A Cold Dish

In ninth grade, my friend Amy and I had several classes together.  We often sat with each other during class. We usually discussed books, but about halfway through the school year, Amy began discussing Dungeons & Dragons. It was obvious that she loved the game, and I couldn't help but be excited with her.  The characters seemed fascinating. 

I mentioned to her that I would like to learn to play the game. Amy gave a nervous laugh, and changed the subject. I mentioned my desire to play D&D again on another day, but Amy changed the subject.  She stopped bringing up the game altogether.

The elf was out of the dungeon, however.

My curiosity had been roused, and I brought it up again. Amy looked unhappy, her eyes darting side to side, seeking escape. She would not look at me, but she finally blurted out her concerns.

"I just don't think that you're smart enough to play Dungeons & Dragons."

The sounds in the room became muffled, as if the suction of a vacuum had surrounded us.  I could feel my face heating up. Taunts and insults from long ago welled up through a crack in my heart, spilling out like blood.  I wanted to punch Amy right in the face, and my hands curled into fists in my lap.  My maligned ego could have cheerfully kicked and stomped Amy into a red pulp on the linoleum floor, even as I wanted to curl up into a corner and cry.  I took a breath, exhaling like a smoker with the first cigarette of the day.

I told Amy that perhaps she had a point.  I did my best to appear unconcerned, indifferent. I even smiled.  Amy was too relieved to see what her remark had done. She babbled on about how very complicated the game was, and how I just would not be able to keep up, and she was so glad that I understood.  I just kept smiling.   I asked if she would be willing to loan me her manuals.  Amy ran to her locker and handed me her copy of The Dungeon Master's Guide, along with another book.  I promised to bring the books back as soon as I finished reading them.

Except that I never did. I am not proud of it, but the books have remained with me for over thirty years.  Technically, I never finished reading them, so I haven't broken my promise.  I thought that I would feel guilty about keeping those books, but I never have. The anger has faded, but the books have stayed. They're a reminder. In gaming, there's almost always a burglar character, a trickster, who uses stealth and subterfuge to steal "loot" from other players or get the best of the monster.  My friend insulted me beyond repair.  However, I was smart enough to get her to cheerfully hand over her "loot" without a second thought. 

Feminine Wiles

 
Mamakat's Marvelous Prompt:  1.) Something you learned in college.


When I arrived at Southwest Texas State University, the only person I knew was my roommate Cathy.  Cathy and I had been "besties" in junior high, and had kept in touch even after my dad got stationed at Walter Reed.  The Cathy that I knew, however, was awkward and socially inept, just like me.  This new and improved Cathy was blonder, perkier.  She had contacts now, instead of the glasses she used to wear.  She had been a cheerleader, fer gosh sakes!  I couldn't even do the splits.  Cathy was confident, happy in her new skin.  I was not.

Since she was the only person that I knew, I stuck to her like white on rice.  I hadn't been in the state of Texas for some time, and it was best to hang with the natives until I got my bearings.  So we hung out, walking to classes together, eating together, etc.  We made a couple of friends and hung out with them, laughing and joking. When it was just us, Cathy was intelligent and witty.  She looked us in the eye.  She told us what she thought. 

When boys were around, however, Cathy became different.

It wasn't flirting.  Flirting would imply some form of equality.  From my perspective, Cathy's behavior seemed to be closer  to sycophancy.

Cathy simpered.  She preened.  She admired flaccid biceps.  She laughed at inane jokes. She did the classic hair flip, the one that sociologists seek grants to study.  She asked questions about topics to which she knew the answer.   I even caught her batting her eye lashes! Whatever the boys said, Cathy seemed to hang on every word.  

This was completely weird to me.  Why was my usually intelligent friend acting so oddly?  Had she been abducted and replaced by pod people?  I was astonished, but intrigued, because her behavior seemed to work.

