tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-33185400142526129822024-02-07T13:34:41.234-06:00Falling InWriting, jottings, ideas, wanderings, ramblings and such. Generally my attempt at falling into the page.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comBlogger62125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-43111844149706111672017-04-14T01:55:00.003-05:002017-04-14T02:07:09.221-05:00Things That Fall From the Sky<h3>
This Pillow Book entry is inspired by <i style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Georgia, Utopia, "Palatino Linotype", Palatino, serif; font-size: 15.4px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pillow-Book-Sei-Shonagon/dp/0231073372" style="color: #997799; text-decoration-line: none;">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: inherit; font-size: 15.4px;">, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.</span></h3>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;">Hand-journaled</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;"> on March 01, 2017</span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.4px;">136. Things that fall from the sky </span></span></h3>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Rain, but not often in this dry Oklahoma air. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">A soft mist that envelops warmed skin, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;">kissing cheeks, eyelids.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">A moist whisper across waiting lips. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">A foreign taste in the air. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Breathe it in and a quiver runs up the spine, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;">fluttering the heart. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">An indescribable feeling surges through the blood, </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;">firing in the brain, igniting the soul. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Boiling up through the chest, turning to steam as you exhale </span></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 15.4px;">a long-held breath. </span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Opening your mouth, reaching out with your tongue for one last drop. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Face upturned, your eyes drift closed, lips tremble, and you finally feel the relief.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Tornadoes. Like they did 20 years ago today in Little Rock, Arkansas. Dropping from a pregnant spring sky and tearing through our communities. Destroying. Mangling. Changing everything. Forever. Crises can mimic the physical storms in our lives: a spinning storm descending into our orderly thoughts and lives. Teeming emotions can beat against our battened hatches, destructive and seemingly unending. Why? Is our world design-less? Arbitrary? Are these physical, emotional, and spiritual crises random? Indiscriminate? Without plan or function?</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">To answer these questions I created a concept map: A way to order some of my thoughts on a few specific incidents and how they relate to answering this question of Why?</span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQ4teSyyd-Y4rpesbenFWJk_9fmTJCKg5ZyDQzZQDQha4DCOAbN_6B5dJF9GCUED6v3sR3E2E3jAif5_JGGO6bl4lPBUQ1Gag0MPyDxSgp2sKqHKrgUNa06WOXY44-gXevBfpP4AzhN4/s1600/Blog+Images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVQ4teSyyd-Y4rpesbenFWJk_9fmTJCKg5ZyDQzZQDQha4DCOAbN_6B5dJF9GCUED6v3sR3E2E3jAif5_JGGO6bl4lPBUQ1Gag0MPyDxSgp2sKqHKrgUNa06WOXY44-gXevBfpP4AzhN4/s640/Blog+Images.jpg" width="556" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Our physical, emotional, and spiritual struggles may appear to be a spinning storm, but they are not causeless in their destructiveness. Personal and physical storms are not arbitrary and neither are their resulting consequences. Weathering storms creates strength in both nature and in our personal growth, spiritual and emotional. </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;"><b>Why do we ask why?</b> Is there a higher power, a great designer, a creator that has imbued us with a sense of general curiosity and the need for scientific and self-discovery? If there is do you know Him? Can He bring you through your storms, strengthened and with intent for your physical, emotional, and spiritual growth? </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-size: 15.4px;">Notes:</span></span></span></h4>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=973uMftNv2M" target="_blank">News Coverage from The Tornado System that moved across Arkansas on March 1, 1997</a>. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.4px;"><a href="http://www.weatherimagery.com/blog/tornado-skip-house/" target="_blank">Can a Tornado Jump Over a House?</a></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="background-color: white; font-size: 15.4px;"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtysVzLic5nOw8cpajtt805pCPRdVMevSNiGmGY4AZPwfZrzhdJ2mF92DEhtUzVC9cO30e2W4gwevvwbwYrkCsapq1l5Kb3EqWbZG1qIT5Dz2fpY3vBwy2PH5xofMf1x2NCcBgxdfd8aI/s1600/James+in+Golden+Bells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="295" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtysVzLic5nOw8cpajtt805pCPRdVMevSNiGmGY4AZPwfZrzhdJ2mF92DEhtUzVC9cO30e2W4gwevvwbwYrkCsapq1l5Kb3EqWbZG1qIT5Dz2fpY3vBwy2PH5xofMf1x2NCcBgxdfd8aI/s400/James+in+Golden+Bells.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My eldest son playing among the Golden Bells that my mother and I planted the morning before the Tornadoes tore through our neighborhood. This was 3 years after the fledgling bushes weathered the storm.</td></tr>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17503046102417068056noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-87775552961301233082011-12-18T12:36:00.000-06:002011-12-18T12:36:43.897-06:00FacesPlease bear with me through another writing exercise as I try to take another step toward writing on a regular basis. <b>Any feedback or comments would be greatly appreciated</b>.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArxxSWXB-vCyWWyOiEQDhMjcASEgQlgAXqrnQlXWAWKh5I2kLEgx55DnjfiRVoSzjSYWigcyC9XdLJ8-sWrD5RFR4ujt-x-XNGqihIQYkxO9yhWL65hDGF1PnZq9VR8bHoV_lA4atvgU/s1600/091216144141-large.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="336" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiArxxSWXB-vCyWWyOiEQDhMjcASEgQlgAXqrnQlXWAWKh5I2kLEgx55DnjfiRVoSzjSYWigcyC9XdLJ8-sWrD5RFR4ujt-x-XNGqihIQYkxO9yhWL65hDGF1PnZq9VR8bHoV_lA4atvgU/s640/091216144141-large.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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This exercise involves observing people and writing a quick, but detailed description of individual faces.<br />
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1. Long grayed-blonde hair. Thick cheeks droop, creating two folds that descend from the sunken corners of the mouth. An expressionless mouth. Lips taunt in two straight lines. Sad, tired eyes, magnified behind thick-lensed glasses, the rims of which are made of a cheap beige plastic.<br />
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2. In profile, his rubbery chin protrudes just a breath beyond his nose. Small, dark eyes set deep within their wrinkled sockets. Skin the texture of leather, turned a burnt orange hue by the sun. Tufts of dry, dark hair stick-out from and old black sock hat. One matted tuft encircling each ear and a third wider tuft protruding from the base of his neck. He wears a gruff, but nonthreatening expression. When his parched lips open, I can see that his his teeth are too small for his mouth.<br />
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3. Full and soft. Dark thick lashes, browned eyelids. Pink lips to match the fruity-colored tee. A small pudgy nose draws the other features together like the center button on an overstuffed throw pillow. Eyebrows plucked and shaped into two soft peaks. Hair styled to look like she just rolled out of bed. Wide, bright blue eyes. A hesitation in her smile reveals that she doesn't know she is beautiful.<br />
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4. This one really doesn't fix her hair, unless you count the twisted purple band scooping the fine blonde hair from the nape of her neck. Stray wisps dance around her face. Rosy freckled skin. Pen perched between thin lips. The underlying bones create a high cheek and bluntly-pointed chin. The line of her nose creates a concave surface. Light green eyes seem to blink in slow-motion. Thin. So thin that you wonder who she resembles, before you realize the familiarity is in the skeletal look of her face.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-7190551206798193712011-04-13T14:52:00.001-05:002011-04-20T11:54:34.204-05:00StarsI'm back from a brief hiatus. So a slow way to start is just sharing some connections I've been making lately and hope that they will lead me to writing again. Please feel free to make your own connections and share your thoughts in the comment section.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdQYL7wJNmY2imXdCuM2FtSlGfaGxHLAM6w2qcjYsv6TEX0j-6Wx3he3_DsH0c3nmYnnIQGABxi5NrLD9IqxWYbfOXvLTwCtVpgqRs4yCcAzaCB18NOT3-wC5WOhHupnAZ7u8thxMORA/s1600/CIMG0066.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvdQYL7wJNmY2imXdCuM2FtSlGfaGxHLAM6w2qcjYsv6TEX0j-6Wx3he3_DsH0c3nmYnnIQGABxi5NrLD9IqxWYbfOXvLTwCtVpgqRs4yCcAzaCB18NOT3-wC5WOhHupnAZ7u8thxMORA/s320/CIMG0066.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>Jonah was born February 11th, 2011. He's a precious 2 month old baby now. He loves his stars. He stares at them constantly with pure amazement and wonder. It reminds me that there's a whole world to show him and a whole world for me to experience again through the eyes of a child. Right now he mostly stares at them and waits not so patiently for someone to take care of him. It makes me wonder when was the last time I stopped and looked up at the stars with child-like wonder. I'm not the first to marvel at the heavens, nor will I be the last. One of my favorite poets has done the same:<br />
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #000020; font-weight: normal;">Walt Whitman (1819–1892). Leaves of Grass. 1900.<br />
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<span style="color: #9c9c63;"><a href="http://www.bartleby.com/142/1018.html#180">180</a>. <b>When I heard the Learn’d Astronomer</b></span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tbody>
<tr><td align="left">WHEN I heard the learn’d astronomer;</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me;</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them;</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;</td><td align="right" valign="top"><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=3318540014252612982&postID=719055120679819371" name="5"><i> 5</i></a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Till rising and gliding out, I wander’d off by myself,</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,</td><td align="right" valign="top"></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.</td></tr>
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I've been reading Psalms lately and God's creation is a mystery to me. I have so many questions and very few answers. What is God's plan for this universe? What are God's plans for my family? How do I fit in to such a grand scheme? A scheme that encompasses all of creation from the stars in the sky to each newborn child:<br />
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<b>For the director of music. Of David. A psalm.</b><br />
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<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16241">1</sup> You have searched me, LORD, <br />
and you know me. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16242">2</sup> You know when I sit and when I rise; <br />
you perceive my thoughts from afar. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16243">3</sup> You discern my going out and my lying down; <br />
you are familiar with all my ways. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16244">4</sup> Before a word is on my tongue <br />
you, LORD, know it completely. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16245">5</sup> You hem me in behind and before, <br />
and you lay your hand upon me. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16246">6</sup> Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, <br />
too lofty for me to attain. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16247">7</sup> Where can I go from your Spirit? <br />
Where can I flee from your presence? <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16248">8</sup> If I go up to the heavens, you are there; <br />
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16249">9</sup> If I rise on the wings of the dawn, <br />
if I settle on the far side of the sea, <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16250">10</sup> even there your hand will guide me, <br />
your right hand will hold me fast. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16251">11</sup> If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me <br />
and the light become night around me,” <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16252">12</sup> even the darkness will not be dark to you; <br />
the night will shine like the day, <br />
for darkness is as light to you. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16253">13</sup> For you created my inmost being; <br />
you knit me together in my mother’s womb. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16254">14</sup> I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; <br />
your works are wonderful, <br />
I know that full well. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16255">15</sup> My frame was not hidden from you <br />
when I was made in the secret place, <br />
when I was woven together in the depths of the earth. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16256">16</sup> Your eyes saw my unformed body; <br />
all the days ordained for me were written in your book <br />
before one of them came to be. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16257">17</sup> How precious to me are your thoughts, God! <br />
How vast is the sum of them! <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16258">18</sup> Were I to count them, <br />
they would outnumber the grains of sand— <br />
when I awake, I am still with you. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16259">19</sup> If only you, God, would slay the wicked! <br />
Away from me, you who are bloodthirsty! <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16260">20</sup> They speak of you with evil intent; <br />
your adversaries misuse your name. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16261">21</sup> Do I not hate those who hate you, LORD, <br />
and abhor those who are in rebellion against you? <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16262">22</sup> I have nothing but hatred for them; <br />
I count them my enemies. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16263">23</sup> Search me, God, and know my heart; <br />
test me and know my anxious thoughts. <br />
<sup class="versenum" id="bg_passage-16264">24</sup> See if there is any offensive way in me, <br />
and lead me in the way everlasting. (<a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+139+&version=NIV&src=embed">Psalm 139</a>, <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/versions/New-International-Version-NIV-Bible/?src=embed">New International Version, ©2011</a>)<br />
