A to Z Flash Fiction: Catharsis

C: Catharsis

I walk two blocks west from my hotel and spot the wooden sign for The Griffin. When I asked the front desk attendant for a recommendation of both the best Reuben sandwich and the best whiskey old fashioned, this was his immediate answer.

As I push open the door, I loosen my tie and undo the top button of my white oxford shirt. I scan the

room. It’s large. Dark, polished wood, red accents, and brass hardware under dim, golden light create a weighty ambiance. There are about a dozen patrons inside, each silent or conversing in their lowest voices. The mahogany bar runs the full width of the front of the room. I pick a stool near no one and order my first round from an indifferent bartender. He keeps his eyes on a muted flat screen television on the adjacent wall. It’s a re-broadcast of this afternoon’s Dodgers-Giants game. While I sip my drink and peruse the kitchen’s menu, a man sits on the stool to my left.

The bartender immediately hands him a Budweiser without a word from either of them. He’s about my age, I discern from a sideways glance. His hands look older. Their calluses and knobby knuckles remind me of my father’s hands. My father was a union man in an iron foundry for forty-two years. I wonder briefly what this man does for a living, but the curiosity passes. There’s only one thing that occupies my mind tonight. One person.

My food order taken, the bartender brings me a second cocktail. I turn the glass in my hand. The slick condensation transfers from the glass to my fingers.

“Ricky?”

My neighbor on the next stool is peering at me with bloodshot eyes.

“Ricky! What’s it been?” he slurs. “A few years, I’d say. How you been, man?”

“I’m not Ricky, sir.”

His raspy laugh turns into a cough. “What are you going on about, Ricky? I’d know you anywhere.”

“My name is David. I’m not Ricky.”

“Aw, don’t be like that, man. It’s good to see you.” He swats my shoulder and almost slips off his stool.

I decide to ignore him. My brain returns to the same questions plaguing me since I flew to this city on Monday. It’s Thursday now. How’s it going to be when I get home? More of this? What do I want it to be like when I get home? That last question is the one I know I need to answer.

“You heard what happened, I’ll bet.” The man is teetering on that thin line between thoroughly intoxicated and sloppy drunk.

I stare into my glass after taking another swig.

“Yeah, of course you heard what happened to my Jenny.”

He doesn’t seem to care that I’m not responding. I look toward the bartender for aid but his eyes are on the already played ballgame.

“Can I confess the truth?” The man leans in as if he’s whispering, though he is not. “Sure, sure, I can. You’re an old friend. You won’t tell.”

I shake my head, wishing I’d stayed in and order overpriced room service.

“I think I killed her.”

My fingers stop tracing the rim of my glass. I turn my head a little and meet his eyes. They’re wide and bleary. He waits and I find my voice. “Listen, sir. I’m not Ricky. Maybe you need to have a water, or a soda, and sober up a little.”

It’s as if I didn’t even speak. “Geez, it feels good to admit that. Really good. I mean, don’t call the cops or nothing. I didn’t kill her.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“But still, I think I killed her.”

He goes silent for more than a minute and I hope it’s over. It’s not.

The man downs the last of his beer. “She only took drives like that when I made her mad. Fast. Old roads. Curves and hills.” His voice fades out. There are fat tears on his cheeks. I doubt he even knows they’re there. “‘You’ll kill yourself, driving like that, woman!’ That’s what I used to tell her. ‘Good,’ she’d say. ‘I have a way to do it then when you make me want to.’”

I shudder at the darkness of this exchange he had, more than once, with Jenny, whom I assume was his wife. It sounds outrageous. Even as I think this, I am flashing back to the bitter words that filled the air of our living room Sunday night, and the cold indifference Josie and I maintained on Monday morning until I left for the airport. No calls, no texts. None, this whole week, and tomorrow I fly home.

“I made her so mad that night. Madder than I’d ever seen.” He pounds on the bar and the bartender looks our way. “Another, ya’ lazy barkeep!” he chortles.

The bartender shakes his head. “No can do, McNeil. I already called your cab. I warned you that bottle was your last for tonight.”

McNeil scowls. Then his expression clears and his focus is back on me. “Do you think she meant to do it, Ricky?”

My mouth is dry. My drink is empty.

“Do you think she meant to hit that tree? Maybe, man, maybe. Either way, it’s on me. I knew what I was doing to her. I knew. I killed her.”

“Cab’s here,” the bartender interrupts.

“I could’ve stopped her, Ricky. I could’ve made it good.”

He stands and wobbles in his steel-toed boots. I see the grief, the self-loathing, in the lines of his face and the drop of his broad shoulders. He’s a large, muscular man, but he walks like a weaker, older version of himself.

After I watch him go, I rest my elbows on the bar and my head in my hands. Josie’s face fills my vision. The bartender slides my plate in front of me, but I stand up and mumble that I’ll be back in a minute. I reach for the phone in my pocket. “I have to call my wife.”

*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Bisou (Kiss)

B: Bisou (Fr: Kiss)
Photo Prompt: The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville, by Robert Doisneau

I sit at my usual table by the sidewalk, facing the Hotel De Ville. I drink my usual coffee, and take slowly paced bites of my usual croissant. People pass in their usual way, silent beside the street filled with noisy motor cars. All is as usual.

Then, it is not.

A couple appears. They are young, considerably younger than I. Pretty, but still blending with the stream of pedestrians. In front of the table beside mine, he stops. His arm is around her waist, so she stops too. He moves his arm to her shoulders, drawing her into his side as he dips his head toward her. Her graceful neck stretches, turns to match him. His lips meet hers, urgent and sincere. It is beautiful.

