet tooth in check and keep on working out.

Just thinking about working out got her blood pumping; she’d never been this fit in her life. Her heart was really racing; she was actually beginning to sweat. Was it the moment? Or was it the fire? Tammy noticed that it was beginning to get a little out of control now that her control-top underwear had caught on fire. The synthetic material was really combustible.

Just as Tammy was beginning to really worry that her little celebratory bonfire was going to take her house, she heard sirens. Just in the nick of time! She glanced at her watch. If they could put the fire out in thirty minutes, she would still have time to make the 1:30 step class.

This fiction was inspired by the Writer's Island prompt: Rising.

Unrequited Love

This post was inspired by the Friday Fiction prompt: "Friend or foe - write about your character's feelings for animals."

John was completely crazy about dogs. He loved them with a passion. He only noticed pretty women if they were walking good-looking dogs, or even ugly dogs. He only had eyes for the pooches. He always carried some sort of dog treat in his pockets, doggie bones of at least two flavors to be sure to have something for finicky palates. He lived to get tails wagging.

John had a great tragedy in his life. He had a certain quality that made dogs fear him. Some dogs ran away from him, some growled at him, and some even lunged at him. None would let him get close enough to pet them. He’d been to see all sorts of specialists, both veterinarians and human doctors, to understand why dogs didn’t reciprocate his affections. The best hypothesis he’d heard was that he emitted a strong predator pheromone. Unfortunately, the research on pheromones was in its infancy. The doctor’s best suggestion had been to try his luck with cats. They just didn’t understand that dog people are not cat people. It was like suggesting that a macho heterosexual become a homosexual because the ladies didn’t care for him.

John continued to hunger for canine affection. He became an expert on pheromones. He increased his dog bone flavor selection and continued stalking the local dog parks and animal rescue centers. His hope never wavered that he would one day encounter a special dog that would appreciate him.

Piña Colada

This Week’s Theme: Describe a time your character was wronged; even though it was insignificant to the one who wronged them, your character never got over it.

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The crystalline Caribbean water sparkled under the hot noonday sun and contrasted beautifully with the pristine white sand of the private beach. Olivia took in the gorgeous view from her perch at a shaded table at the beach snack bar. This hotel was even better than in the brochure. Everything, down to the ice-cold piña colada in front of her with its beads of condensation, was perfect. Sometimes piña coladas were too heavy on the coconut, but this one was just the right combination of rum, pineapple juice and coconut milk. She only drank them on vacation; if done right like this one, a good piña colada really set the tone.

Olivia sighed deeply in total contentment. It was hard to believe that she and her friend Lydia had gotten off the plane only a few hours ago. Five more days of heaven, she thought to herself. It was just what she needed. She could feel the last vestiges of work stress she had been stockpiling over the last few months melt away.

She looked up and spied Lydia walking towards her. Lydia was wearing a beautiful sarong and struggling a bit on the planked floor of the beach restaurant in her high-heeled sandals. Olivia called out, "Hey there! Why don't you take your fancy shoes off? We're in the islands now! You have to feel how delicious this sand is between your toes. Isn't this place amazing?" Lydia looked grumpy and annoyed. "I guess you could call it amazing if you like run-down hovels. I can't believe we're paying $400 a night for this dump. Can you believe it took me over an hour to get a pedicure? And now this stupid wood floor is going to ruin it." Olivia took a deep breath. Maybe it had been a bad idea to invite Lydia to go along on this trip. She had thought it would be fun to go with a girlfriend, but she really hoped Lydia's mood would perk up soon.

"Why don't you join me in a cocktail to get you more in the vacation mood?" Lydia frowned and peered over her large sunglasses to inspect Olivia's drink. "What are you drinking? Do you realize how many calories are in one of those drinks? We need to be in a bikini for 5 days - don't you want to look your best? After all, it's not as though you can afford to gain any more weight. There's nowhere to hide the extra pounds when you're wearing a little bikini like yours." Then Lydia looked over at the bar and spied the hot bartender. She smiled greedily and said, "You know what, maybe a drink is a good idea. I'll be right back. Do you want another?" Olivia sighed before answering, "Why don't you get me an ice water while you're up there."

As Lydia teetered over to the bare-chested bartender, Olivia pushed her drink away sadly. She imagined she could feel the few sips she had just taken get transformed into new cellulite pockets on her butt. She wondered if it was too late to change the coconut shrimp she had ordered for a house salad with dressing on the side. By the time Lydia returned to the table, all giggles and smiles, Olivia was thoroughly depressed. She just wanted to go back to the room and change into that black one-piece she had brought. Five more days in a bathing suit now sounded like pure torture.


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Toll House Grief

George Williams' mother was, without a doubt, the best baker in town. It was quite possible that her chocolate chip cookies were the best of the county. She also had an uncanny sense of knowing exactly when we would be walking through the door starving. She miraculously always managed to be taking a fresh batch of cookies out of the oven exactly as we trooped in, all muddy and out of breath.

In those days we were a tight band of friends. Life wasn't complicated by girls or Fox News kidnapping fears. We roamed the neighborhood in search of adventure and stumbled home in time for dinner. My parents were divorced and my mother worked. This made me a latch-key kid, an oddity in these parts. I didn't mind, it was the reason George's mom had unofficially adopted me. I ate countless dinner at the Williams home; I even had my own place at the table. She always told me that she cooked a little extra hoping that I would join them for dinner. She liked to make sure that my belly was always full. She cooked my favorite dishes and always saved an extra cookie for me. I was a tough kid, accustomed to being on my own, but I basked in her attentions. It wasn't as though I was neglected by mother, but I loved pretending to be a part of the perfect Williams family. I had never been fussed over like that and I relished every minute of it.

Then Albert moved to the house next to the Williams'. He was shy and skinny. He wore glasses held together by masking tape. He lived alone with his dad, a widower. His mother had died the previous year. They had moved to our town to escape the memories of their newly empty house. We thought that he was nice enough, but not the kind of kid who would really get dirty. We weren't exactly hostile to him but we weren't overly welcoming either. George's mom would not stand for that kind of behavior from us. She foisted Albert on us time and time again, nagging us until we rang his doorbell and invited him along on our escapades. It didn't take long for him to become part of our gang. Once we got past his shyness, he was a pretty funny guy.

I was happy to have him around; I didn't realize how much of a threat he was. Then, one tuesday afternoon, after playing wiffle ball in the Williams backyard, we ran into the house, starving, as usual. George's mom had one of her batches of warm chocolate chip cookies ready for us. They were warm and gooey with a caramelized edge. The platter went around the group and we each grabbed a cookie. One by one, we all grabbed a second cookie, leaving only one cookie on the platter. I reached for it, with a goofy grin on my face, claiming my usual special cookie. I felt Mrs. Williams' hand on mine. I looked up into her face confused. Instead of her usual mothering look, her face was disappointed. She scolded me gently, "Now Bobby, don't grab. I made an extra cookie for Albert. You don't mind, do you?" I nodded gracefully and passed the tray to Albert who accepted it like an eager little puppy.

At that moment, I realized that my golden days at the Williams' were over. I gave up without a fight. I was only the victim of divorce; I couldn't compete with an orphan. Thirty years later, the smell of warm chocolate chip cookies still makes me sad.

This post was inspired by the Fiction Friday prompt: Describe a time your character gave up and how it affected him the rest of his life.