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</b>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-68918294934543309592011-01-14T03:43:00.000-06:002011-01-14T03:43:50.859-06:00Tess: A Fiction Friday Series V<div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">[Fiction] Friday</a> Challenge #190 for Jan 14th, 2011</span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">Sometimes lies can have serious consequences. Describe a time</span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">when a lie had major consequences for your character.</span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This series follows the character Tess Masterson. You can catch up by reading the other installments: <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/very-mild-superpowers.html">I</a>, <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/hunter.html">II</a>, <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/fiction-friday-179-return.html">III</a>, & <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/11/jane.html">IV</a>.</span></div><div style="color: #333333; font-weight: bold; line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">Tess: A Fiction Friday Series V</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">Abby</span></span></div><div style="font-weight: bold; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">Tess looked down at the tin plate she was holding: Jane's meat sauce doused with a sparse covering of cracker crumbs. Something in the mixture caught the dim light coming from the single bare bulb. Tess stuck her finger in and pulled out a tiny speck of glass. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"Come on Kadie. Are you going to pick at it or eat it?" Jane said. The dark circles under Jane's eyes and the way her skin was pulled taut across her cheekbones gave the woman an eerie skeletal look. Tess could see that the woman's patience was wearing thin.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"I'm not hungry." Tess passed the tin plate back through the opening in the bars. "And it's Tess. I haven't been Kadie for almost five years." She squared her shoulders and captured Jane's eyes in a hard stare. The older woman looked away almost immediately. Tess silently reminded herself of the strength she had gained living as Tess Masterson. She wouldn't give it up for anything, certainly not now that she was back under Daddy's roof. She would need it now more than ever.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"Fine, <i>Tess</i>, but if Harry asks you best tell him you cleaned your plate. I'm not taking the blame for you not eating. You can fight your own battles. I'm not gonna. . . "</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">The sound of tires digging into gravel interrupted Jane's tirade. She turned and hurried back up the basement steps. Tess hobbled back to the small cot, dragging the heavy chain behind her. She sat quietly and listened for the kitchen door to creak open. She finally heard the familiar sound followed by the hard thump of Harry's boots on the linoleum, and then the dull thud of his first step onto the wooden basement stairs. She watched as he ambled down the steps carrying something across his shoulders that looked like an burlap sack. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">Tess couldn't make out what it was until he opened the cage and carefully set his load down on the cold, concrete floor. He quickly slammed the cage shut and replaced the chain and padlock. Tess watched the bundle stir at the sound of metal scraping against metal. She hurried across the room and pulled back the rough fabric. It was a girl. Tess jerked her hand back and immediately felt her pulse begin to speed. The girl was barely conscious and so small. She couldn't be any older than ten. Long brown curls framed her porcelain face and she was dressed in a school uniform similar to the one Tess had worn at that age.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"Brought you a welcome home present, dearie. It's name is Abby." Harry put his hands on his hips and looked at the caged pair with an air of satisfaction.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"What? Why?" Tess couldn't think. All the fear and anger came rushing back. She might as well have been the child lying there instead of the capable adult she had become after escaping and managing on her own. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"You should know. You're getting too old. Just like Jane."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;">"Then why'd you come looking for me? I wasn't going to turn you in or anything. I had five years to do that and I didn't. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">Why not just let me go?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"You're mine." Harry squatted down and pressed his face up against the bars. "I could never let you go."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">Tess could smell his familiar aftershave and she had to concentrate to keep herself from retching. The girl let out a mewing sound.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"You have your uses, Hon. Just like Jane does. For now it's your job to keep Abby calm."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"How am I supposed to do that?"</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">Harry stood up. His six foot frame towered above both of them.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"You'll do it or I'll come down here and do it myself. Understand?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">Harry turned and stomped back up the stairs. Tess watched until she heard the door click closed. When she looked back down she saw the girl, Abby, looking up at her with glassy brown eyes. She scooped her up and carried her to the cot. Tess laid the girl on the thin mattress and then climbed in beside her, enveloping the child in her arms. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"What's going on?" Abby said. Her voice sounded tired and far away.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"Nothing, sweetie. Go back to sleep. Everything's going to be fine. You're going to be just fine." Tess knew it was a lie. She knew every detail of what Abby's life would become and i</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">t wasn't going to be fine.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"> The girl's eyelids drooped closed and her breathing evened out to a steady purr. Tess pulled the burlap sack up over Abby's small body and adjusted her left leg so the chain wouldn't chafe against her ankle.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;">"Everything's going to be just fine," Tess whispered into the silence. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 22px;"><br />
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</div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-17215946947339513462010-12-31T10:44:00.000-06:002010-12-31T10:44:52.472-06:00Fiction Friday: Anti-Resolutions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nExDI98wJlb_ameN6rWLAB9lD1mxirG2wsMEFjgOMCtDKrKi_44-KH5NTi1MahHJid9oBd4N0pV7jk85RmjPXlmJQ11Zmu-7iW45yt5AFJA3veTcJQdE063muJiDC0EgOdn2jZXvdAE/s1600/2011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_nExDI98wJlb_ameN6rWLAB9lD1mxirG2wsMEFjgOMCtDKrKi_44-KH5NTi1MahHJid9oBd4N0pV7jk85RmjPXlmJQ11Zmu-7iW45yt5AFJA3veTcJQdE063muJiDC0EgOdn2jZXvdAE/s320/2011.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">[Fiction] Friday</a>:</strong></div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 13.3333px;"><strong>Anti resolutions</strong>.</span></div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">We have a Time Honoured Tradition to uphold – that of sharing our anti resolutions. See some examples from pervious years below.</div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2009/12/30/annies-anti-resolutions-for-the-new-year/" style="font-size: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Annie</b></span> </a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 1em;">, </span><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2009/12/29/my-2010-anti-resolutions/" style="font-size: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Dale</b></span> </a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 1em;">, </span><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2010/02/15/jodis-anti-resolutions-for-the-10-creative-year/" style="font-size: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Jodi</b></span> </a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 1em;">, </span><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2009/12/31/last-day-of-2009/" style="font-size: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #cc0000;"><b>Andrea</b></span> </a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 1em;">and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10.4167px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 22px;"><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2009/12/27/unspiration/" style="color: #cc0000; font-weight: bold; text-decoration: none;">Paul</a></span></div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">What are your top 5 <strong>Anti-Resolutions</strong> for the coming year?</div><div style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 22px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><br />
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<ol><li>I will not start some insane diet the moment our new baby is born. So please don't expect to hear me raving or whining about my experiences with the Acai Berry Diet, the HCG Diet, the 17 Day Diet, or any other of the ridiculous fad diets that are featured daily on "The Doctors."<i> </i>I will on the other hand commit to eating more candy. Now that's a resolution I can keep. Why set myself up for failure?</li>
<li>I will watch at least one episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" each day in the hopes of completing all 40 discs in my new Collector's Edition DVD set before the end of the year. I will not feel embarrassed or nerdy or juvenile for doing so. I'll make no apologies for what goes on between me and my portable DVD player in the privacy of my own bed.</li>
<li>I will not have a mini-stroke every time I peek into my 10-year-old son's room. If he knows where everything is, can enjoy his millions of toys, and doesn't brake an ankle getting from the door to his bed, then I will be satisfied that his room is "clean enough." I will. I promise I will.</li>
</ol>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-17144920879684932932010-12-20T20:20:00.000-06:002010-12-20T20:20:13.032-06:00Choose Your Online Adventure<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY27-Ia4gHTT82A_GkZd5q6RgGjsZ6L1B3fdxHcM6pO-bij-G9OXcNX488DXiSPxhZvTQg9cWjvXABSJCV1QxL6z97rXSZNHQ5-hgHiqBUIGz-6rpiLQID4IsSnpJdcew8hhH52UYnviE/s1600/cyoa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY27-Ia4gHTT82A_GkZd5q6RgGjsZ6L1B3fdxHcM6pO-bij-G9OXcNX488DXiSPxhZvTQg9cWjvXABSJCV1QxL6z97rXSZNHQ5-hgHiqBUIGz-6rpiLQID4IsSnpJdcew8hhH52UYnviE/s320/cyoa.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>I've been working with the wonderful folks on the Choose Your Online Adventure (CYOA) collaborative project for a few months now. It's an exciting group of writers and editors with tons of talent, who have all put aside their personal quirks & egos to create a magnificent story. (I'll be the first to acknowledge that this is not an easy task)<br />
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The first series, <i>History's Keeper,</i> is due online in January 2011 with the paperback version due out later that year. I'm super excited to see some of my work in print and even more excited to have signed a contract with an amazing publishing company, officially making me a writer.<br />
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If your interested in joining the project or just checking out the work you can follow the link to <a href="http://chooseyouronlineadventures.com/">http://chooseyouronlineadventures.com/</a><br />
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For a taste of what's to come in this first series you can read my teaser story "<a href="http://chooseyouronlineadventures.com/read/morrigan/teasers/villa-di-pratolino">Villa di Pratolino</a>." While you're there also check out "<a href="http://chooseyouronlineadventures.com/read/morrigan/teasers/shore-leave">Shore Leave</a>" by the lovely Annie Evett.<br />
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This project has been a challenge and a blessing and I can hardly wait to begin working on the next series. Writing starts in February 2011 and without giving away too much information I can say that there will be charming Southern drawls, dusty sprawling countrsides, and I'm hoping to work in a set of spurs.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-46090365591795202642010-11-12T11:57:00.001-06:002010-11-12T11:57:57.237-06:00Fiction Friday #181: Mt. Pleasant<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDygziRSjzvdUs6Kqf2IKCOzqn0-j1vDhEKNS6PK7FiPKKgk27Kmb7D2z_ixgkQzMRZj2nB9FoEq6yygmkj888YTv3ANudcuXXnvIUzUsM8Cx4GvadDoQXN0kvMex-pv1q94NwyOTHLGc/s1600/mt+pleasant+a.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDygziRSjzvdUs6Kqf2IKCOzqn0-j1vDhEKNS6PK7FiPKKgk27Kmb7D2z_ixgkQzMRZj2nB9FoEq6yygmkj888YTv3ANudcuXXnvIUzUsM8Cx4GvadDoQXN0kvMex-pv1q94NwyOTHLGc/s200/mt+pleasant+a.png" width="200" /></a></div>This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a> prompt: <i>Utilise the T.S.O.D – a NaNoWriMo tradition. The rules are simple. In your story, kill someone. With a shovel. Read more F.A.Qs<a href="http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/node/3702235"> here</a>.</i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Mt. Pleasant</b></div><br />
Parker shoved open the door with his shoulder. He struggled with his load. The large duffle was just the right size. The strap dug into his left shoulder and he shifted it again, letting the blood rush back into the gouge it was making in his skin. He walked down the dimly-lit corridor, passing the other storage units. He stopped in front of the one marked 347, let the bag drop to the concrete floor, and fished in his jacket pocket for the key ring.<br />
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Parker scanned the hallway. He had assumed the place would be empty at this hour and he was right. What business would anyone have at Mt. Pleasant Store It at two in the morning? Unless they were in his kind of business. Not many were. Especially not the homespun residents of this sleepy community.<br />
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The whole scene struck him as rather quaint. The tree-lined streets, the old homes with wide porches, the occasional porch swing squeaking in the breeze. He’d been watching the town for a few weeks. The whole place just shut off around nine at night. The corner grocery closed up and it was lights out in the safe town. Folks didn’t even lock their doors. Made his job easier.<br />
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Even the storage facility had an old-timey feel. It was situated next to the train tracks in an old brick building. From the faded sign atop the three story building, Parker gathered it used to be a factory of some sort. The dark corridors were lit by intermittent bare bulbs dangling from rusty chains. The garage style doors were painted a dingy blue that had chipped and cracked over the years. It was a surreal experience this job, nothing like stalking the dank city streets, navigating crowds of vagabonds and degenerates in an effort to remain anonymous.<br />
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Here the people made a point of greeting him with phrases like “mornin’ neighbor” and “how’s it goin’?” When he had happened upon his quarry while staking out her home, she had looked up from the herbs she was tending to flash him a friendly smile and ask him how he liked the change in weather. She wasn’t even suspicious of a strange man prowling around her back yard. She just struck up a conversation.<br />
<br />
“You must be Mr. Williams. Welcome to the neighborhood.”<br />
“Sure am.” Parker thought quickly.<br />
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She strained to get up from the stool she was sitting on, dusted off her dirt-covered hands, and reached a hand out in front of him. Parker took the wrinkled hand and marveled at the tight grip. She’d been out of the game long enough to let her guard down, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted. He knew this was his chance. The two were alone in her yard, surrounded by fruit trees and other plants, under the cover of dusk. He saw the shovel leaning against the trellis.<br />
<br />
“The change in weather is nice. It’s been such a hot summer. Don’t you think?”<br />
“A real steamer.”<br />
“One might wonder what brings a man like you out of the city.”<br />
“Just a job, ma’am.”<br />
“I figured. Well then. What do you think of our little town? It’s no big city, now is it?”<br />
“Not in the least, ma’am.”<br />
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She turned her back to him, knelt in front of the herbs, and resumed her pruning. He heard her laughter as he swung the heavy shovel. The metal blade made a resounding thud against her skull. She fell forward into the garden, dropping a sprig of rosemary she had just plucked. Parker waited for her left foot to stop twitching before he tossed the shovel aside and made his way back to his car for the duffle. The streets were empty and only a few houses on the block still had porch lights on. He thought it must be getting close to nine. With all those friendly neighbors down for the night, he’d have plenty of time to clean the mess, dispose of the body, and finally get the hell out of this creepy place.<br />
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Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-51047251337039976482010-11-05T08:41:00.003-05:002011-01-14T02:27:04.015-06:00Tess: A Fiction Friday Series IV<a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">Write Anything</a>'s <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a> prompt #180: <i>Your Main Character picks a sliver of glass from their sleeve and gravely inspects it……..( now keep writing)</i>. A short installment from my series this week. Catch up by reading. <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/very-mild-superpowers.html">"Very Mild Superpowers"</a>, <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/hunter.html">"The Hunter"</a>, and <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/fiction-friday-179-return.html">"The Return"</a>.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tess: A Fiction Friday Series IV</span></b><br />
<b>Jane</b></div><br />
Jane picked a sliver of glass from the sleeve of her cotton dress. She turned the jagged piece between her fingertips, ignoring the tinge of pain she felt where the sliver pricked her fingertip. The droplets of blood quickly turned the transparent object the color of strawberry jam.<br />