"The Kiss by the Hotel de Ville" by Robert Doisneau, 1950

It all happens in a matter of five seconds, maybe fewer. The kiss lasts as long, then his arm slides back to her waist and they walk on. Phantom smiles on their lips; a blush upon her cheekbones; and with no notice of the other persons in the flow that they rejoin on the sidewalk, they are gone.

My hand trembles around the porcelain coffee cup. The only thought in my mind slips through my lips in a whisper, "How long is it since I've been kissed like that? Have I ever?"

A memory flashes like a film reel. Yes, I have.

It is night, more than ten years ago. We walk beside the Seine. There is space between us, and then there is not. He takes my hand, pulls me in, and kisses me for the first time - the only time - for he is my friend and nothing more. His kiss is earnest. I feel his fingers tighten with mine.

I hear his voice in my head and I close my eyes to listen.

"I needed to do that," he says.

But I am too stunned to speak.

"Should I apologize?"

"No," I manage.

My fingertips rest on my lips, although I do not remember lifting my hand there. Every emotion, every sensation, returns to me, in the aftermath of those strangers' kiss. How had I forgotten?

No, I did not forget, but I had not remembered either.

I lift my coffee for a drink, my hands no longer shaking. A smile teases at my lips. I reckon it is a match for the smile the woman on the sidewalk wore after being kissed like that, after being kissed like I have been before.


*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

A to Z Flash Fiction: Aspire

A: Aspire

"What do you aspire to be?"

The odd question echoed over the noise in Sasha's head.

Raina waited as patiently as a therapist.

Sasha waited too. She tucked her errant curls behind her ears. She crossed her legs under the table. She waited for an answer to come. The question made her want to laugh. Aspire? I'm not sure I remember the meaning of the verb. 

Raina finished waiting. "You know I love you, right?"

She nodded. "That's usually what you say before you tell me I'm a fool."

"You're a fool."

She did laugh a little then, and it felt like the first time she'd breathed today.

"You made me promise to tell you when you're being a fool, ever since you almost switched universities to follow that chump Carter."

"Carter was not a chump."

"Carter couldn't spell chump."

Sasha stared at her chicken entree, fighting a smile.

"His brain tree was more of a shrub."

There was no helping the laughter now. She caught her breath. "Mother of pearl, he was hot though."

Raina smirked over her glass of iced tea. Drops of condensation fell to the table as she took a drink.

They sat on the patio of their favorite pub. Sasha had called the emergency convocation over her dilemma. When in doubt, consult Raina. It'd been her policy since sophomore year - the year of the infamous Carter. Raina never failed her in the seven years since.

"So, my fool of a friend, whats your answer?"

Sasha paused, her fork hovering at her lips. "Answer to what?"

"What do you aspire to be?"

"That's  a job interview question."

Raina shook her head. The ends of her sleek amber hair swung in unison around the base of her neck. Her eyes moved from Sasha to the view across the street. A mist floated over the bay tonight, not thick enough to be called a fog. The oscillating lamp of the lighthouse cut through the mist to the open water. An empty fishing trawler, tied to the dock, bobbed on each swell and fall of the water in a hypnotic rhythm.

Her eyes still on the water, Raina said, "You asked me that question once. It was during finals week, first semester junior year."

"I did?" She couldn't summon the memory.

"It was during your annoying step-by-step planning phase."

She did remember that part. "I was not annoying," she objected even as she laughed knowingly.

Raina raised her eyebrows. "You planned everything. Everything. 'Nothing will happen if you don't make it happen!' That was your motto. It drove me crazy. One of the times I complained, you asked me what I aspired to be."

"I was clueless." Sasha shrugged.

"You were," Raina agreed without apology. "But you changed the course of my life."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not!"

Sasha took another bite. She watched her best friend, wondering what Raina was trying to convince her of with this claim. Raina was the poster girl for following your passions, naysayers be damned.

"I blew off your question but I couldn't get it out of my head over Christmas break. When I came back in January, I decided I'd had enough of the coasting I'd been managing since starting school. If you remember, that's when I switched over to the biomedical engineering program. So, yeah, changed the course of my life."

"I had no idea," Sasha said, mulling this over.

"Maybe you need to tap into that annoying, ambitious version of you from years ago. When's the last time you aspired to be what you actually want to be? That's all I'm asking. You don't even have to answer me, but promise you'll think about it as you make this decision."

"I promise."

"Good." Raina took another drink. Her voice still reflective, her eyes back on the mist over the bay, she said, "Carter really was hot. What do you think ever happened to him?"

Sasha lost her breath laughing.


*****
Let's get back to basics, my friends. Specifically, the alphabet. I'll be writing a series of flash fiction pieces off of one word prompts, from A to Z. Enjoy! And if a word comes to mind for any upcoming letter, please make your suggestion and I'll consider it for a prompt.

Take Out

She'd overcooked the pasta. It was pitched in the trash. The empty kettle landed in the sink with an echoing clatter. She lifted herself with some difficulty onto the countertop, and sat. The burner on the stove still glowed red as fire. Of course she'd forgotten to turn it off. Of course.

"Andrea?"  Leo's voice floated toward her from the hallway.

Typically, she turned on the light over the front steps before he came home so he could unlock the door without fumbling in the dark. Of course she'd forgotten that too.

"I'm here."

Leo draped his suit jacket over a dining chair and came to stand before her. He rested his hands on her knees. She lightly bounced her heels off the cupboard below her. He smiled, leaned in for a kiss.