Guys loved that stuff.  They puffed up their chests, performing as much muscle flexing as they could without being obvious.  Almost all men smiled at Cathy while she performed, and many acted as though they would do anything for her that involved showing off their muscles.  Men bought her beers, asked for her phone number, and actually called her! Was she using those mysterious 'feminine wiles' that I'd read about in my mother's magazines? Is THAT what all the fuss was about?

I was appalled.

I was flabbergasted.

At least, at first.

As I watched Cathy, I suffered a bit of a moral dilemma.  I wanted to have admirers.  I wanted to go on dates.  I wanted a bit of romance. On the one hand, I didn't think that one should have to simper or preen when meeting men.  On the other hand, free stuff--affection, adoration, and food and beer.  Cathy was getting free things, and attention, with little effort.  I was amazed.

I wanted that, too. It would mean acting a bit, pretending to be less intelligent, but I thought that I should at least try.  After all, feminine wiles had been part of the toolbox for women for centuries.  I was just joining the club. 

When Illusions Fail

This week's word is Crush.  I am sorry to say that I had to use the past tense.  I have been in a poetry mood lately.  If I could play guitar I'd probably be sitting in a coffeehouse wearing a jaunty black beret.  I am sure that this is all very temporary, but we have to let these things work their course.   





What I Once was, 

mashed between the

Who I am Nows,but

Crushed underneath

What I Might become.

Particles of my being

Good,wicked, silly

Ugly, sad and beautiful

Pulverized into dust,

Strewn about,

Carried off by the wind.

The Female Revolt of 1812

The Decemberist Revolt took place during the month of December in 19th century Russia when 3,000 soldiers protested Nicholas I's assumption of the throne on the first day of his reign.  He quickly squashed the revolt, but it impacted his regime as he went on to rule with an iron fist.

For the weekend challenge, we're asking you to write exactly 33 words about rebellion and/or revolt.  Interpret it as you will, just keep it to 33 words.
 


He had intended to march proudly for the rebellion.

Unfortunately, Oliver was killed by the violent shrapnel that flew as thousands of well-fed women simultaneously snipped the suffocating metal stays on their corsets.

One Red Paperclip

Write on Edge prompt:  “I spy with my little eye” is a popular game with children, and their acute observation picks up items adults may not look at twice. This week, choose one of the 14 items in this “I Spy” game and use it in a fiction or creative non-fiction piece. This is fiction.



"We got a live one here, Sarge," Officer Jones joked as he stuck his head into Malcolm's office.  "The victim was one George Marsh, the alleged's husband of 37 years.  Preliminary cause of death appears to be beaning with a cast iron skillet."

Malcolm nodded as he stood, straightening his tie. He was anxious to begin his first interrogation as detective, and he took pains to put on a stern visage as he entered the room and sat down.

At first glance, Harriet Marsh looked unremarkable.  She was on the plump side, with a ruddy,round face, and gray hair pulled tightly back into a severe bun.   He read aloud the charges against Harriet.

Harriet nodded, and Malcolm made a notation.

"Were you read your rights?  Do you want a lawyer?"  

Harriet said, rather cheerfully. "No need for a lawyer. I committed the crime."

Malcolm scribbled her words on the paper, then put quotations around them.

"Mrs. Marsh, why did you kill your husband?"

"Well, dear, it started on Monday." Harriet's voice was a bit shrill, on the verge of mania.  "I spent all week cleaning the house, while George was away on business. It wasn't easy; I'm not as young as I used to be, but it needed to be done."

Harriet rushed on, her haste to explain herself overwhelming any caution. 

"I cleaned out all of the closets and the attic. I scrubbed the floors. I dusted the ceilings.  I polished the furniture. I swept the patio. I cleaned the cornices. I fluffed the pillows and turned the mattresses.  I vacuumed.  I scrubbed the toilets. bathtubs, sinks. The house had never been so clean, not since we first moved in. George never even noticed."  Harriet paused, her eyebrows raised, waiting.

"That must have been difficult." Malcolm encouraged, as he continued taking notes. 