<br />
Jane crossed the grungy linoleum that coated the kitchen floor and dropped the sliver into the trash. She sucked on her throbbing finger, dismissing the familiar coppery taste, and reached down to pull a wet spaghetti noodle from her dingy slipper. The noodle clung to the matted faux fur before reluctantly letting go. It snapped back against her hand, making a quite slapping sound against her skin. Jane peeled the noodle from her skin and dropped it in the trash with the sliver of glass.<br />
<br />
She looked around the cluttered kitchen. Cooked pasta and shattered glass made an abstract design across the green-patterned floor. A small hunk of her last piece of Pyrex Flameware was still sitting on the burner. She picked her way across the mess and turned off the gas under the broken cookware. The red sauce was still simmering on the burner next to it. Jane could see a few large chunks of glass simmering between tomatoes and lumps of ground beef. She used her wooden spoon to fish out the large pieces and then turned the gas off on that burner as well.<br />
<br />
Jane reached inside the pantry and retrieved the old straw broom and dustpan. She swept the mess, tapping the broom every now and then to loosen a sticky noodle from the bristles. When she had most of it cornered into a pile, she stooped to sweep it into the dustpan. The dirt covered noodles mingled with stray hairs and crumbs. Dust bunnies clung to the edge of the broom and she used her free hand to pull them free, dropping them into the dustpan. Jane dumped the whole mess into the trash and then turned her thoughts to finishing dinner.<br />
<br />
Kadie wouldn’t notice the specs of glass that were undoubtedly in the sauce, but what would she serve with it? Jane opened the pantry and scanned the shelves. She grabbed the box of Saltines from the top shelf and filled the tin plate with the hot red sauce. She had to stop herself from instinctively licking the spoon. She crumbled the stale crackers over the sauce and fished a spoon from the drawer next to the stove.<br />
<br />
Jane opened the fridge and perused the cluttered contents, trying to decide what she would serve Harry now that dinner was ruined. She would bake the chicken and broccoli casserole she had been saving for Sunday afternoon. They always had a nice casserole after service. She would just have to prepare another before the weekend. Jane turned the nob on the oven to 350 before heading downstairs to deliver the meal. Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-55635828223222861262010-10-29T12:26:00.001-05:002011-01-14T02:18:36.565-06:00Tess: A Fiction Friday Series IIIThis week's writing prompt for <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">Write Anything's</a> <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a>: <i>In most parts of the world, Halloween is celebrated – in some form or another – this weekend. Your challenge this week is to write a horror scene ( or something horrific) using a wet noodle, a styrofoam cup and a feather. </i>I'm continuing Tess's story again this week. Catch up by reading<a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/very-mild-superpowers.html"> "Very Mild Superpowers"</a> and <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/hunter.html">"The Hunter."</a><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tess: A Fiction Friday Series III</span></b><br />
<b>The Return</b></div><br />
"Kadie!"<br />
<br />
Tess turned her head instinctively. Even though she'd been living as Tess for almost five years, she found herself reacting when she heard her real name. It was a habit she hadn't been able to break.<br />
<br />
Across the crowd of children in khakis and plaid skirts she saw her childhood best friend, Amy. Amy waved her arms. Tess smiled back, keeping an eye on the line of cars crawling along the drive in front on St. Mary's Episcopal School. Tess looked down at her own pleated skirt, white stockings, and mary janes.<br />
<br />
<i>I remember this.</i> A sinking feeling came over her as she tried to shake the cobwebs from her mind. She looked up in time to see the big, white truck pull to the head of the line.<br />
<br />
She heard her name again.<br />
<br />
"Kadie. Over here." The man in the truck was calling through an open window. He had kind, dark eyes and a reassuring smile. He propped his arm on the back of the bench seat and leaned toward the passenger side window. Kadie took a step back.<br />
<br />
"It's okay. Your mom sent me." <br />
<br />
Kadie hesitated for a second before convincing herself that this must be Roger, or was it Robert, her mom's current boyfriend of the month.<br />
<br />
The details were vivid in her mind. She had relived this day, this moment, this decision countless times. She remembered the crisp autumn air, the yellow leaves crunching under her shoes, the wary look on Amy's face as she waved good-bye, and the blue jay feather that blew under the truck as she opened the door. She remembered the man's smooth voice and the rough feel of his hand against her cheek.<br />
<br />
"Thirsty?" He handed her a styrofoam cup. Kadie took a sip of the tepid water.<br />
<br />
"Don't be shy. Drink up, Kadie."<br />
<br />
She wasn't thirsty, but she gulped down the water, sitting the empty cup back in the cupholder. The man pulled the lever on the steering wheel and pressed on the gas. Kadie's stomach tightened and she dug her nails into the sticky, vinyl seat.<br />
<br />
"You don't remember me, Kadie. You were too little when your mom took you away."<br />
<br />
Kadie tried to focus on the yellow line stretching out in front of the truck's hood. She was afraid to look at the man, knowing deep down that climbing into his truck had been a mistake.<br />
<br />
"Look how much you've grown."<br />
<br />
He grazed his knuckle over her cheek, ran his hand across the shoulder of her white cotton dress shirt, pausing to finger the ruffle at her sleeve, before running his calloused palm down her arm. He took her hand in his, covering it completely. Kadie looked down at his tanned skin, unconsciously counting the dark, course hairs on the back of his hand. She watched as goose bumps rose on her own arms. She smelled the distinctive scent of Old Spice cologne and tasted salt in her mouth. She struggled to keep her heavy eyelids from closing. The trees lining the quaint suburban street became orangish blurs as the truck rushed past.<br />
<br />
"Who are you?" Kadie managed to squeak out the words as she struggled to hold back a sob.<br />
<br />
"I'm your daddy, sweetie. Your real dad."<br />
<br />
Tears trickled down her cheeks and the world around her began to spin. She remembered his hand on her thigh and seeing two boys taking turns on a tire swing in front of one of the big, brick houses. A shower of reddish leaves covered the road.<br />
<br />
-----<br />
<br />
<br />
"Kadie?"<br />
<br />
Tess opened her eyes and immediately felt an ache in her wrist. She sat up slowly, letting the dank smell of mildew wash over her. She recognized the damp cinderblock walls, the thin cot, and the bars lining one side of the small room.<br />
<br />
"Kadie. You're awake. You should eat something."<br />
<br />
She recognized Jane's voice and saw the shadow of a thin woman beyond the bars. Tess let her eyes adjust to the dim lighting and rose from the cot. She started across the cold, concrete floor. Something pulled at her left leg. Tess looked down to see her leg shackled to a rusty chain.<br />
<br />
She crossed the room, dragging the heavy chain behind her. Jane held out a tin plate. Tess could see a large black bruise across Jane's cheek. The woman had changed little in the last five years. She was still bone thin with stringy brown hair matted around her shoulders. She moved with a skittish demeanor, making stiff movements in her worn house shoes and a threadbare cotton dress. Tess noticed a wet noodle clinging to the hair around her face.<br />
<br />
Tess reached for the plate. Jane looked down, refusing to meet her eye. Tess could see the familiar sadness in the woman's face, but she also saw relief. Jane cared about her, but she cared more about the reprieve Tess's return would bring her.<br />
<br />
"You should never have left."Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-80019489159606371732010-10-22T11:44:00.005-05:002011-01-14T02:13:32.324-06:00Tess: A Fiction Friday Series IIThis week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2010/10/22/fiction-friday-challenge-178/">Fiction Friday</a> prompt: <i>Include this theme in your story… After a long night, a hunter sees something he/she cannot believe.</i><br />
I decided to continue my story from last week. You may remember Tess from last week's story. If you'd like to catch up you can read more about her <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/very-mild-superpowers.html">here</a>.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre;"><b>Tess: A Fiction Friday Series II</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><b>The Hunter </b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><b><br />
</b></span></div>Tess climbed the steps to her building. In the early dawn she could hear the squealing machinery of the garbage truck as it crawled down 3rd Avenue. The sun was beginning to rise, painting a veil of pink over the East Village. She loved watching the city wake up, but this morning all she cared about was yanking these heels off her blistered feet. She fished her keys from her handbag and hurried inside.<br />
<br />
Once in the lobby she braced herself against the wall, slipped off the offending shoes, and winced as the blood rushed back into her toes. Tess walked flat-footed to the elevator, relishing the cold tile floor beneath her soles. She pressed the up arrow and waited.<br />
<br />
“Not bad for a Thursday.”<br />
<br />
Tess spun around. Her eyes widened and she had to push down the urge to run. A shot of adrenaline rushed through her body and she could hear the sound of her pulse racing, a thunderous roar in her ears. She hadn’t noticed anyone following her, but now she saw him. A man’s figure in the shadow of the foyer. <i>Who could know? Who could have seen her? How much did he know?</i><br />
<br />
The man stepped from the shadow into the lobby. Tess let out a breath when she recognized her neighbor, Jim. She willed herself to keep it together. Just another college student returning from a long night.<br />
<br />
“Not bad at all.”<br />
“Busy night?” Jim looked down at the shoes dangling from her right hand.<br />
“You could say that. On the prowl.” Tess tossed her head, flicking her hair over her shoulder. She pasted on a coy grin. Jim returned the smile.<br />
“You wild woman.” He gave Tess a quick smack on the ass as he veered toward the stairwell.<br />
Tess feigned shock and then devolved into giggles. She kept the smile until she heard the stairwell door click.<br />
“Disgusting.”<br />
<br />
The elevator dinged and the door slid open. Tess climbed inside and pressed the number 16. She could still feel the sting of Jim’s hand on her ass. She closed her eyes and visualized the blood dripping down her last conquest’s chest. The thick fluid had rippled over his cut abs, soaked into his thin cotton boxers, letting the limp lump beneath show through. She could feel the edges of her mouth curve into a grin.<br />
<br />
The elevator stopped with a jolt. Tess shook off the sinking feeling in her stomach and exited. She walked the hall to her apartment. She turned her key in the knob only to find that the door wasn’t locked. The feeling of being followed returned. Tess felt the fear creep back into her veins. She reached into her handbag and curled her fingers around the knife. It was still slick with blood and she struggled to gain a tight grip.<br />
<br />
Tess turned the knob and pushed the door open. She closed it behind her before reaching for the light switch. In the dark she searched the shadows. Nothing. She flipped the switch. The apartment flooded with light. Nothing. Her heart continued to pound.<br />
<br />
“Found you.”<br />
<br />
The familiar voice came from behind her. It was right in her ear. She couldn't believe he was here, that he'd actually found her. Tess felt the cold, steel blade against her neck and the warm, muscular body against her back. The smell of old spice and cigarettes. She started to gag. The knife dug into her skin and she choked back the vomit, swallowing hard.<br />
<br />
“Drop the knife, sweetie.”<br />
<br />
Tess obeyed. She let the blood-coated knife fall to the floor. He loosened his grip and pushed her forward out of the doorway and into the main room. He pulled the knife back and shoved her hard. Tess felt a sharp pain in her arm as she tried to catch herself against the ivory chair. Her hose slipped on the hardwood floor and she lost her balance, leaving a smeared bloody handprint on the pristine upholstery. One of her heels landed next to her. The other skidded across the tile before crashing against the baseboards beneath the kitchen sink.<br />
<br />
The intruder walked towards her, still brandishing his knife. Tess scrambled. She pressed her back against the side of the chair and pulled her legs up to her chest. Tears began to stream down her face, leaving black rivulets on her pale skin. Watching her cower, he stopped to pick up her handbag.<br />
<br />
“Let’s see.” He dug in the bag. He pushed aside the tube of lipstick. He pulled out the pill bottle, gave it a quick look, shook his head, and then replaced it. “Here it is.” Finding her ID case, he tore at the plastic card until it came free.<br />
<br />
“Tess Masterson is it? So we’re still posing as a college student?” He frisbeed her NYU Student ID. It glided across the floor, coming to rest next to Tess’s toes. She looked down at the card and noticed the tears in her hose. A run had started at her big toenail and was forming a thinning vee up the top of her foot towards her ankle.<br />
<br />
“All these years bouncing from school to school. Think you might of learned something? The big city made it a little harder this go around, with so many lost souls to sift through. But here we are again.”<br />
<br />
Tess forced herself to look him in the eye. They were the same empty, dark pools. The last five years had managed to deepen the creases across his forehead and lengthen the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. His dark brown hair was sprinkled with glints of grey and he had put on a few pounds.<br />
<br />
He dropped her handbag and reached into his coat pocket. Tess couldn’t shake the familiar paralyzing fear as he pulled out a syringe. He uncapped the needle, crossed the few feet between them, and squatted down in front of her.<br />
<br />
“Please, Daddy, no,” she said as the world turned to blackness.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-10768734438476280372010-10-20T07:41:00.000-05:002010-10-20T07:41:45.778-05:00Poetic Subjects<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41J6NM1H6ZL._SS500_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://ecx.images-amazon.com/images/I/41J6NM1H6ZL._SS500_.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Pillow Book entry is inspired by </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pillow-Book-Sei-Shonagon/dp/0231073372">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>From </b></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><b>The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</b></span></i><br />
The capital city. Arrowroot. Water-bur. Colts. Bamboo grass. The<br />
round-leaved violet. Club moss. Flat river-boats. Teh mandarin duck.<br />
The scattered <i>chigaya</i> reed. Lawns. The green vine. The pear tree. The<br />
althea.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><b>Poetic Subjects</b></div><div style="text-align: left;">A wisp of clouds, unrequited love, a feeling one is afraid to lose, an early bloom surprises one on a morning walk, a passionate embrace, snow-covered fields, a home that once may have been warm and inviting but now crumbles under the weight of decay, a thing that is rustic and old, facing one's fears, I once had a dream and before I did not recognize the fear that lay just below my skin, gnawing at my soul, preventing me from soaring.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">The Pink Evening Sky</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">A warm sun whispers</div><div style="text-align: left;">to your heart. Lie</div><div style="text-align: left;">down on the lingering</div><div style="text-align: left;">wind. Clutch sleep</div><div style="text-align: left;">in a dream. Your bed</div><div style="text-align: left;">is the pink evening sky.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Holding</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">His touch haunts</div><div style="text-align: left;">me. Between desire</div><div style="text-align: left;">and adore, a clutch</div><div style="text-align: left;">or an ache, in the embrace</div><div style="text-align: left;">of night, the lingering</div><div style="text-align: left;">caress of trusting souls.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Exchange</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Escape the lusty </div><div style="text-align: left;">Candle of day under </div><div style="text-align: left;">her mate, the drunken </div><div style="text-align: left;">moon. The dropping </div><div style="text-align: left;">of hearts in wild </div><div style="text-align: left;">darkness. The telling</div><div style="text-align: left;">of dreamy hunger, </div><div style="text-align: left;">in sacred fire </div><div style="text-align: left;">burning, flickers, </div><div style="text-align: left;">as morning devours </div><div style="text-align: left;">her night.</div><div><br />