"I ruined dinner."

She watched his nose wrinkle, then he covered the last two inches between them, claiming his kiss.

"I don't care," he whispered.

"I can't focus today. The whole day," she said emphatically.

"We'll order take out."

He went for a second kiss but she leaned past his face to lay her cheek on his shoulder. She inhaled his scent. Leo wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her from the countertop. She draped her arms around his neck and pressed her knees against his hips. His muscles tightened to hold her steady while he walked to the sofa. When he laid her down there, she saw a wet circle on his shoulder. She hadn't realized she was crying.

"I left the stove on."

He returned to the kitchen, then back to the sofa a moment later. "You rest. I'll order our food."

Andrea closed her eyes. The resulting darkness was speckled with prismatic lights; beautiful lights she wished she could stop seeing. "I don't know if I can do this," she whispered. Opening one eye, she focused on the framed snapshot of her and Leo hiking Mount Moriah. "I have to do this."

Leo was on the phone, muffled through the walls between here and their bedroom. He'd be changing into jeans and a t-shirt. She remembered the warmth of his chest against hers as he'd carried her from the kitchen; the steadfast beating of his heart. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. Ba-boom. She envied it. Her heart raced and stuttered more every week.

"It's the medication," the doctor always answered with a wave of his hand. The irregular heartbeat; the shaking hands; the pain in her legs; the lights in her vision; the inability to focus her mind; everything had one of two answers: "It's the medication. It's the tumor."

"Are you resting?" Leo called from the bedroom.

"Mmmhmm," she responded, far too quiet for him to hear.

She felt sleep approaching. Each night she welcomed it with a vague thought that it might be perfectly okay if she did not wake up. Come morning, when her eyes opened and she saw Leo on the pillow beside her, she felt overwhelming relief that it had not been her last day. Would that morning sentiment eventually dissipate? This was the question she pondered as she drifted out.

When Andrea woke, moonlight filled the gap in the curtains. It was a spotlight on Leo, slumbering in the leather easy chair beside the sofa. His neck would be sore from the angle of his surrender to sleep. His plate and fork were on the coffee table, empty but for a few bits of rice. A clean fork and knife
were on the table in front of Andrea. Their arrangement suggested a plate had resided between them, until it'd become obvious she wouldn't be roused from her sleep. She knew she'd find it carefully wrapped and stowed in the refrigerator.

Propped against her fork stood a small rectangle of paper with red lettering: the slip from inside Leo's fortune cookie. Andrea picked it up. She stood, slowly, and moved to the shaft of moonlight to see the words he'd wanted her to read.

"A true companion journeys to the same destination, and will carry you when your feet will not."

Andrea clutched the paper in her fist. With a kiss to his forehead, she woke Leo. He stood, lifted her in his arms, and carried her to their bed. She rested her ear on his chest, seeking that reliable rhythm from inside of him. She rubbed her thumb against the soft stubble on his jaw, and prayed she'd wake up again tomorrow.

On the Pier

Photo by Carrie Sue Barnes, Location: Rabbit Bay, Lake Superior

 

The old man only visited the pier at sunrise, when the lake's surface was smooth as a bed sheet and the sky was edged in tangerine. Later, the lake would be speckled with white caps. The din of the waves would crescendo with each tide. He used to love the noise, but now his tired ears treasured silence. So, he only came at sunrise.

 

Bare footed, he stood squinting at the ascending sun. Another day. The fibers of the wood were cool under the leathery soles of his feet. He wrapped his fingers around the rail, pressed his stomach against it, and inhaled the stillness. He willed it to stay stored in his chest. Peace.

 

"Do you come every morning?"

 

The bird like voice startled. He did not, at first, turn to see its bearer.

 

"Mamma says you do."

 

"Bit early for ya', isn't it?" Being his first words of the day, they rolled out full of gravel. He cleared his throat. "Why aren't ya' sleepin'?"

 

"Because I'm awake." The girl's answer was clipped with the childish annoyance at silly questions from adults who ought to know.

 

The old pier stood between his house and the girl's. He gazed down at the crown of honey blonde hair, feathery and uncombed. The wisps carried him through decades to his tiny daughter hugging his leg here on the pier, midday waves licking their toes. Affection stole through his wiry limbs and he reached out to smooth her hair. He stopped himself; placed his hand back on the rail.

 

"It's my birthday," she whispered. 

 

"Mine, too."

 

Brown eyes widened. "Ooooh," she breathed out the sound. Her pink lips remained in a tiny O, then, "How old are you?"

 

He stifled a chuckle at the reverent hush of her voice. "Old."

 

"But how old?"

 

He rubbed at the whiskers in the crevices of his weathered face. "Eighty-four."

 

"That's old." She bobbed her head at him. "I'm five today."

 

The sky was losing its accessory colors. Blue prevailed above the still sleepy lake. Pelicans conducted an aerial parade inches above the water; six in a straight line headed north, then a turn and back south.

 

"Are you having a party?" he asked.

 

"I am!" Her feet danced a two second jig. "Are you?"

 

"Oh, no party for me."

 

The kids would call, of course, sometime before night fell. He did not begrudge them anything more. Yesterday, he'd picked up roast beef and fresh cheddar from the deli for his favorite sandwich. It was enough.

 

"You can share mine."

 

"That's kind of you, but I don't need a party."

 

"Every birthday deserves a party," she said. She pushed her hair back from her cheeks. "That's what my daddy says."

 

He didn't argue, hoping she'd believe it for all her years.