Harriet beamed at Malcolm, then her eyes grew angry.  "George walked in the house and dropped his suitcase. I could not believe it.  No kiss.  No 'I've missed you' or 'It's good to be home'.  He went straight to the fridge for a beer, then to his chair to watch some TV."

"Was that when you killed your husband?" Malcolm paused to glance at Harriet. Wisps of hair had escaped from the severe bun and formed a wavering corona around her face as she shook her head.

"Oh no, George used to watch TV like that every night after work.  I was used to that."

"Then what happened?"

"Well, I was about to go back into the kitchen, when George put his hand in his pants pocket, and pulled out a red paper clip."

"And?"

"And then he threw that paper clip over his shoulder," Harriet seemed to expand, a sudden storm in the interrogation room.  She stood, indignant, her hair flying about her head, electric. "THAT MAN THREW THAT RED PAPER CLIP RIGHT ON MY CLEAN CARPET!!!!" 

Harriet threw herself across the table at Malcolm, her hands claws.

Inocculated

The word for today is hollow.  I'm trying something different today.  Try not to cringe.


Underneath the sweetness
Of your gaze
Lies the sting of impending heartbreak.
And I've seen  
That come-hither smile before. 
The dazzling whiter-than-white
That doesn't quite reach hollow eyes,
Where the dismal, soulless abyss,
That gaping maw that is your heart
Lies waiting to destroy
The innocence of the next woman.
Who needs that drama?
.

Flooded

Mamakat's Prompt: 3.) Write a post inspired by the word: Flooded

It was a random weekday evening.  My father was working one of the three jobs he held while getting his master's degree.  My brother was at football practice.  My mother was upstairs reading or doing Mom-related stuff.  And I was in the basement family room, watching an episode of Happy Days.  It was the one where Fonzie has to get glasses, and yes, I'd seen that episode about 14,000 times, but that's what teenagers did back then until their parents got Beta-max.

I heard the sound of running water, right about the point that Fonzie was visiting Ralph Malph's father, Mickey Malph, who was an optometrist.  It sounded like the shower in the basement bathroom was running, but at first it didn't register in my teenaged brain.  But then it did.  Who is taking a shower?  I got up to investigate.  There was brackish, muddy brown water flowing underneath the closed bathroom door.  Confused, I opened the bathroom door...and a small tidal wave of the stuff came pouring out, flowing over my bare feet and into the family room. 

I stood there a moment, stunned.  Then it hit me, that smell, and I realized that I was standing in raw sewage.  I was up to my ankles in poop water.  I froze, my mind refusing to accept that I was up to my ankles in poop water.  Then I did what any sane person would do under these circumstances.

"MMMMMOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM!!!!!!!!" 

My voice was shrill, part soprano and part hysteria, and my mother responded very quickly.

"WHAT?!?!?!?!"

We exchanged these pleasantries a few more moments, until my annoyed mother finally came downstairs in her bare feet to see if I was bleeding from an eyeball or some other 'nonsense'.  By this time, the sewage flow had made it halfway across the family room.  In the midst of my state of shock, I vaguely wondered just what the heck the neighbors were eating and what, if anything, could be done to halt the flow of raw sewage over my feet.

My mother, however, knew exactly what to do.  She gritted her teeth, overcame her natural repulsion to anything resembling dirt, and waded through the sewage to the back door, which she opened as wide as she could.  This had the intended effect of stopping the flow of poop water into the family room.  The couch was saved; the stuff instead poured out the back door and onto the grass.  My mother followed the crap out the door and disappeared from sight.

I was still completely 'icked' out, beyond the capacity for problem-solving, so I remained standing in the sewage.  I was still standing there when my mother appeared at the open back door again.  She was not alone.  She had a Roto-Rooter guy by the ear.  She was yelling at him.  I distinctly remember her screaming something about her house being full of sh**.