</div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-80863025283928161212010-10-15T07:41:00.005-05:002011-01-14T02:08:24.293-06:00Tess: A Fiction Friday Series IThis week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a> prompt from <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">Write Anything</a>: <i>What is your Character's Very Mild Superpower? </i>They even provided a song for inspiration.<br />
<br />
<object classid="clsid:d27cdb6e-ae6d-11cf-96b8-444553540000" height="400" id="ordie_player_e23b445c62" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://player.ordienetworks.com/flash/fodplayer.swf" /><param name="flashvars" value="key=e23b445c62" /><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true" /><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed width="480" height="400" flashvars="key=e23b445c62" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" quality="high" src="http://player.ordienetworks.com/flash/fodplayer.swf" name="ordie_player_e23b445c62" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object><br />
<div style="font-size: x-small; margin-top: 0; text-align: left; width: 480px;"><a href="http://www.funnyordie.com/videos/e23b445c62/david-odoherty-has-very-mild-superpowers-from-just-for-laughs" title="from Just For Laughs">David O'Doherty has very mild superpowers.</a> - watch more <a href="http://www.funnyordie.com/" title="on Funny or Die">funny videos</a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Tess: A Fiction Friday Series I</span></b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b>Very Mild Superpowers</b></div><br />
“I told you I have a knack for these things.” Tess eyed the thick band of white elastic showing beneath Trey’s unfastened pants. “I pegged you for briefs the second you walked into the bar.”<br />
“I’m amazed. When exactly did you discover this superpower?”<br />
“Funny.”<br />
<br />
Tess tossed her blonde hair over her left shoulder. She tapped the toe of her stilletto on the sticky, wet pavement. She wasn’t surprised to find the alley behind the bar empty. She looked toward 2nd street. Nothing but the overflowing dumpster and some scattered pallets. She spun around to check the other direction. All clear. Just a flickering street lamp and several festering puddles. Along the alley walls the once red bricks had become tarnished with soot and grime. She turned back to see Trey fumbling with the button at his fly.<br />
<br />
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Tess stepped through the putrid water at her feet forcing Trey back against the brick wall. She leaned into him. “Why don’t you let me help with that? Looks like you’re having a bit of trouble.”<br />
<br />
A half smile appeared on his face. His eyes were starting to glaze over and his movements were becoming stilted.<br />
<br />
“Alrigh’ baby,” he slurred.<br />
<br />
Tess smiled. She slid her hands down his chest, snaked her hand into his pants, and pulled the zipper down. Trey let out a quiet moan. This was always her favorite part. His eyes rolled back in his head. Tess leaned into him, pressing her body the full length of his. His body began to sag against hers and she had to use all her strength to ease him down to the ground. She straightened her legs and stepped back.<br />
<br />
She stood over him, his legs sprawled out across the dirty asphalt and his arms hanging useless at his sides. One hand lay halfway covered in the water. Tess watched as a soggy cigarette butt circled his fingers and came to rest in the hollow between his thumb and forefinger. His eyelids closed and his head rolled sideways. It rested awkwardly on his shoulder and a strand of drool seeped from the corner of his mouth.<br />
<br />
Tess opened her handbag. Finding anything in there was always a chore and the dim orange light of the street lamps wasn’t helping. She pushed the pill bottle aside, fumbled with a few pens and a tube of lipstick, and finally grasped the knife at the bottom of the bag. She squatted down in front of him, feeling a draft as her skirt rode up the back of her thighs. Chill bumps came up on her bare arms and a shiver ran the length of her spine.<br />
<br />
She didn’t take the time to unknot his tie. Instead she loosened it a bit and threw it over his shoulder. She deftly unbuttoned his stylish dress shirt and yanked it open. Tess ran the knife over his pale skin, tracing the limp muscles across his chest, leaving thin tracks of bloods. She used the tip of the knife to draw the outline of a heart in the center of his chest. It reminded her of the valentine Billy Thomas had given her in fifth grade. A clumsy heart cut from red construction paper. The words Be Mine scrawled across the front.<br />
<br />
Tess gripped the knife in both hands, reared back, and plunged it into his chest. Blood sprayed across her face. She blinked until a droplet freed itself from her eyelashes. She pulled the knife out and watched the blood gush from the wound. She looked up at his motionless face, his smooth jaw, square chin, and high cheekbones. She ran the back of her hand over his cheek admiring the freshly-shaven skin. She used her thumb to wipe a spot of blood from his strong brow.<br />
<br />
Tess stood up, her legs cramping a bit from holding the same position. She wrapped the bloody knife in a tissue before sliding it back into her handbag. She yanked down on her skirt and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Stepping over his sprawled leg, Tess took a cleansing breath and followed the alley out to 2nd Street. <br />
<br />
Want to read more about Tess? You can follow her story in these posts: <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/hunter.html">The Hunter</a>, <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/10/fiction-friday-179-return.html">The Return</a>, and <a href="http://fallingintothepage.blogspot.com/2010/11/jane.html">Jane</a>.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-45302387112902477732010-10-08T00:00:00.004-05:002010-10-08T06:55:29.351-05:00Villa di Pratolino<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPeuqnPKihR-CoSDd6BOXd9TaUiniL74pMIseO5OZd0ZItW89sOqJNjjEUM5_FSgy3QDJ0MuAeGdwVLDg2zqOsxXZH1jdFewA9eqLUbXq9164j1qLyDe8KOpqEV28ZI0cQxKrJqzD5Bc/s1600/giambologna_pratolino_demidoff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIPeuqnPKihR-CoSDd6BOXd9TaUiniL74pMIseO5OZd0ZItW89sOqJNjjEUM5_FSgy3QDJ0MuAeGdwVLDg2zqOsxXZH1jdFewA9eqLUbXq9164j1qLyDe8KOpqEV28ZI0cQxKrJqzD5Bc/s320/giambologna_pratolino_demidoff.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">Apennine<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">by Giambologna<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Verdana;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(1579)</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">Fiction Friday Challenge #176</a>: <i>Your Main Character is a time traveler. He/She arrives at a destination but not all is as expected….</i><br />
I've been working on the collaborative project for <a href="http://www.facebook.com/ChooseYourOnlineAdventures">CYOA </a> so I decided to just pull in the mythology/technology and write a little offshoot story that can stand somewhat alone, but still ties in to the overall project. This innovative project has been an exciting challenge. You can learn more about the project by checking out the <a href="http://chooseyouronlineadventures.com/">CYOA </a>front page.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><br />
</b><br />
<b>Villa di Pratolino</b></div><br />
Florence, Italy. 2010<br />
<br />
Jane waited for her head to stop spinning and the world around her to come into focus. When it did she could see the orange-red sunrise reflected in the Arno. In the distance the dome of the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore rose above the Piazza del Duomo. Jane wished she could watch from her perch on the bridge as the sunrise splashed over the city and the streets began to fill with the activity of the day, but she had come here for a purpose.<br />
<br />
Jane spotted a row of bikes lining the Lungarno Torrigiani. She didn’t have time for a rental so one of these would have to do. She followed the bridge and walked the row of flashy motorcycles. She eyed a simple black Triumph Bonneville 800 that looked to be in good condition. Jane fished the masterkey out of her bag. It was the one piece of tech she never left behind. It was an ingenious invention made to look like a keyless entry device. She turned the dial to bike, typed in the make and model, flipped out the metal piece, and watched as the metal molded itself into a key.<br />
<br />
Jane took a quick glance at the empty street before climbing onto the bike. She kicked up the stand, inserted the key, deployed the choke knob, and pressed the start button. The bike hummed under her small frame. She pushed her messenger bag around to rest on her back and tightened the strap. She looked down at her wrist and let out a deep breath. She only had forty minutes to make it out of Florence and navigate the winding roadways to Vaglia. Jane pulled on the helmet, which the owner had been kind enough to leave behind, and began her ride North.<br />
<br />
<br />
Jane took her post as Time Warden of Southern Europe very seriously. Her post included the years spanning the 19th through the 22nd Century, but she spent most of her time in the 2130s Thessaloniki, Greece at her flat in the Olympiados area. She loved the interesting mix of the thriving city interspersed with the ancient ruins that had been preserved throughout time. Having the latest technology at her fingertips was just a bonus.<br />
<br />
Jane had received the communication from Johnathon just as she was freshening up for a night out clubbing with her girlfriends. It sounded urgent: <i>a rift in the continuum 10 Oct 2010 8:03, Villa di Pratolino, Vaglia, Tuscany, Italy. </i>Monitoring the continuum in her assigned time and area was Jane’s top priority. She had immediately looked to her augmentor, a device which allowed her to monitor the flow of time, navigate a jump, and communicate with other wardens. She hadn’t seen anything when she had checked that morning, but now Jane saw the ripple that Johnathon was warning her about.<br />
<br />
It had been a long, long time since she had heard anything from Johnathon. He was once one of the most esteemed wardens, but after he left his post there had been little information about him. Johnathon had mentored several of the best Time Wardens, including Jane’s mentor, Selene. Selene refused to talk about him, but lately Jane had heard murmurings that he was in pursuit of some grand scheme. The little bits of information she had gleaned warned her that he was a danger. There was a rumor that he had been murdering Time Wardens to hide his activities in certain eras. Jane had a hard time believing that someone Selene trusted could stoop to such heinous activities. Surely if it were true he would have been stopped by now. There were measures in place after all. All she could worry about now was the threat of a ripple in her zone. She had quickly found a fold in the continuum that would send her closest to Johnathon’s coordinates and made the jump.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
Jane pulled the bike into the Villa di Pratolino. She was a little windblown and her body was still vibrating from the long ride. She left the bike and began to traverse the gardens looking for anything out of the ordinary. Everything seemed normal. It was still early and just past the tourist season so Jane was alone in the expanse of drying foliage. Many of the leaves had already started to turn and a few had fallen to the grass below creating a scant covering of orange, red and brown. As she was admiring the lush scenery Jane felt the hair on her arms raise. The tension in the air was faint, but it was enough to alert her that another warden was nearby.<br />
<br />
Jane closed her eyes and concentrated. She could sense the pull coming from the east. She opened her eyes and saw the colossal statue of <i>Appennino </i>as it brooded over the grotto. Approaching the sculpture she felt the waves of pressure grow stronger, causing her hands to shake and her stomach to turn. She fought the side effects of being in close proximity to another warden, knowing that it was her responsibility to maintain the continuum. Then she saw him. Even though it had been ages since she’d seen him, Johnathon was unmistakable with his sandy, red-tinged hair and muscular frame. She watched as he paused at the edge of the statue, skirted the foot of the bearded giant and disappeared into the centuries-old trees behind it.<br />
<br />
Jane hurried across the grassy expanse, climbed the guard rail, and made her way up the sculpture to the spot she had seen Johnathon pause. She looked down. There was an innocuous-looking black briefcase sitting at the edge of the statue. Confused, she checked her wrist again. 8:02. She didn’t have time to deal with Johnathon’s game of cat and mouse. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen soon. She peered around the edge and searched the trees for him. She saw a movement in the branches and could still feel his presence. The feeling of her stomach turning was distracting. She could feel the pounding of her pulse in her temples and was fighting the urge to get as far away from Johnathon as possible.<br />
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That’s when she heard it over the trickle of water flowing into the grotto. A faint beeping noise. She looked around for the source. It was the briefcase. Jane’s heart began to race. She quickly picked her way across the base of the sculpture. She rounded the huge foot and stumbled down into the grass. She looked out into the trees and saw Johnathon. He flashed her a smile and winked before disappearing into the forest.<br />
<br />
Jane turned back toward the sculpture. She heard a loud blast followed by deafening silence. Her body was propelled through the air. She slammed against a tree and felt a sharp pain in her left shoulder. When she looked over she could see a jagged branch piercing through her upper arm, pinning her in place. Unable to move, she watched as Giambologna’s masterpiece came crashing down on her in a mass of brick and stone. Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-35408128556335071742010-10-01T00:00:00.038-05:002010-10-28T07:25:43.554-05:00Somewhere<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;">This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a> prompt: </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15.8333px;"><i>Lonely in Paradise</i></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 16px;"><i><br />
</i></span></span></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjaTyxcaLTXV83at7DdHytmPCurixEL-BLiy1ba-TOgr1ITs50GS07D-JExhhjRtlcfn3sHscjTKgPgd_1naETRScDMTl-RrIBS_Qnqerf9X5AmhO9lFsdun4D2DfZ5uzzrtHoTmSBxU/s1600/Gabe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgjaTyxcaLTXV83at7DdHytmPCurixEL-BLiy1ba-TOgr1ITs50GS07D-JExhhjRtlcfn3sHscjTKgPgd_1naETRScDMTl-RrIBS_Qnqerf9X5AmhO9lFsdun4D2DfZ5uzzrtHoTmSBxU/s320/Gabe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><b>Somewhere</b></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial;"><b><br />