 

In the afternoon, he watched cars pull up to the neighboring house. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends; all come to celebrate the girl. Through open windows, the party carried its sounds to his home. Laughter, shouts, rumbles of conversation from the men on the back porch, and finally the traditional singing while they huddled around a lit cake. Hours later, the people returned to their vehicles after hugs in the driveway.

 

He sat on the red bench on his front porch, reading last Sunday's newspaper, when the last of the revelers departed. The sun he'd watched rise was leaving too, dipping below the tree line behind them. Ribbons of pink and yellow light wrapped around from there to the horizon over the water; another day.

 

The neighbor's back door creaked open and out trotted the girl. Her purple party dress swung about her knees. He lifted his hand in a wave at her parents, who watched from their kitchen window. The father waved back; the mother smiled while she continued to wipe dry a plate in her hands.

 

"I made them save this one," the girl called when she reached the steps of his porch. She waited there.

 

Hips stuck and knees creaked when he stood. He paused to let his joints settle into place, then walked. She'd brought him a piece of cake. It was two layers of chocolate with pink frosting. The scents of cocoa and sugar filled his nostrils. His mouth watered.

 

"Well, you're a sweet girl, I must say." There was a catch in his voice to go with the moisture in his eyes.

 

"Do you like chocolate?"

 

"It's my favorite."

 

"Mine, too."

 

He accepted the plate.

 

"Momma says I have to get back. I have to help clean up."

 

"You best go and do that." The old man nodded. "Thank you for the birthday cake. I'm sure it's delicious."

 

"You'll eat it?"

 

"Of course, I will."

 

"Can I watch the sun come up with you again?"

 

"If you're awake, you're welcome to join me."

 

She nodded, her features drawn together in thought. He waited while she formed her question. "And if I'm not awake tomorrow, can we watch the sun come up another day?"

 

"Yes," he smiled, "another day."

 

Her concern was gone. She skipped back to her house, already talking to her parents before she opened the door.

 

The old man walked to the pier. He leaned against the soft wood of the railing, listened to the song of low tide kissing the sand, ate his chocolate cake, and hoped for another day.

Normal - a Flash Fiction Piece

"I won't sleep in our bed."

"What was that, ma'am?"

I glance at the cab driver. "Nothing."

"It's alright, ma'am. I talk to myself plenty."

Do what's normal. It's what my aunt advised for after the funeral. After. Everything will be marked as before and after now.

Sliding the clasp of my necklace back behind my tired curls, I whisper at the empty seat beside me, "We'll talk about this at home."

Do what's normal.

Pay the driver.

Nod at the doorman.

Press the elevator button.

It dings its arrival. Is it always that loud? Two others board the elevator with me. Strange since the lobby echoes like a canyon yet I didn't hear them approach.

I grow impatient once the doors close. "I won't sleep in our bed, Ian. I can't."

My fellow passengers turn, chins over shoulders, then lower their eyes to the floor.

The doors open and I exit before speaking again. "The guest bed is comfortable. Don't worry about me." I stop, key in my fist. "Can you worry where you are?"

The breakdown starts in my knees. It will spread to my back and my arms, then my whole body will collapse to the floor. I picture myself curled on the green straw welcome mat in front of the Lancasters' door. "No." Digging the key into my palm, I walk.

"Fine. I'll sleep in the damn bed. Are you happy?"

The question does me in. I shove our door - my door - open and fall down in privacy. When the shaking and the tears pass, I roll to my back; knees up, feet planted. There's a tiny run in my tights that I pull at with my fingernail until it tears over my thigh. I stand and remove my black heels, ruined black tights, and black dress. When I drop the tights in the trash, I linger two seconds before adding the shoes and the dress.

Do what's normal.

"That's why I have to talk to you." Normal is talking to Ian about the day, the news, the basketball game he's watching that I don't care about and the book I'm reading that he doesn't care about.

In our bedroom - my bedroom - I pick up our wedding photo from the desk. "This won't do."

From the bookshelves, I dump a box of photographs on the carpet. With the pictures spread in a half moon, I survey them without seeing details. I can't endure the details. "Where is it?" I shout a second before my eyes land on it. "Oh, Ian."

My favorite one. I trace my fingertip over his cheek, his mouth. I ache for a kiss. I haven't ached like this since our first years together when we still made love more nights than not.

"We'll talk more tomorrow."

My black bra and panties go in the trash too. The photo goes on his pillow beside me. I fall asleep flat on my back, hands resting one over the other on my stomach, like him.

In the Rain

I was rushing across the puddled street, cussing under my breath at my ruined shoes. She was strolling at a pace that suggested a walk in the June sunshine rather than a downpour. With my head tucked down as if there was any way to shield my face from the deluge, I didn't see her until her bare toes came into view and my shoulder struck hers. I lifted my eyes and mumbled an apology with no intention of pausing. I did stop though, so abruptly that I nearly slipped on the wet pavement. She stopped too. She stopped and she smiled.

White sundress, soaked and clinging to her tan skin; brown hair disheveled and stuck to her cheeks and neck; she was a mess. She was beautiful. For a moment I couldn't speak.

"You're in a hurry." Her smile held steady as she raised an eyebrow at me.

"Well," I glanced at the black clouds emptying above us.

"Well?"

I stated the obvious, "It's raining pretty hard."

She laughed aloud, tossing her head back and laying a hand on her stomach. The sound warmed me. "It is," she agreed, "and you're as soaked as you can be so what's the point in hurrying?"