I stared.  MY mother never yelled.  MY mother never cursed.  Somehow, seeing MY mother, who never freaked out, on the verge of a murderous, hysterical, rage, screaming at the poor Roto-Rooter man, snapped me right out of my shock at standing in poop.  With a shake of my head, I started to head to my room.

I made it two steps.

"Oh no you don't!" My mother's glare would have melted iron. "You get out back and wash off your feet with the hose!"

The Roto-Rooter man and I shared a brief look of commiseration, as the recipients of my mother's wrath, before I hurried out the door. 

RemembeRED: Phoenix

After I lost my daughter, there was nothing. My body shut down for awhile, but even after I regained consciousness, my world was ashes. I really can't convey the totality of my despair; there aren't really any words.  We could never have a baby of our own.  All the purpose, all the things that once meant something, now meant nothing.  Hope is an essential part of who we are; we stop striving for that distant dream, and our spirit dies. The body sometimes sticks around, but it's just a shell.

One Sunday afternoon years after, I stepped out of our car and saw a man riding a dragon in the blue sky.  As we gazed into the bright blue, my husband and I agreed that it was a very unusual cloud formation  Watching that cloud,  a quiet voice whispered in my head, telling me that everything would be all right. 

Then my doctor mentioned that there were new treatments for pre eclampsia.  We had one embryo left, just one. The fertility clinic told us that we would have to find a perinatologist before they would implant the embryo.  We had to find a bank that would give us a loan.  We had to find someone to administer the intramuscular injections.  I had to overcome a fear of needles and learn to inject myself with blood thinners each night.

Hope is a phoenix.  It often rises, the tiniest glimmer, crawling from the ashes of many an immolated desire.  Every step of the way, every potential obstacle, that small voice would call to me, coaxing me out of the bleakness of my despair little by little.  This is what you need to do, this is where you need to be, this is who you were meant to be.   Even when my son was born early, and I gazed at his tiny body, hooked up to machines and tubes, there was a flame in my heart, and an assuring presence within me. "And all shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."**

And so it was.


**Julian of Norwich said that.   

Just Another Summer Day

Note: This week's Remembe(red) writing prompt is a photo(of a garden hose) to take you back in time. In 700 or fewer words, show us where your memory takes you. Remember that this image is merely inspiration. Your piece needn't have a hose in your piece, but we need to easily see how you were inspired by it.

Just as I thought that I would die of thirst, I saw it. Coiled on the patio in the back yard, the hose beckoned, an oasis in the desert.

I ran toward it, my little brother close behind. I got to the faucet first, and turned it on. My brother had picked up the other end of the hose and was about to drink.

"HEY!!!" I was outraged. By the Sacred Virtue of Birth Order, it was decreed that I always got to go first. Plus, like they said on tv, ladies were supposed to go first. I was the oldest(at five), I was a girl, so I went first.

Except that my brother didn't believe that. He believed that since HE was the youngest by two and a half years, the "adorable" baby of the family, he should go first. He also believed that I should just LET him go first, since he was the baby.

I could not allow this violation of All That Was Holy in my worldview to continue, so I did what any older sister would do: I tackled him. I took him out at the knees, and he let go of the hose as we both fell back into the grass. My brother did not take this punishment lightly--he fought back as fiercely as he could. We rolled around on the grass, yelling, the forgotten hose releasing all that cool, delicious water into the ground near us.

"WHAT ARE YOU TWO DOING?!! My mother was suddenly hollering at us from the sliding glass door. We froze. "KNOCK IT OFF!!!"

There is nothing more powerful than the Fear of Mom, so of course we hopped right up, covered with grass stains. I ran over to the hose, suddenly thirstier than I had ever been before. I lean over the hose to take a drink.

"AND TURN OFF THAT HOSE!" My mother hollered.

I waited until she wasn't at the door anymore, then quickly took a drink and handed the hose to my brother. Then we ran back to our playing.

Note: This is a melding of every single summer day that my brother and I spent playing together. Yes, we actually did have fights like that, but we never actually ever hurt each other. Except once or twice. Maybe three times.