</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"></span><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be?”</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe heard the voice again. He looked around. He couldn’t think of anywhere he was supposed to be. He couldn’t think of much at all. He was captivated by what he saw around him. To his left, a field of blood-red poppies spilled from the forest. Above him the gold-orange blooms of crossvine clutched at the branches of a mesquite, its clawlike tendrils gripping the rugged bark. Trying to focus, he started recalling the names of the trees around him: bayberry, silver leaf maple, loblolly, witchhazel, black cherry . . . </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe plucked a leaf from the cherry. He examined it closely. It was elliptical in shape, with very fine teeth; glossy and dark green above, pale green beneath, with tufts of brown hairs along the center ribbing. He was certain it was a cherry, but he’d never seen one grow quite so tall. He folded the leaf in half and pulled the two sides apart. A nervous action. He let the pieces fall to the moss-covered ground. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He turned to look back across the rolling field of poppies. Across the field a range of snow-topped mountains jutted up against the horizon. The white tips glared in the bright light. Gabe guessed it must be close to noon, although he couldn’t find the sun beneath the forest canopy. He was tempted to stroll into the field and get a better view of the cloudless blue sky, but he opted instead for the shade of the trees and what looked like a footpath that led deeper into the woods. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As Gabe followed the trail he tried to remember how he had managed to find this place. <i>How did he end up in these woods? Where had he been going? And where was it he was supposed to be? </i>It was useless. There was only this place. Nothing before. Nothing after. Finding the stress of memory too overwhelming, he focused on the trees again. A massive pecan stood before him, the oval nuts littering the grass at his feet. He marveled that its branches seemed to disappear into the sky. The path veered left around its wide trunk.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As he ventured further into the forest, Gabe noticed the diminishing light. The canopy was blocking out the day, creating a dim cavern of greens and browns. Only the infrequent ray of light managed to pierce the darkening woodland. Gabe watched as one of these points widened. It was a little over a hundred yards off the trail to his right. He watched, mesmerized by the glinting specks of dust and the floating pollen as they hovered in the growing ray.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">As the light spread, he saw a figure. It seemed to congeal out of nothingness. A woman. She was standing, surrounded by the glow. A gust of wind came up behind him, catching the white blooms of a pear tree, swirling them around him before carrying them across the undergrowth to where the woman stood. Her long, blonde hair flowed out behind her as the blooms took up a playful dance in the sunbeam.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Compelled, Gabe followed the path of the pear blooms, stumbling through a patch of overgrown hawthorns. He hurried through the undergrowth, pushing back branches with his bare hands, smashing down the switch grass that managed to grow beneath the thick cover. He felt desperate. Gabe sped to a jogging pace. It was all he could manage over the terrain. He noticed a sharp rock jutting up from the soil and leapt just in time narrowly avoiding a fall. He pushed his way through a growth of blackberries, letting the vines scrape against his jeans, holding his arms up to avoid the thorns. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">He was only a few feet from the woman. Close enough, he thought, to reach into the expanding light. As he stepped out of the copse of vines a creeper shot out, wrapping its thorny branch around his ankle. His leg caught up in the tangle, Gabe stumbled. He threw his hands out in front of him and came crashing to the forest floor only inches from the light, which now seemed to be shrinking. The woman stood, blank-faced with wide empty eyes. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe scrambled to free himself from the grip of the vine. He pulled at the snaking branch, oblivious to the thorns as they tore into his fingertips. He yanked at the green tendrils, too vibrant to snap. Realizing the vine’s grip was impossible to break he quickly slid off his shoe and sock. He gripped the vine and slowly worked it over his heel and down the length of his foot until he was free. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">His skin was covered in the purple stain of blackberry juice mixed with the crimson of his own blood. Long scrapes trailed across his ankle and down his foot, dark red creases lined with raised white ridges. Gabe heard a shot ring out through the forest. He closed his eyes and when he opened them the forest was gone. He was alone in the dark. A light flashed across him and he looked down at his hands to find them covered in thick, sticky blood. The darkness closed in again and he felt a searing pain in his chest. He brought his hands up to slake the pain. Another flash showed him his chest. His hands rested on an exposed rib, surrounded by torn, raw flesh. He opened his mouth to scream, but the sound was muffled by a gooey liquid pouring from his throat. As the light passed, he closed his eyes again and fell to his knees. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe slowly opened his eyes. The forest had returned. He looked down to where his hands clutched at his chest. There was nothing there. No scrapes from the thorns. No purple stains. No blood. Gabe remembered the woman in the light. He climbed to his feet and spun around. The large ray had shrunk to a slender pinpoint. The woman stood, her back turned to Gabe. He was close enough now to reach her. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. She slowly turned around. Her clear complexion giving off its own light in the darkened forest. As she turned Gabe saw the other half of her face. It was a mangled twisting of blood and flesh. Parts of her skull were visible and an eye hung loose from its socket. The long, blonde hair was matted with the sticky blood and chunks of brain matter dangled from the strands. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Help me,” the woman said. Her voice was a raspy whisper.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe watched, paralyzed, as the pinprick of light went out. The woman reached out her arms as her body dissipated into the blackness of the forest. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be?”</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Gabe heard the voice again. He looked around. He realized he was in a thick, dark forest. He could see the faint glow of sunlight in the distance, shining down on a footpath. Gabe began to make his way through the undergrowth, desperately trying to remember where it was he should be. The strain of it soon became too much. Instead he concentrated on the foliage. There was a growth of hawthorns at his feet that led up to a large mesquite. He picked up a fallen leaf and examined it. <i>Redbud</i>, he thought. A break in the canopy cast a brilliant white light on the forest floor. Gabe looked around him for the redbud tree, knowing it must be close. </span></span></div></div><br />
<br />
</div></div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-22622926735238559832010-09-16T20:28:00.000-05:002010-09-16T20:28:17.084-05:00A MistakeThis Week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">Fiction [Friday]</a> prompt: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 13.8889px; line-height: 44px;"><i>Why did the Tooth Fairy fail to deliver coins one evening?</i></span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><b>A Mistake</b></div><br />
<br />
Jake woke up early. His room was still dark, a maze of shadows. He stretched out, throwing his Star Wars comforter on the floor, and rolled over onto his stomach. He slid one hand under the pillow and felt around. <i>There it is.</i> Jake tossed the pillow off the bed and grabbed the little blue envelope. It was too dark to see the blue fairy printed on the front, but he knew it was there.<br />
<br />
He jumped up, envelope in hand, and hopped over the scattered toys and action figures to his closet. He pulled the string. He had to squint his eyes at the light from the uncovered bulb. As soon as they adjusted he carefully untucked the flap. He peered inside.<br />
<br />
"What the . . . ?" Jake said aloud.<br />
<br />
Jake tipped the envelope and let the small tooth fall into his hand. He looked at it in wonder, examining the creamy white surface and inspecting the blood-tinted spot where it had clung to his gums.<br />
<br />
He stomped down the hall to his parents' room and stood next to his mother's side of the bed.<br />
<br />
"Mom. Mom." Jake gently shook his mother's shoulder.<br />
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?"<br />
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." Jake held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">- - - - -</span></b><br />
<br />
<br />
"What's that?" Clara sat straight up in her bed.<br />
<br />
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. When she saw the mound of covers next to her, she realized she was safely in her bed. She had been dreaming of a carnival. Halloween was only a month away and she hadn't even started making costumes. She knew the dream was stress-related. They all seemed to be lately.<br />
<br />
Clara tried to remember what had awakened her, but couldn't get the image of a bearded lady dressed as the Toothfairy out of her mind. That's when it hit her. She noticed the faint light coming from the hallway and knew that Jake was already awake. <i>I can't believe I let this happen.</i><br />
<br />
<i>What will I tell him? </i>she asked herself. A list of bad ideas ran through her mind: <i>The Toothfairy was sick last night. We all get sick sometimes and there's that stomach bug going around. The Toothfairy couldn't find her way past the mess in your room. </i>She couldn’t help smiling at that one. <i>Maybe she was running late. Too many kid's loosing teeth yesterday and she’ll get you tomorrow </i>. . . Clara heard the sound of determined footsteps in the hallway.<br />
<br />
Unsatisfied with any of her answers, she decided to fake sleep instead. She laid her head back down on the pillow and pulled the blanket up around her face. Jake's footsteps got heavier and she had to resist the urge to remind him of their neighbors downstairs. Clara held her breath and tried not to squeeze her eyes shut too tight.<br />
<br />
"Mom. Mom." Clara felt Jake's small hand on her shoulder.<br />
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?" She rolled towards her son. She could see the disappointment in his face. <br />
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." Jake held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><b>- - - - - </b></span><br />
<br />
<br />
Santina hovered outside the window. She could tell by the warmth on the breeze and the sliver of golden light on the horizon that the sun would soon rise. She was late and she knew it.<br />
<br />
"Give yourself a break, Santina. It is your first night after all," She heard her mentor's voice in the rattling leaves.<br />
"I know, I know. I'll get this last one and the night will be a success."<br />
<br />
She pushed the amber curls out of her eyes and prepared herself to phase through the window. Phasing was the hardest skill to master. She needed all of her concentration to do it correctly. She didn't want to get stuck again, like she had at the Mendleson girl's house. Santina cleared her mind and worked to block the sounds of the world around her.<br />
<br />
She heard a clicking noise. Her concentration disturbed, she opened her eyes. She looked around, but no one was outside at this early hour. She turned back to the window and that's when she saw it: a light. It was coming from the boy's room.<br />
<br />
She sped up her wings, raising herself to the branches of an oak tree. She decided to rest there for just a moment. She tried not to dwell on her failure, but she just had to see it. Seeing was her best subject and she just had to know what was going on inside that room.<br />
<br />
Santina slowed her breathing and waited for her eyes to cloud over. It was easy. Soon she was looking through the haze. She saw the boy standing in his closet. His face was so sweet and expectant. She watched as he opened a small, blue envelope.<br />
<br />
"Oh I'm saved," she said aloud. “I just love it when the parents play along.”<br />
<br />
She watched as he turned the envelope up, letting the contents spill into his open hand. She looked into his palm. It was his lost tooth. She saw the look of disappointment on the boy's face and felt a tightness in her chest. He stepped out of the closet, leaving the exposed bulb dangling. She watched as he traversed the scattered toys.<br />
<br />
In her mind, Santina followed the boy down the hallway, his footsteps getting louder and louder. He entered his parents’ room. In the faint light from the hallway, she could see the boy pause and look down at his mother's face before beginning to wake her.<br />
<br />
"Mom. Mom." The boy said as he tried to shake his mother awake.<br />
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?" The woman sounded concerned and confused.<br />
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." The boy said as he held out his hand. <br />
<br />
Santina couldn't watch any longer.<br />
<br />
She shook her head, her long curls swirling around her face. She lifted her hands from the branch and wiped them on her lap, not caring about mussing her new uniform or snagging the pink tulle on the jagged bark. The sun began to rise, the squirrels ventured out to find their breakfast, and the blue jays began vying for attention. She sat there watching, surprised that the world could still awaken.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwRox6A1ycBW5-mdiBGC0pljQLWifTJapWtza6tRgtXPUHEeI_Jg4PYPJ8WiTe875-K225NrSmKipsmEjZMQ9S5CtdYjUKeuJWQ7rwQuSWkmutShQD7aostg7025XT-YjwwpUUHLaNL8/s1600/red+fairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwRox6A1ycBW5-mdiBGC0pljQLWifTJapWtza6tRgtXPUHEeI_Jg4PYPJ8WiTe875-K225NrSmKipsmEjZMQ9S5CtdYjUKeuJWQ7rwQuSWkmutShQD7aostg7025XT-YjwwpUUHLaNL8/s200/red+fairy.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-87469115701994416642010-09-15T09:08:00.002-05:002010-10-18T16:47:50.523-05:00One Day When the Snow Lay Thick on the Ground . . .<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Pillow Book entry is inspired by </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pillow-Book-Sei-Shonagon/dp/0231073372">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOltEb3A4C-YZLtkqTgQN5nK6j1tMpJi4NGcnTevf-tIJawmWCf4q6TYweLMd_jeZ7H2uKjkptiJlHE-Lby1DdR-tGoDM2MYz0G271Hq7XesRg-ortwPAaclVf-xyE4sXbM1IX6PlEJXc/s1600/cornfield.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOltEb3A4C-YZLtkqTgQN5nK6j1tMpJi4NGcnTevf-tIJawmWCf4q6TYweLMd_jeZ7H2uKjkptiJlHE-Lby1DdR-tGoDM2MYz0G271Hq7XesRg-ortwPAaclVf-xyE4sXbM1IX6PlEJXc/s320/cornfield.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"></span>One day when the snow lay thick on the ground I rise early for my morning walk. It's January in the small town of Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. This unusually cold winter has just dug in, stretching its frosty tendrils into the ground, and warning us of the long, cold days ahead. In the wee hours of the night a real, ground-covering snow has enveloped the small campus of Williams Baptist College.<br />
<br />
I dress in the dark quiet of our small apartment, careful not to wake my sleeping husband and 3-year-old son. I put on my winter coat, scarf, and gloves. The snow, undisturbed, glistens in the moonlight. I follow the small road leading away from student housing. The red brick buildings grow smaller and smaller until they are swallowed whole by the dark. My footsteps crunch in the snow beneath me. The only sound in a sleeping world. I pass the small park at the entrance to campus. The swings are still and the large oak's limbs sag under the weight of its load. I follow the road that leads away from the school. It is lined by corn fields long ago harvested. The dry, withering stalks crushed under tillers. Today the fields are a blank slate of snow; the white sheet masking the decay sleeping just below the surface.<br />
<br />
I am utterly alone, trudging through a white wilderness. I am reminded of a story by Jack London, "To Build a Fire." The story of a man, alone in the Yukon, surviving. Man against Nature. The man makes a fatal mistake, but his soul refuses to give up. The driving instinct of survival, innate in all of humanity, compels him to continue, even when he knows he will not succeed.<br />
<br />
In my mind, I am this man, or a version. I am alone in a frozen wilderness, refusing to let nature conquer. I take a deep breath of the winter air and look to the East. A pink sunrise is beginning to take shape on the horizon as I reach my mile mark. The stars are faint dots in the Western sky. I stop. I move my fingers and toes, making sure they are not frozen. Turning around I retrace my footsteps, the only thing marring the smooth, white surface.<br />
<br />
Behind me something stalks. A beast following patiently. Its long, deep growl breaks the silence. It waits for the moment when I let down my guard or start to slow my pace. The instinct kicks in and I'm moving faster. My footsteps are unsure. My shoe slides in the mushy ice of a footprint. I am forced to slow down, but my heart still races. I can hear the hurried thump in my ears, feel it at my temples. I know if I slip the beast will overtake me, and I am not yet willing to concede defeat.<br />
<br />
The wind breaks against my face. I pull the scarf up to cover my mouth and nose. My breath is a hot mist, wetting my scarf and melting the frost. I close my eyes against the frigid air. When I open them I see that the sun is rising over the fields. The snow catches the light: a bright, white sheet sprinkled with glitter.<br />
<br />
I round the turn at the campus entrance, setting each foot down carefully. A low growl follows. The beast has slowed its chase. Some invisible barrier has kept it at bay, but I can feel its longing, its disappointment, its unwillingness to give up its prey.<br />
<br />
My heartbeat slows and I count the steps . . . one, two, three, four . . . until the rhythm matches the pulsing in my neck. A robin calls out from his perch in the oak tree. The world begins to wake.<br />
<br />
As I near my home, the sound of an engine roaring to life startles me. My neighbor's pick-up hums, spewing a blackish fog into the crystalline landscape. The spell is broken. Cold and damp, I know I have survived some great adventure. I am alive and unconquered.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-16501599098925689782010-09-13T10:53:00.000-05:002010-09-13T10:53:46.332-05:00The Toothfairy<b><a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/2010/09/13/writing-exercise-switching-points-of-view/">Writing Exercise: Switching Points of View</a></b><br />