I had no answer to this. My eyes fell on the peach, open toed heels she held in one hand. "You aren't exactly dressed for this weather. Where are you coming from?" The question felt rude in this city of strangers who fill the sidewalks and trains together without so much as an effort at eye contact. My curiosity overwhelmed me.

"Maybe it's about where I'm going to," she answered with a wink and another mesmerizing laugh.

For a split second I wondered if she was sober but there was a clarity in her eyes that dismissed the thought.

"I just finished a job interview," I volunteered.

"Did it go well?"

"Terrible."

She shrugged. Raindrops bounced off her bare shoulders. I had to stop myself from begging for information - any bit she was willing to offer would do. I'd never had much courage with women. There was too much mystery about them, and this one had more than her fair share. Thus there was no explanation for my continued questions.

"Is it really about where you're going to? Do you need to be somewhere."

"I already am somewhere."

"Will you stop with me for a coffee?"

She cocked her head. "I could. We could have a coffee, maybe a meal. Then a drink at a pub with a band. We could dance."

"Yes," I whispered, wanting all of it.

"Or you could dance with me right now."

"Excuse me?"

"The time we'd spend doing those things, it'd only leave us with a good story. Memorable, but nothing more. I don't know about you but for me the highlight of that story would be the dance before we parted. I've learned to only care about the highlights. Couldn't we just have that dance?"

I reached my hand out, watching it with the sensation of seeing another and not myself. Her slender fingers tucked into mine.

"You should take off your shoes."

I obeyed. The sidewalk was warm under the soles of my feet. I rolled up the cuffs of my pants then pulled my already loosened tie off of my neck and tossed it down with my socks and shoes. I untucked my sopping shirt. All this I did with one hand so I would not have to let go of her fingers with the other.

She took a step closer and her scent reached me with my next breath. Coconut and vanilla were my best guess. Her arm slid around my waist and I rested my hand on the small of her back. We danced as if accompanied by our own private string quartet. When I surprised us both by spinning her out from me then bringing her back, I held in my laughter so I could hear only hers once more.

"That was my highlight," I declared as her laugh quieted.

She kissed my cheek and we parted. I didn't pick up my shoes until I saw her turn the corner and disappear. Then I finished my walk home, my pace slow, my feet bare, and my face lifted, welcoming the rain.

Blue

Writing Prompt: She had a cocktail in her hand and confetti in her hair.
Writing Time: 30 minutes

 



Over the bobbing heads of the dance floor crowd, I stare at the woman in the blue dress. She has a cocktail in her hand and confetti in her hair. Her lips are parted in laughter, the sound lost in the noise of the music. My fingers curl into fists against my stomach, mimicking the tightness of the air in my lungs.

Jealousy. It is nested in my chest.

It is not that I wish her to be otherwise. The night is better for the glow in her eyes. I do not wish it gone. I only wish to know it; to know the release of that laughter and the pleasure of my limbs swaying to the song.

"What are you thinking about?" my husband asks, his face close to my ear so I can hear him.

"Do you see her?" I point my chin in the direction of the woman. "In the blue dress."

He cranes his neck to see. The silver hairs at his temple catch the light of the dimmed sconces behind our table on the perimeter of the dance floor. For a moment I'm transfixed by his profile, then he turns and catches my gaze. He is confused.

"Was I ever like her?" The question is spoken before I can filter it. I expect more confusion. Instead his face is transformed by a broad smile.

He leans in close again. "Even better."

I rest my forehead against his cheek. His stubble is soft; a comforting texture on my skin.

"You still are," I hear him add at the pause between songs.

When I close my eyes, a memory plays like a film projection. My roommate and I walking past the fountain at the center of the university campus. A small congregation of other students, strangers, with a radio blasting and an impromptu dance party coming to life. One of the guys pulling me into the group. Dancing with them until the song ends; laughing through every second.

My husband speaks now and I am startled to realize he is reliving the same memory.

"I'll never forget watching you dance the night before we met. Sitting on the edge of that fountain, seeing you approach. You started singing along to the music. I hoped you'd stop and you did. I hoped you'd dance and you did. I hoped you'd keep laughing and you did."

I finish the familiar commentary. "You hoped I'd sit down to rest on the edge of the fountain and I didn't." I require a deep breath to keep the tears behind the border of my eyelashes.

"You were transcendent."

A sigh falls from my lips. "That girl is a stranger now."

"Not to me." He lifts my chin with his fingertips. "I still see her every day."

Baby blues. Such a trite, pretty name for the darkness I dwell in presently.

"You're still her. You are her and more."

I tuck his words into the deepest corners of my mind, where they are needed. Then I watch the confetti scatter from the hair of the woman in the blue dress.

The Rhythm of His Heart

Writing Prompt: I fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.
Writing Time: 15 minutes

She laid her head on his chest, letting her nerves be soothed by his heartbeat. She felt her own heart steady itself. They'd been fighting all week. They'd been fighting for months, in truth. With each burst of regrettable words and cold glares, her heart raced. It pounded against her rib cage in a combination of threat and reassurance: a threat that it could become more than she could handle - more than they could come back from; a reassurance that she had not reached, and could not imagine reaching, a point of no longer caring if they could recover.

Every couple went through times like this. That's what she believed. Turmoil was found in every coupling. Sometimes she was tempted to think their particular brand of turmoil could be worse than others but mostly she was confident it was not. It was what their bond, forged in passion and affection and joy, prepared them for.

Here with her ear over his heart, she hoped he still believed likewise. Despite her share in the mistakes and the pain they caused him, she hoped he still believed.