<br />
This sounded like a fun exercise so I decided to give it a go. The instructions:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Step One</strong></div><ul style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 11.1111px; line-height: 26px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Write a <strong>one paragraph scene</strong> based on this week’s [Fiction] Friday prompt: <em>Why did the Toothfairy fail to deliver coins one evening?</em></li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Ensure the scene involves at least two characters (you may choose to have more than two if you wish).</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Write from first person or limited third person POV (point of view) so you are actually writing someone’s perspective.</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Take no more than ten minutes to write.</li>
</ul><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Step Two</strong></div><ul style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 11.1111px; line-height: 26px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Take the original scene and write from the perspective of someone else present.</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Again limit yourself to no more than a paragraph and ten minutes of writing time.</li>
</ul><div style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 1em; line-height: 26px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><strong>Step Three</strong></div><ul style="color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 11.1111px; line-height: 26px; list-style-image: initial; list-style-position: initial; list-style-type: none; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 10px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;"><li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Write the scene for a third time but this time, write from the perspective of someone outside of the ‘action’ in the scene, someone who has not been seen or mentioned in either of the previous paragraphs.</li>
<li style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: url(http://s1.wp.com/wp-content/themes/pub/vigilance/images/list-star.gif); background-origin: initial; background-position: 0px 0.3em; background-repeat: no-repeat no-repeat; display: block; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 5px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 17px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">Same time and length limitations apply.</li>
</ul><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbR-cgoKNRgf3PSkSdqJh9dCzEWKrDvPZX39yoTKeT8ryUH2d46nwbqkEIecHLZk9u88_UdBNRNCwh4VCF2xdcwXOYg_oPCJkzvym9hn8M1WO6ymg7w84iljzEeQGpfUYJsP8QG7TW6w/s1600/red+fairy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="334" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXbR-cgoKNRgf3PSkSdqJh9dCzEWKrDvPZX39yoTKeT8ryUH2d46nwbqkEIecHLZk9u88_UdBNRNCwh4VCF2xdcwXOYg_oPCJkzvym9hn8M1WO6ymg7w84iljzEeQGpfUYJsP8QG7TW6w/s400/red+fairy.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> <b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">The </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">Toothfairy</span></b></div><br />
<b>Step One: </b><br />
<br />
James woke up early. Even though it was just another school day, he was excited. The sun hadn't come up yet and his room was still dark, a maze of shadows. He stretched out throwing his Star Wars comforter on the floor and rolled over onto his stomach. He slid one hand under the pillow and felt around. <i>There it is.</i> James tossed the pillow off the bed and snatched the little blue envelope. It was too dark to see the blue fairy printed on the front, but he knew it was there.<br />
<br />
He jumped up, envelope in hand, and hopped over the scattered toys and action figures to his closet. He pulled the string and then had to squint his eyes at the light from the uncovered bulb. As soon as they adjusted he carefully untucked the flap. He peered inside.<br />
<br />
"What the . . . ?" James said aloud.<br />
<br />
James tipped the envelope and let the small tooth fall into his hand. He looked at it in wonder, examining the creamy white surface and inspecting the blood-tinted spot where it had clung to his gums.<br />
<br />
He stomped into his parents' room and stood next to his Mother's side of the bed. She was sleeping so peacefully that he almost didn't want to wake her, but his focus was on his missing prize.<br />
<br />
"Mom. Mom." James gently shook his Mother's shoulder.<br />
"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?"<br />
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." James held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b>Step 2:</b><br />
<br />
"What's that?" Clara sat straight up in her bed.<br />
<br />
She looked around, trying to get her bearings. When she saw the mound of covers next to her, she realized she was safely in her bed. She had been dreaming of a carnival where everyone was wearing the most ridiculous costumes. Halloween was only a month and a half away and she hadn't even started making costumes. She knew the dream was stress-related. They all seemed to be lately.<br />
<br />
Clara tried to remember what had awakened her, but couldn't get the image of a bearded lady dressed as the Toothfairy out of her mind. That's when it hit her. <i>I can't believe I let this happen,</i> Clara admonished herself. She noticed the faint light coming from the hallway and knew that James was already awake.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<i>What will I tell him?</i> she asked herself. A list of bad ideas ran through her mind: <i>The Toothfairy was sick last night. You know we all get sick sometimes and there's that stomach bug going around. The Toothfairy couldn't find her way past the mess in your room. </i>She couldn't help laughing a little. <i>He'll never buy that one. She was running late. Too many kid's loosing teeth yesterday . . . </i>Clara heard the sound of determined footsteps in the hallway.<br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
Unsatisfied with any of her answers, she decided to fake sleep instead. She laid her head back down on the pillow and pulled the soft, flowered comforter up around her face. James's footsteps got heavier and she had to resist the urge to remind him of their neighbors downstairs. Clara held her breath and tried not to squeeze her eyes shut too tight.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Mom. Mom." Clara felt James's small hand on her shoulder.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?" She rolled towards her son. She could see the disappointment in his face. He looked so young, so trusting. Clara closed her eyes and fought back a sob. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." James held the tooth out in the palm of his hand. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><b>Step 3:</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Santina hovered outside the window. She could tell by the warmth on the breeze and the sliver of golden light on the horizon that the sun would soon rise. She was late and she knew it. This was her last stop tonight. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Give yourself a break, Santina. It <i>is </i>your first night after all," She heard her mentor's voice in the rattling of the dry leaves. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"I know, I know. I'll get this last one and the night will be a success."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She pushed the amber curls out of her eyes and prepared herself to phase through the window. Phasing was the hardest skill to master. She needed all of her concentration to do it correctly. She didn't want to get stuck again, like she had at the Mendleson girl's house. That was so embarrassing. Santina cleared her mind and worked to block the sounds of the wakening world around her.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Just then, she heard a faint clicking noise. Her concentration disturbed, she opened her eyes. She looked around, but no one was outside at this early hour. She turned back to the window and that's when she saw it: a light. It was coming from the boy's room. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She sped up her wings, raising herself up to the branches of an oak tree. There she decided she could rest for just a moment. She tried not to dwell on her failure, but she just had to see it. Seering was her best subject and she just had to know what was going on inside that room.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Santina slowed her breathing and waited for her eyes to cloud over. It was easy. Soon she was looking through the haze. She saw the boy standing in his closet. His face was so sweet and expectant. She watched as he opened a small, blue envelope. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Oh I'm saved," she said aloud. "His parents have taken care of it for me. What loving parents this little boy must have."</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She watched as he turned the envelope up. letting the contents spill into his open hand. She looked into his palm. It was his lost tooth. She saw the sad look of disappointment on the boy's face and she felt a tightness in her chest. The boy's look turned. It was no longer just sadness, it was tinged with a determination. He stepped out of the closet, leaving the exposed bulb dangling. She watched as he traversed the scattered toys in his room. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">In her mind, Santina followed the boy down the hallway, his footsteps getting louder and louder. He entered what she thought must be his parents room. A man and a woman were sleeping soundly under a thick comforter. In the faint light from the hallway, she could see the boy pause and look down at his mother's face before beginning to wake her.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"Mom. Mom." The boy said as he tried to shake his mother awake.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?" The woman sounded concerned and confused. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." The boy said as he held out his hand. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">Santina couldn't watch any longer. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">She shook her head, her long curls swirling around her face. She lifted her hands from the branch and saw how dirty they were from clinging to her improvised seat. She wiped them on her spotless new uniform, not caring about getting messy or snagging the pink tulle on the jagged bark. She sat there for a long time, watching the sun rise in the East, the squirrels scurrying to find their breakfast, the blue jays vying for attention, surprised that the world could still awaken. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;"><br />
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</div><br />
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<i> </i><br />
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<br />
<br />
Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-32567635081629105232010-09-09T12:17:00.000-05:002010-09-09T12:17:12.138-05:00Home<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAc_gMQwhfn87QtODfBfCtcwxqlwszIw-CWA_AG4OGi0SFTIxJd1MqTljQC2-wZ1IMRsdSkjfY2pGvZkgGYgdMqtqKilaG80GjYNhJXQhj5CswS_pvgCyoXQTBJFpSsdh1p9X4KtBkzk/s1600/home+blog+post.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxAc_gMQwhfn87QtODfBfCtcwxqlwszIw-CWA_AG4OGi0SFTIxJd1MqTljQC2-wZ1IMRsdSkjfY2pGvZkgGYgdMqtqKilaG80GjYNhJXQhj5CswS_pvgCyoXQTBJFpSsdh1p9X4KtBkzk/s200/home+blog+post.jpg" width="163" /></a></div>This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[fiction] Friday</a> prompt: Use one or more of these words in your story (but resist the temptation to look them up first!)<br />
<br />
<br />
<ul><li>Periapt</li>
<li>Vilipend</li>
<li>Embrangle</li>
</ul><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>Home</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>"I don't know why you insist on embrangling me in your quarrels with Becky."<br />
"The word you're looking for is entangle, Mother," Sandy said.<br />
"I am not a child, young lady. I said just what I meant to say."<br />
<br />
Victoria crossed the room and pulled her word-a-day calendar from the top drawer of her desk.<br />
<br />
"See. It's right here. May 17th. Embrangle."<br />
<br />
Sandy set her iced tea neatly on a coaster. Heaven forbid she leave a ring on Mother's precious coffee table. She pulled herself up from the overstuffed sofa and followed her mother's path across the den. She stood, back propped against the rolling wooden chair, and extended her hand with a huff.<br />
<br />
"What's this?"<br />
"It was a gift from Henry."<br />
"Of course it was."<br />
"Don't be petty. He says it will broaden my horizons."<br />
<br />
Sandy rolled her eyes and began flipping through the tear-out pages.<br />
<br />
"There it is: embrangle. Oh and there's more: vilipend . . . esoteric . . . magniloquent . . . trivalent . . . periapt."<br />
<br />
Sandy started laughing.<br />
<br />
"What's so funny?<br />
"Broaden your horizons? What was that old man thinking?"<br />
"He was thinking it would be a very thoughtful gift."<br />
"He was probably thinking how funny it would be when you blurted out a word like <i>magniloquent </i>at your next garden party."<br />
"Now you're just being mean."<br />
<br />
Victoria snatched the calendar out Sandy's hands and shoved it back into the drawer.<br />
<br />
"Why do you have to be so hateful?" Victoria said.<br />
<br />
Sandy thought that her mother's voice sounded more sad than angry. She watched as her mother walked over to the bay window. The mid-morning sun was pouring through the glass, creating slender rays of light. Victoria watched the specks of dust sparkle in the sunlight. She could hear the call of a mockingbird coming from the wide Live Oak outside the window.<br />
<br />
Things were so much more peaceful when Sandy was away at school. It was only the end of May and Victoria was already exhausted by the constant chatter, the mess, and the need for confrontation. She was even tired of the bouncy energy she had once admired in her youngest daughter.<br />
<br />
Three more years of college and Sandy would be out on her own, leaving Victoria alone in the big, empty house. She remembered this stage with her other three girls. Somehow her two boys had been easier. Soon enough Sandy would mature and gain some wisdom, some idea of how the world really worked. Until then Victoria would bite her tongue and send up a few more silent prayers.<br />
<br />
Sandy came up behind her mother and wrapped her long, thin arms around her, squeezing. She rested her chin on her mother's shoulder, letting her straight blonde hair fall across her face. Victoria brought her arms up over her daughter's. They stood there silently for a while. Victoria watching a squirrel turn an acorn in its front paws. Sandy keeping a count of her mother's steady breathing.<br />
<br />
"I'm sorry, Mom."<br />
"I know."Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-13717543558179151912010-09-07T14:03:00.002-05:002010-10-18T16:48:42.842-05:00It is Getting So Dark<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Pillow Book entry is inspired by </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pillow-Book-Sei-Shonagon/dp/0231073372">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.</span><br />
<br />
<b>It is getting so dark. </b>And fast. A tropical storm has rolled off the gulf. It has crossed Northern Mexico and is sending black, ominous clouds up into Texas. Three hundred miles from the coast and our town is awash in the grey of it. <br />
<br />
Sometimes the rain pours down on scurrying cars. Sometimes the wind holds its breath. When it exhales again we watch the storm clouds move across the sky. Standing still, the huge masses rush by. Looking up, I am dizzy at the sense of motion.<br />
<br />
A wild gust looses a dance of leaves. They encircle us in a leafy whirlwind. I reach out to touch them. Some the warm green of Summer. A few have turned orange, impatient for Fall. They settle at our feet atop the unearthly-hued grass.<br />
<br />
I drink in the smell of it. The dark wall of clouds to the South lights up. A light show muted by grey curtains. I can hear the thunder growling in the distance, a deep throaty groan. A raindrop lands on my cheek, a wet kiss, a warning.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-36941915881904247232010-09-02T19:15:00.005-05:002010-09-03T06:01:06.495-05:00What Happened to Albert<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif415YXDMKPiQL96ceWj1JGNGbWbdgppaoDWvU3lqUVfvXCh6LC9PIZc_B9vn92l1nL0hYjMiMODc2r2Frw4eQcki7cm01MXfvfzgwbS9QakbpxnbtvBWQ0835PdsNMaAc2EMQH9efFyU/s1600/dead_smiley_sticker-p217560802465223378qjcl_400.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif415YXDMKPiQL96ceWj1JGNGbWbdgppaoDWvU3lqUVfvXCh6LC9PIZc_B9vn92l1nL0hYjMiMODc2r2Frw4eQcki7cm01MXfvfzgwbS9QakbpxnbtvBWQ0835PdsNMaAc2EMQH9efFyU/s200/dead_smiley_sticker-p217560802465223378qjcl_400.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/">[fiction] Friday prompt</a>:<br />