As his breathing slowed into sleep, she wracked her brain for how she could convince him that she was still glad she chose him. He needed to know she was still choosing him. That was the way she'd fallen short so often in these months. Her grandmother's words at her bridal shower all those years ago came back to her.

"Choose each other every day. Above everybody else, choose each other. Even when you're busy or you can't physically be near each other, make sure your hearts are still choosing each other. There are so many things and so many people to choose from. You'll be tempted to let it slide because you already have each other, but you'll only have each other for as long as you keep choosing each other."

In her naive, bridal bliss, the advice seemed quaint. Here, multiple kids, jobs, houses, and sufferings later, she understood.

"I choose you," she whispered into his chest and fell asleep to the rhythm of his heart.

Wine and Ice Cream

Writing Prompt: Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream

Writing Time: 30 minutes

I’m wearing my favorite dress. A sleeveless, kelly green sundress with a V neckline. It’s been one of those weeks: long hours, overbooked obligations, a headache that never fully goes away. I know I’ll survive and be no worse for wear (assuming a good night's sleep or two). Still, it’s Thursday now and I feel I haven’t taken a proper breath since Sunday. It is undoubtedly a green dress, comfortable flats, braided hair, glass of wine with no one around kind of night. I need to slow down. I need to think a few rambling thoughts. 

I walk five blocks to the best wine bar in town. It's the best not because of its wine selection - which is only a bit above average - but its atmosphere. I order a bruschetta appetizer and a glass of chardonnay then seat myself in a wicker chair on the patio. It’s dusk and the automatic lamps around the seating area come on one at a time, a pause between each as if they are politely taking turns. Through the yellow glow, I watch a classical guitarist play. His eyes are closed as his upper body sways with the rhythm of his fingers on the strings. The background vocal is the low tide waves of the lake licking the beach across the boardwalk. There are only three other patrons dispersed around the patio.

The ice cream shop next door is crowded though, as it should be on an idyllic summer night like this. I keep one ear tuned to the guitarist and one ear to the giddy hum of the families indulging in homemade, hand dipped ice cream. The combination is unexpectedly rejuvenating.

I hear the scrape of a chair on the sidewalk somewhere behind me. I don’t think much of it until I sense someone close to me. The loss of the solitude of my spot causes me to stiffen a little in my chair. I sip my wine, ignoring whomever is outside the short fence surrounding the patio.

“I’ll pass you an ice cream cone if you’ll sneak me a glass of pinot noir.”

The nearness of the voice is startling. I continue to ignore.

"What could be better than wine and ice cream?"

I move finally, ready to dismiss this stranger, but as I turn my head and lean my shoulder toward the fence, he leans forward. In his hand is a chocolate peanut butter, double scoop waffle cone. It meets my bare shoulder and I feel the top scoop instantaneously melt into liquid on my skin. The contact with my shoulder pushes the cone down into the man’s fist. It cracks, ice cream dripping over his fingers. His expression is so stunned, so regretful, I laugh aloud despite myself.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry.” He pulls a stack of tiny napkins out of the pocket of his jeans and tries to mop up the chocolate mess on my arm. Meanwhile his other hand is covered in ice cream that runs off the curve of his wrist to fall to a small puddle on the sidewalk. “I did not think this through. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

I’m still quietly laughing, dumbfounded, trying not to panic over the ice cream that has reached my favorite dress. I hold my arm straight out, unsure of the best move to make. The man dashes into the ice cream shop for more napkins. He has long legs and a lean build. He’s back by my side in no time. When our eyes meet, his face turns red.

“What was that about?" I ask.

“Honestly?” He raises an eyebrow, scratches at his temple. “I had this whole scenario play out in my head. That’s not how it was supposed to go.”

I can’t help wanting to know more but I need to clean up. Excusing myself, I do what I can in the wine bar’s small restroom. My shoulder is still a tad sticky and I have counted five spots on my dress I’ll need to take care of at home. I expect to be alone again when I return to the patio and my glass of wine, but the man is still there. He has sat down in the chair he’d dragged over, only the diminutive fence and a couple feet of summer air between us.

He smiles tentatively when I sit down. “I’m Eli.”

“I’m Harper.”

We shake hands over the fence. The whole encounter is surreal and I am more and more surprised at my ease with each passing second.

I swallow the last of my chardonnay. There are two pieces of bruschetta toast left. I pass one to Eli and keep the other. “Are you going to tell me how it was supposed to go?”

He clears his throat, amusement lightening his expression. The lamps gleam in his brown eyes. “I was supposed to ask you to bring me a glass of wine. I was supposed to find out your favorite ice cream flavor and bring a dish of it for you. We were supposed to laugh over our clandestine exchange. We’d talk. We’d take a walk. I’d get your number and give you mine. Tomorrow we’d go out.”

I respond with a laugh straight from my belly. Eli has lost his embarrassment and grins at me. “Instead you smacked my shoulder with your ice cream and stained my favorite dress.”

“It’s still a great dress.”

“Are you a hopeless romantic or just a flirt?”

“I prefer romantic optimist.”

“Well, you’re something. I’ll give you that.”

He frowns when I stand up, my bill in my hand to pay at the bar inside, then he stands up as well.

“Eli, my favorite ice cream is cookies and cream. Maybe I’ll have to treat myself to some tomorrow evening.”

“You should definitely do that, Harper. Tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow night.”

I'll Wait

Writing Prompt: Red Shirt
Writing Time: 30 minutes

There was a spot of something on her shirt. A speck of food, maybe. It was too small to tell unless he drew closer. Her shirt was red and the spot was gray. Justin looked away. He wasn't about to be accused of staring at Leah's chest because of a tiny spot of who knew what. She would tease him for weeks. He tried to pay attention. She was speaking with as much grim seriousness as her lovely voice allowed.