"Albert is Dead"<br />
Along with romantic scenes, many writers find writing a scene which involves killing a character a challenge. Here is your chance to write a scene where a truly objectionable character dies.<br />
Step 1. Go read "<a href="http://annieevett.blogspot.com/2010/08/doggone.html">Doggone</a>" -a Friday Fiction first draft piece from a week ago.<br />
Step 2. Decide who, what and how Albert dies. It may be accidental, a blundered break in, monster attack - or by one of the many characters within the short story who may or may not have a motive.<br />
Step 3. Now write . . . You can choose to be as graphic or lyrical as you like, choose to show but not tell - or just tell it all.<br />
The only rule is - Albert must be dead by the end of the story.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><b>What Happened to Albert</b></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;"><b></b></div><b><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Albert was meticulously labeling his collection of discs, printing names across the shiny surfaces with a thick, black Sharpie. When he got to the last one, he tried to remember the name of the newest offender. A blonde twenty-something girl with one of those purse dogs. She insisted on letting the spindly creature defecate and urinate wherever its little heart desired. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b></b></span></div><b><div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><b></b></span></div><b><div style="display: inline !important; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Not on my lawn, missy,” Albert growled.</span></div></b><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Albert turned in his chair and stared at the monitors of his security system as if he would find her name there. <i>Sasha . . . Simone . . . Amberly . . . oh what is that silly girl’s name?</i> He mulled it over. He knew it was some trendy piece of work. She was just the type with that fashionista look and those sweat pants with the word “juicy” scrolled across the ass. What was she even doing in a nice neighborhood like this? She should be out in Cali looking for her next sugar daddy. The thought of it made him cringe. He hated that gold digger type. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Ansley! That’s it.” Albert wrote the name across the last disc and pushed his chair back from his desk. He had decided that a hard afternoon’s work of monitoring the neighborhood had earned him a short nap. Before he could will himself out of the chair, he noticed that one of the monitors had gone black.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“That’s odd,” Albert said. He had meticulously wired each and every camera himself. There was no good reason that this one screen should be showing up blank. He cursed under his breath as he forced his back to straighten. He slowly rose and made his way to the kitchen door. The house was unusually quite with Linda out and he could hear the ice cubes dropping into the tray in the freezer. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Albert opened the door and had to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the afternoon sun. The August heat was overwhelming and he could see steam rising from the wet grass.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“When is Linda going to fix those sprinklers?” Albert growled. “The heat of the day is not the time to be watering the grass. Look at those puddles everywhere. If the sprinklers were timed right, the flower beds wouldn’t be huge lakes of mud every afternoon. It’s a wonder anything lives around here. Incompetence.”</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Albert never would have left the cool comfort of his air conditioned home if it hadn’t been that one camera that was out. The one that pointed towards Marco’s house. He needed to keep tabs on Linda’s little fling. She thought she was so smart, trying to pull something over on him. <i>Oh she’ll see . . . one day . . . she’ll see. </i>Albert followed the wet footpath to the corner of the house. There it was, his faulty camera, poised on the edge of the gutter.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">From the footpath Albert could see the loose wire. Not a problem, he thought. Albert stepped into the flower bed and his white canvas shoe sunk into the mud.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Piece of crap.” Albert pulled his foot up out of the mud. He realized he should have grabbed the step stool from the kitchen, but his shoe was already covered in mud. Albert let his foot sink back into the wet soil. He stepped his other foot over the row of dahlias and resigned himself to ruining his shoes. The water seeped up out of the mud creating a little brown puddle.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Hi there neighbor.” He was surprised by the girlish voice calling from the street. He turned to look and saw that it was her, Ansley. She was jogging in one of those couture sweat suits with her little rat on a studded pink leash. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">“Afternoon, Ansley,” he begrudgingly called back as she approached.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Albert turned back to his task. Standing in the flower bed, he realized that the water had rose up above his socks and was wetting his exposed ankles. Soon it would tinge his white slacks with its murky brownish color. He let out a grunt. He had to stretch to reach the camera. He put one hand on the camera to steady it and pulled the other hand up to grasp the disconnected wire. As soon as his fingers curled around the wire, he felt it.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A jolt. All of the muscles in his body contracted at once and he could smell something burning.<i> Hair,</i> he thought, <i>now that’s odd.</i> He looked out into the neighborhood for something. He wasn’t quite sure what. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the word “juicy” in swirling pink letters across Ansley’s tight ass. </span></div><div><br />
</div></b><br />
<strong><div style="margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px; text-align: left;"></div></strong>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-4481616402589583122010-08-26T20:14:00.003-05:002010-08-31T18:57:27.034-05:00I'm Really Not a Good Person<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEka9njjqucJEaK9HwlUP455s_D2v2gxCrHmE5vs-R9Z-_qFMea7JKFji7xW8pyUmzSZJNlQY5ko4BhoIToqnDPoVArLw5eVNckHUKTS42474fcszcVUSIv0VR5kexNQ-69jQX6Sn1u4s/s1600/journal-writing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEka9njjqucJEaK9HwlUP455s_D2v2gxCrHmE5vs-R9Z-_qFMea7JKFji7xW8pyUmzSZJNlQY5ko4BhoIToqnDPoVArLw5eVNckHUKTS42474fcszcVUSIv0VR5kexNQ-69jQX6Sn1u4s/s200/journal-writing.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[Fiction] Friday</a> prompt:<br />
<br />
Step 1. Go to a busy locale—a cafe or coffee shop would be easiest. Sit down with a notebook, and make sure you look busy, so people don’t know you’re listening. Now write down random soundbites of conversations.Try to get at least 10 lines or snippets.<br />
Step 2. Now use all ten in a cohesive scene of dialogue or as dialogue in a story<br />
Step 3. Leave a list of the lines plucked from real life at the end of the story for people to see.<br />
<div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;">I’m Really Not a Good Person</span></div><br />
<br />
It was finally raining. A warm, sad drizzle. Dan stood up. Abby followed his lead, scraping the metal chair across the concrete as she pushed back from the table. He led her down the two steps and into the parking lot. When he saw the slick pavement he almost put his hand on the small of her back, but something stopped him. Maybe he knew it was too personal, too intimate a touch.<br />
<br />
They had purposefully met in a public place and her husband was one of his closest friends. He would call her on Monday and apologize. He knew it would be better if they didn’t see each other again. He couldn’t imagine the two of them confined to the small adjoining offices for eight hours a day. <i>I’m really not a good person, </i>Dan reminded himself, <i>even if I am apologetic when I screw up.</i><br />
<br />
“One more question, Abby.”<br />
“Yes?”<br />
“Do you think it’s a conflict of interest that Eric and I are friends?”<br />
“That did cross my mind, but we’re all grown-ups here. Right?”<br />
“Right.”<br />
“So I’ll hear from you on Monday?”<br />
“Monday.”<br />
<br />
Dan watched Abby climb into her black Tahoe. She had to use the side step and the effort made her black skirt hike up the back of her legs, exposing her knees as she twisted to slide into the driver seat. Standing with one arm propped on the door and the other against the side of the vehicle, he realized that he was boxing her in, staking his territory. She looked at him expectantly and he finally pushed the door shut. He gave her an awkward wave and turned around before she could reciprocate.<br />
<br />
As he walked across the lot, he tried to replay the highlights of the interview in his head. He couldn’t stop picturing her soft smile, her wavy amber hair, her pale skin. Just a few freckles marred her china doll complexion. They were charming, beautiful. In a silky red button-up shirt and a black pencil skirt, she was the epitome of secretary. The kind of woman he could fantasize about between conference calls and meetings with clients.<br />
<br />
Dan got into his hot car, started the ignition, and flipped on the air conditioner. He was hoping this rain would cool things off, but instead it just made the heat worse. Now there was a clingy wetness to it. He felt like it was seeping into his pores. He loosened his tie and ran his hands through his short, black hair.<i> Come on, Dan. You’re bigger than this. What if something were to happen? I don’t even know what would happen, </i>he tried to talk himself out of calling her right then and there. <i>Think it over man. Is she even qualified?</i><br />
<br />
Dan tried again to recall the important details, her answers to his questions. He remembered one answer that had made him laugh.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
“Are you an organized person?”<br />
“Yes, but I don’t type well. I don’t spell well,” Abby had said.<br />
“Well, there are classes for that,” Dan had said before they both broke into laughter. She had just taken a drink of her espresso, and a tiny dot of whipped cream clung to her upper lip. Before he could reach across the table to wipe it clean, she had licked her lips. A seductive act that she couldn’t possibly have meant. Now he wondered.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Dan tried again to talk himself out of it, but it didn’t take. He dug his cell out of his pocket and dialed Abby’s number. He knew she was expecting his call Monday, but he couldn’t wait. He tapped his fingers on the warm steering wheel. After the third ring, she answered.<br />
<br />
“Hello,” Abby’s sultry voice came across the line.<br />
“Hi, Abby. It’s Dan.”<br />
“Did you forget something?”<br />
“No, no. I just didn’t want to wait until Monday. The job’s yours if you want it.”<br />
“Really?”<br />
<br />
Dan could here the excitement in Abby’s voice. He couldn’t help smiling.<br />
<br />
“Really.”<br />
“When do I start?”<br />
“Tonight.”<br />
“What?”<br />
“Tonight. Sometimes there’s this on-the-fly stuff. There’s a special event at the Adolphus in Dallas. Not everyone’s eligible to go to these things and I don’t want to waste the opportunity. If you’re taking the job, I’d like to have you at my side, my right arm so to speak.”<br />
“Well what would I be doing?”<br />
“I have to warn you, you’re coming into a desperate situation. I have a terrible memory and I need you to stay close and remember things. You know names and titles. All the little details.”<br />
“Okay. I can’t wait to tell Eric the good news.”<br />
“It’s formal dress. I’ll pick you up at six. Oh and don’t worry about the drive. If it turns into a late night, we can always just get a room. The company will pick up the tab.”<br />
<br />
Dan slid his phone closed. He put the car into reverse and pressed on the accelerator. He shook his head. <i>I’m not a good person,</i> Dan thought, <i>not good at all.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Lines plucked from real life:<br />
<br />
Not everyone’s eligible to go to these things.<br />
If something were to happen? I don’t even know what would happen.<br />
It didn’t take.<br />
There’s this on-the-fly stuff.<br />
Apologetic when I screw up.<br />
I don’t type well. I don’t spell well.<br />
I’m really not a good person.<br />
You’re coming into a desperate situation.<br />
Are you an organized person?<br />
We’re all grown-ups here.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
</div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-73060825925834298602010-08-19T22:17:00.000-05:002010-08-19T22:17:18.198-05:00AmyThis week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[fiction] friday</a> prompt: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 26px;"><i>The note taped to the door said: See you at</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 26px;"><i> </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 26px;"><em>Wild Notes Karaoke Bar</em></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; line-height: 26px;"><i>.</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Janice was tired. She’d been running around campus all day in the August heat, going from office to office on what seemed like a goose chase.<br />
<br />
“Why do they make this so hard?” she asked her new roommate, Amy. “You’d think they could put everything in one place instead of making us run from building to building to register.”<br />
“It’s not so bad, Janice. I’m almost finished. I just need to find the registrar and I’m done. How about you?”<br />
“I’ve got financial aid, my advisor, and then the registrar. You need McAllister Hall. That’s just across the quad.” Janice pointed out the old, brick building. “Why don’t you go ahead and I’ll meet you back at the room.”<br />
“Are you sure?”<br />
“Yeah, there’s no reason for you to keep traipsing around in this heat. It must be 100 degrees out here.”<br />
“Okay. If you insist.”<br />
<br />
Amy flashed a big smile at her friend and pulled her long, black hair into a pony tail at the base of her neck. As she turned to walk away, Janice noticed the sweat dripping down her neck and wetting the back of her tie-dyed tank top. She watched Amy walk across the quad, admiring the sway of her hips and the way her flared jeans hugged her tight butt. <br />
<br />
When Amy finally disappeared in a crowd of new students, Janice looked down at her map. Locating the Office of Financial Affairs in the Huckabee Center, she started out across campus in the oppressive heat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Janice marveled that those last three tasks had taken almost two hours. She was glad she had sent Amy back to the room instead of forcing her to waist away her whole afternoon. She climbed the three steps and opened the door to Willow Hall. The blast of cool air blew her short, blonde hair back off her face. A chill ran down her spine as the cool air turned the sweat covering her body into an icy bath.<br />
<br />
Janice took the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the crowded hall to their room. She fished her key out of her pocket, but stopped before opening the door. Next to the bright green poster advertising the various welcome week functions was a new note. Janice read the words “See you at Wild Notes Karaoke Bar.” She peeled the tape off the door, folded the note, and stuffed it into the pocket of her jean shorts. She opened the door and went inside.<br />
<br />
Janice put her stack of papers down on her desk and started shedding her sweaty shorts and tee. She kicked her tennis shoes under the bed and sat down atop her plush new comforter. She grabbed her shorts and pulled the note out of the damp pocket. She carefully unfolded it and read the words. Even though she had only known Amy for three short days, she already recognized her stylish handwriting. The purple notebook paper had come from Amy’s journal. The side was lined with little chads of paper where she had yanked it from the notebook.<br />
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Janice brought the paper to her face and inhaled the scent. She let herself fall back on her pillow and laid the note on her bare stomach. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the cool air coming from the window unit flow across her body.<br />
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She wondered how Amy’s small voice would sound belting out a tune like “I Will Survive” or Aretha’s “Respect.” She knew Amy was here on a choir scholarship, but she had yet to hear her sing. She imagined it would be mesmerizing. Amy at the center of the stage, her long hair falling in soft curls across her shoulders. The spotlight creating little glints in her green eyes. Her soft pink lips caressing the microphone.<br />
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Janice opened her eyes and got out of bed. She opened her desk drawer and put the note inside. She put on her bathrobe, grabbed her shower caddy, and slipped on her flipflops. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed that Amy’s top dresser drawer was slightly open.<br />
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Janice took her hand off the doorknob and crossed the room. She peeked inside the open drawer. She could see Amy’s undergarments through the small sliver. She lid the drawer open, careful not to upset the jewelry box or any of the trinkets sitting atop the dresser.<br />
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Janice sorted through the contents: lacy bikinis, cotton thongs, elaborate bras, bows, flowers, stripes, polka dots, and the occasional cartoon character. She picked up a pair of silky red panties. They were bikini cut with the letters “xoxo” spelled out across the back in tiny faux crystals. Janice held them up in the dwindling light. She looked over her shoulder before shoving them into the large square pocket at the side of her robe.<br />
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Janice straightened the undergarments left in the drawer. She was sure Amy wouldn’t miss this one pair. She slid the drawer closed, remembering to leave it slightly ajar. As Janice walked back across the room, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the small sink. She stopped and turned to look at her reflection. Her brown eyes were wide. They glowed in the orange light of dusk filtering through the window. She smiled and relished in the thought of having something of Amy’s, something so private, so intimate.Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-20091957210209954142010-08-12T16:16:00.001-05:002010-08-13T15:13:39.051-05:00The First Day in a New Place is Always Hard<div class="MsoNormal">This week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[fiction] friday</a> prompt: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 22px;"><i>The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: xx-large; line-height: 31px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 20px; line-height: 31px;"><br />
</span></span></i></span></span></div></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #141310; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 22px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-large;"><br />
</span></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><br />
</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><i>The first day in a new place is always hard, </i>Cecile told herself. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Despite her reluctance she knew she’d have to leave the room eventually. She looked at her new outfit in the full length mirror attached to the closet door. It was a going-away present from Trina, or rather a peace offering, a lame attempt to atone for her guilt. Either way it was a nice outfit, the latest fashion.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile shuffled through the paperwork on the sterile desk. She crossed the small room and fluffed the pillows on her twin bed. She ran a hand across the calico bedspread, smoothing the nonexistent wrinkles.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Enough, CeCe. Stop stalling,” she said aloud.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile checked her hair in the mirror hanging next to the door, placed her hand on the stainless steel handle, and slowly turned. She had to squint her eyes against the harsh fluorescent lighting in the hallway. She stepped out and was a little surprised to find the hall devoid of other residents. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">As she walked toward the lobby she noticed the myriad of decorations adorning the doors that lined the cinder block walls: miniature white boards with colored markers attached, silly posters of cats bearing a variety of clichés, the odd handmade charm or beaded hanging, to name a few. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">When Cecile entered the lobby she finally began to hear the noises that let her know that there was some sort of life going on in this place. Stationed at the front desk was a squat woman, glasses perched on the tip of her nose and head titled to hold the phone receiver. As she crossed the plush carpeting, a bone-thin older lady came rushing up to meet her. The zealous lady was holding a small wicker basket, but Cecile couldn’t quite make out what was inside.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Hello, hello” the woman said. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile took a step back, but the woman just kept coming closer.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Here, have one. I made them myself this morning,” the woman said. She reached into the basket and pulled out something white. She shoved it in Cecile’s direction and Cecile was obliged to receive the gift.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Thank you,” Cecile said. She looked into her open hand and saw a wadded up Kleenex. Instinctively, she let the used wad fall to the floor. By this time the fluttering old lady had moved on to her next victim.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile hurried out of the lobby and into the commons. Here the round tables were filled with residents, some staring blankly at the food before them, others greedily clearing their plates. She looked out across the crowded room and noticed a gray-haired woman waving extravagantly in her direction. Cecile looked around her, but there was no one near that the woman could be waving down. Despite her misgivings, she made her way through the tables to the waving woman.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh, you’re the new girl. I’m Hattie and this here old bag is Louise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I’m Cecile, but you can call me CeCe.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“My Lord, she has a nickname. Isn’t that exciting, Louise.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Louise looked up from her scrambled eggs just long enough to see there was someone blocking her view of the TV and then motioned for Cecile to move. Cecile took the hint and sat in the empty chair next to Hattie.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“What are you in for?” Louise said.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh you knock that off, you crazy old coot. Louise doesn’t mean any harm. She’s just cantankerous.”</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I see,” Cecile said.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">The hum of a motorized wheelchair caught Cecile’s attention. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Oh Lord, we’re in for it now. Here comes Mrs. Westin. Just don’t respond and everything will be okay,” Hattie warned.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Mrs. Westin’s wheelchair stopped right next to Cecile’s chair. She started to scoot her chair sideways to get a little breathing room, but Mrs. Westin put her arm out and grabbed hold of her wrist. She was quite a bit stronger than she looked Cecile thought. The woman had already begun talking so Cecile thought it best to just remain still.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“Did I ever tell you about my great grandson? When he finally came out, he had the biggest head I ever seen. I said to them kids ‘that ain’t normal,’ but they weren’t gonna listen to me. Well his head just kept gettin’ bigger and bigger. One day that big ole head just exploded. I tell you what. Arms and legs went everywhere.”</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile wrenched her wrist from the crazy lady’s hand and pulled back so hard she almost toppled out of her chair. Hattie started laughing, which started Louise to laughing. Mrs. Westin put her nose up in the air, turned her chair around, and motored away. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">“I told you we were in for it, didn’t I?” Hattie laughed.</div><div class="MsoNormal">“You did warn me. That you did.” Cecile answered.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Cecile wasn’t sure what to make of her new home, but she was pleasantly surprised by Hattie and her outgoing demeanor. She secretly hoped that they might become fast friends. After her breakfast was delivered to the table and Louise’s program finished, the three began to get to know each other. The conversation took off when Louise mentioned Bruce Willis. </div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-71122679251265569062010-08-11T09:16:00.001-05:002010-10-18T16:51:38.674-05:00People Who Have Changed as much as if They had been Reborn<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">This Pillow Book entry is inspired by </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Pillow-Book-Sei-Shonagon/dp/0231073372">The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon</a></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.</span><br />
<div><div><br />
</div><div><b>People who have changed as much as if they had been reborn . . .</b></div><div>Not like watching your family grow each day together. No one notices the subtle changes: hair darkens, feet outgrow their shoes, bones lengthen, waists widen, and facial features become more distinct. </div><div><br />
</div><div>One day a cousin visits. You haven't seen her in two long years. She is new. You wonder if it's really her, she has changed so much. She also sees what two long years have done to your appearance. </div><div><br />
</div><div>She's grown taller, three inches in the last year alone. Her awkward limbs have grown fuller. Thighs have taken on a subtle bulge and her hips have grown into an alluring curve. Her waist cinches in at just the right spot and her budding breasts have become full. Held up by a demi-cup, each one threatens to spill over, forming cleavage at the v-neck of a pink tee. Low-rise vintage jeans hug a rounded bottom, widening as they encase her legs, flaring at the ankle. The hem graces the top of patent leather mary janes. White socks with a turned down lace ruffle: a vestige of childhood.</div><div><br />
</div><div>Long, brown hair falls over thin shoulders. Soft curls twist themselves around her milky upper arms. The sun-kissed locks frame a heart-shaped face. Skin as smooth and white as a china doll. A rosy tint highlights high cheekbones, and big brown eyes peek out from long, full lashes. </div><div><br />
</div><div>When she rests her chin on the cup of her palm and lets her eyes close for just a moment, the hues of brown across the eyelids catch the midday sun and glisten. Her nose is petite, a narrow ridge that turns up slightly at the end. Below it, her lips are parted, tinted with a berry gloss, they pucker into a coy smile.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She sees a group of boys entering the park. Lifting her chin from her hand, she swings her legs around on the picnic table bench. She stretches her arms out placing her hands behind her on the bench. She locks her elbows and arches her back. She sucks in a breath and watches her breasts lift. She notices the flat plane of her stomach as she sits up straight. </div><div><br />
</div><div>She slowly exhales and tosses her hair slightly, making the strands around her face fall toward her eyes. Her long bangs are pulled from a part at the right side of her head. They sweep down across her face to obscure her left eye. </div><div><br />
</div><div>Peeking from beneath her mane, she watches the boys near her as the follow the path between the merry-go-round and the swings. They are a mass of gangly arms and legs, feet shuffling, a shove here and there. One flutters about the group with an unpent energy- skipping, hopping, smacking the back of a shaggy-headed friend, slipping a sneakered foot out to trip the red-haired runt of the group.</div><div><br />
</div><div>She watches the group and her heart begins to race. She picks the male at the center of the pack. All the other boys seem to revolve around him. She notes his thick blonde hair, tumbling down in rough strands around his face. His blue eyes are piercing under his heavy brow. Pink-tinted lips move slowly as he laughs, and the surface of his square chin is broken by a small cleft. </div><div><br />
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</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>She closes her eyes and his is there. Wrapping his arms around her waist, rubbing the small of her back in a gentle circle. His hot breath is on her neck and her legs melt. </div><div><br />
</div><div>He whispers "I love you."</div><div>She smiles.</div><div><br />
</div><div>He pulls his mouth away from her ear and follows her jaw line to her mouth, pausing for an eternal moment before touching his lips to hers. </div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div><br />
</div><div>She opens her eyes and the noises of the crowded park rush in. She finds him across the field and smiles.</div></div>Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3318540014252612982.post-59689984351964992382010-08-05T20:36:00.000-05:002010-08-05T20:36:57.099-05:00RubyThis Week's <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/fiction-friday/">[fiction] friday</a> prompt: <i>Strains of Bobby McFerrin's "Don't Worry Be Happy" floated into the room.</i><br />
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<br />
Strains of Bobby McFerrin’s “Don’t Worry Be Happy” floated into the room. Ruby opened her eyes. It took a few minutes for her vision to focus and for her to recognize the room as her own den. The light creeping through the lace curtains had faded and the shadows of her plastic-coated furniture stretched out across the beige carpeting. <br />
<br />
Ruby slowly let her body wake up, allowing her back time to work out its kinks before she rose and began to cross the den to the dining room. Each step required much effort and she admonished herself for stashing her walker in the hall closet earlier in the afternoon. While her body seemed to grow weaker each year, her pride grew with all the gusto of a weed in a bed of wildflowers.<br />
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Holding onto the door frame, Ruby felt along the wall for the switch, flipped it, and frowned at the sight before her. The decorated table in the center of the room lay untouched. She circled the table, carefully gripping the back of the thick, mahogani chairs until she reached the portable CD player on the sideboard. <br />
<br />
The electronic device was oddly out of place in this room full of antiques. Her granddaughter, Sophie, had brought it as a gift a few years ago. Ruby had pulled it out of the bedroom closet this morning, determined to modernize the event a little by playing the CD she had found at the party store. Now, she hit the stop button on the player, pressed down on the latch, and watched the CD spin until it came to a stop. She picked it up and carefully returned it to the brightly-colored case marked “Party Tunes.” <br />
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Ruby turned back to the table. In the center set a lively bouquet of red poppies. Each place setting was carefully set with her heirloom white china. She had pulled the set from the curio in the corner of the room and washed each dish carefully before placing the settings. The embroidered tablecloth was speckled with a modest sprinkling of confetti. At the far end of the table her crystal punch bowl was dripping with condensation, creating a wet ring on the fine cloth. The raspberry sherbet had completely melted into the ginger ale, leaving a pink foam that clotted across the surface.<br />
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At the head of the table, the cake set on an ornate glass stand. Ruby had ordered it from Romano’s Bakery a week ago and was ecstatic when it had been delivered that morning. The white fondant created a beautifully smooth surface for the pink pearls of sugar, airy wisps of ribbon, and perfectly-sculpted roses. Ruby picked up the serving set and slid the knife into the cake. She felt of a wave of satisfaction watching the knife glide smoothly through the scrolling number 80. She expertly worked the server under the piece and pulled out a perfect triangle.<br />
<br />
With the slice missing she had a clear view of the layers of spongy cake, frosting, and fruit paste at the heart of the convection. Her spirit saddened at the thought of marring such a work of art. She thought for a moment that had she not sliced into the lovely creation it might have remained there, undisturbed, amid the dressings of her untouched table for many years: A monument of undiluted perfection.<br />
<br />
Ruby worked to pull one of the chairs away from the table. She managed to move it a few inches, just enough to slide her dwindling frame between the edge of the table and the back of the chair. She reached for the plated piece of cake and set it gently atop the dinner plate before her. She picked up the silver dessert fork and used it to cut a small bite from the tip of the triangle of cake. Ruby lifted the sugary treat to her mouth and slid the fork in, letting her lips close around the cool metal. She closed her eyes and reveled in the sensations that came flooding through her, like a wild river rushing at the walls of its dam, unrestrained, bursting through, shattering the bindings that would hold it back. <br />
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Laura Rachel Foxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05407312422139066511noreply@blogger.com