Leah's voice really was lovely. Justin could not think of a better word. Like she was on the verge of singing every time she spoke. It was distracting, just like that spot on her red blouse.

He moved his eyes to the tumbler of whiskey in front of him. She still filled his peripheral view and the whiskey was only background color to her movements. Lifting her wine glass to her dry lips. Pushing her hair off her cheek. She set her drink down too hard. The wine sloshed up the curve of the glass, a single drop escaping over the top to slide down toward the stem.

"Don't you have any thoughts at all, Justin?"

So many.

He didn't admit that. "When have you ever taken my advice?" He said it with a smile that reached neither his eyes nor his tone.

"I'm sure it happened once."

She smiled now. That smile would be the end of him someday. Once it lit her face, he felt desperate to do anything, say anything, to stop it from disappearing.

"You can't leave."

Her mouth abandoned the smile to form a small O of surprise. Justin regretted it instantly. She'd want an explanation.

"It's his dream job. I can't ask him to stay." Leah took another sip of wine.

"I didn't say you should ask him to stay." What was he doing? If the tumbler was empty he might have something to blame. His hand shook when he lifted his still full drink so he set it back down and pressed his fist into the polished wood of the bar.

"Justin."

Her almost-singing voice was sad. Or scared. Justin wasn't sure which but he could not meet her eyes after she said his name that way. It sounded like a rejection wrapped up in a mere six letters, two syllables.

"Are you hungry? Let's order some food."

"Justin."

He shook his head. "I'm hungry."

"Me too," she whispered as she placed her finger tips under his chin to move his face in her direction. They both jumped when her phone rang. She dropped her hand.

"Damn it." He reached his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, more roughly than he intended. She slipped off her barstool and stood, leaning her hip against his knee. Every coherent thought left his head as their lips met. Then one single reality reached him: she was kissing him back. Her hand was on the back of his head. Her smooth skin was warm against his end of day stubble. Justin started to stand as well when she broke the kiss.

Leah stayed in the curve of his arm, her eyes still closed. He held his breath. She laid her palms on his chest and he knew she could feel his heart pounding through his shirt.

"How long have you wanted to do that?"

He laughed quietly, placing a light kiss on her forehead. When she finally opened her eyes, he replied, "May 17, 2002."

Confusion wrinkled her forehead for a moment then she smiled too. "The end of year party in your dorm?"

"The day we met."

"15 years, practically."

Her phone rang again and she stepped toward it. He groaned a little for the loss of her nearness.

"I have to take this." Leah didn't meet his eyes when she said it. She was chewing her lip the way he knew so well; the way she did when there was a decision to be made.

"I'll wait."

Hell of a Way to Die

Writing Prompt: It was a hell of a way to die.
Writing Time: 30 minutes (Longer than usual! We'll see where this takes us.)

Canoe. River. Rocks. Cougars.

It was a hell of a way to die. At least it would make an interesting story. I curled myself deeper into the crevice of the cliff and imagined the teenagers that would hike out here a year from now.

"This is where that girl got mauled by a pair of cougars."

"Yeah, they found her canoe half a mile down the river, all torn up."

They'd stand on the ledge eight feet above where I crouched now, enjoying the horror of it all.

I normally turn around before reaching this section of the river. Today, I wanted to keep going. It's those damn leaves and the way Autumn makes me feel. Oranges, reds, yellows, and those stalwart evergreens living up to their name; I simply had to paddle farther.

A regrettable whim.

When I hit the rocks, the wood of the canoe split beside my left foot. Split is a gentler word than what really happened. Those rocks were not the rounded boulders smoothed by the current that I have encountered before. They were dagger sharp offshoots of the cliff, typically not immersed but the river is high this week.

The water invading the canoe took away any control I still had, tossing the boat into the next set of rocks then flipping me out of my seat. My forearm was sliced by an edge of one rock but my real concern was the undercurrent. A river this high, I knew that undercurrent was stronger than any resistance I'd be able to muster after more than a few minutes of struggle. I wrapped myself around one of those blades of stone like my dearest possession rather than the source of my demise.

From there it was a slippery, bruising scramble toward the cliff. I found enough footholds to reach this crevice, a cave of sorts, and rested. The sun can't reach me here; the brisk October chill, so lovely as I paddled, had me shaking as I watched the rivulets of water running from my boots and clothing over the side of the cliff. My arm was throbbing but not bleeding much.

When I thought I could manage it, I set my mind on making it to the top of the cliff. It was mid morning; at least eight hours til sunset so light wasn't a worry. Surely I'd find my way to a road or a house before then. All I had to do was make it up there and start moving. Move to keep warm. Move to find my way out.

I stuck my head out from under the ledge. Eight feet or so; doable. The stone face was dry up here, which was helpful. I felt around for a place to grip, pulled my body out of the cave, and gritted my teeth as I used my injured arm to continue the movement. One step at a time, carefully, determinedly, I ascended to the top. Such relief when one hand then the other landed on dry grass and cold dirt! Every muscle in my upper body strained to lift. When my face was met with open air instead of the gray striations of stone, I exhaled in a giddy shout.

That's when I saw the cougars.

They both were crouched, chests to the ground, wide jaws suspended above the grass. One was still, glaring, eyes locked on mine. The other was moving toward me by inches at a time. My shout became a split second scream then silent. I could hear them breathing that throaty purr of big cats. I climbed back down to my cave.

Homesick

Writing Prompt:
"I want to go home."
"And I want to go to the moon. It ain't happening, sweetheart. Time to accept that."

Writing Time: 15 minutes

"What are you moping about now?" I rolled my eyes at Ginny. No small part of me wanted to slap that pout off her pink lips with my wash rag.

Ginny sank down in the next booth, the one she was supposed to be bussing, as if my question gave her permission to do so.

"I want to go home." She heaved a loud sigh and plopped her chin in her hand. Her sparkly purple nail polish was chipping badly.

"And I want to go to the moon. It ain't happening, sweetheart. Time to accept that."

I finished wiping down the booths surrounding her, hoping she'd get the hint that she was holding me up. She didn't.

"Do you really want to go to the moon?"

"Ha!" I couldn't help but laugh. "No, girl, it's just an expression. I've never wanted to go to the moon."

"Where do you want to go?" Ginny stared at me intently, her bright green eyes fixed on my flushed face.

I could have rattled off a dozen places without even a moment's consideration. Instead  I tightened my ponytail and shook my head. "No use thinking about that, kiddo."

She scowled at me. She hated when I called her that. Ginny was 19 and I was 41. I was old enough to be her mother. In fact, she was the same age as my daughter would have been. Something about this girl, homesick whenever she was tired at the end of a shift but earnestly, optimistically independent the rest of the time, something about her wouldn't let me forget that fact.

Pictures and Words Day 26: Follow Tarrow Creek

Photo/Writing Prompt: Starts With T

"Don't worry, you'll find it without trouble. Just follow Tarrow Creek."

I paid for my water and protein bar and thanked the convenience store clerk. He handed me my change then went back to restocking the shelf of motor oil.

Stepping outside, I had to shade my eyes against the afternoon sun. The heat of the July day drifted over my skin like the rush of air from opening an oven. I smoothed my honey brown hair into a high ponytail, Then I tightened the straps of my backpack and headed in the direction to which the clerk had pointed. The trail head was tucked into a grove of maples off Third Street. If my information was accurate, it would lead me to Tarrow Creek and the creek would lead me to Crescent Beach.

Crescent Beach was a pristine half mile stretch of sand carved out by time, tides, and wind. Few people new of it; even fewer had visited it. It was accessible by boat and by way of the dense forest through which Tarrow Creek ran. I couldn't remember how I first heard of Crescent Beach but when I did, it went straight onto my Places to See list.

When the hiking trail, clear cut and packed down, reached Tarrow Creek, it crossed the narrow channel of water via a haphazard bridge made of two by fours. From there it continued south but I needed to head east. I stood at the edge of the creek, one stride's departure from the trail. I squinted my eyes in the shadows cast by the high sun filtering through the branches. No path was discernible but I refused to be deterred.

Based on my research I knew I had seven miles to go and from what I could see now, those miles would be slow going. I'd worn shorts due to the heat but wished now for pants to guard my shins from the low lying underbrush of the forest. Within the first two miles my legs looked like I'd rubbed them with a thorn bush. A few of the scrapes showed blood but it dried quickly enough to be ignored. My arms below the edges of my t-shirt sleeves weren't in much better shape.

I swept spiders off my shirt and ticks off my ankles. I did my best to give a wide berth to a nest of garter snakes. Harmless as they were, I still had no inclination to draw nearer. I paused over a pair of does staring at me before they fled. Countless birds filled the air with their songs and movements, unseen from their hiding places in the tall trees. I tried to sear into my memory the image of two sandhill cranes walking across one of the few clearings I came upon. They lifted their spindly legs in high steps through the tall, stiff grass. One let out a call and they both took flight, their wings loud in the amphitheater of the surrounding woods.

Always I kept Tarrow Creek to my right. Sometimes my steps went along its bank, sometimes I wandered from it but not enough to lose track of its bubbly brown water. I listened to it gurgling through piles of stones and rushing around small bends in its course. I took one break, sitting upon a fallen tree on the bank. The water swirled around each branch breaking the surface of the creek.

Then finally, finally, I saw the end of the creek. I saw it reach through the last of the trees to the beach and pour down into the lake. Here the creek widened. The sun painted perfect reflections of the trees and clouds onto the flat surface. I pulled off my shoes and socks and tucked them under one arm. When I waded into the creek, the cold water startled my overheated nerves. Then I ran. I ran the yards to the beach, my legs splashing from the creek right into the lake. When I saw, as I fully expected, there was not another soul in sight, I tossed my shoes and bag up onto higher ground then added my shirt and shorts to the pile. I dove down until every inch of me was submerged then popped back up, laughing.

Pictures & Words Day 23: From Under the Roses

Photo/Writing Prompt: Below

Nina began lying down between the rose bushes on a sunny day in her eleventh summer of life. Mother planted them at precise, equal distances from each other, spaced for their greatest benefit. She explained the science to Nina once but Nina admittedly did not listen.

It was difficult to explain why she'd done it the first time. She had a fight with her older sister who, at fourteen, thought she knew everything and Nina knew nothing. "You're still a child," was the accusation thrown over her sister's shoulder as she'd sauntered out of the room. Nina had wondered what was wrong with still being a child then tried to return to her reading. Her eyes wandered distractedly from the page to the window behind the sofa, and to the flower beds outside the window. Setting the book aside and turning herself around, she rose to her knees. Nina propped her chin on the back of the sofa. Her long, blond hair fell in curtains against each of her cheeks.

The rose bushes were excessive in their blooms this summer. They seemed to be showing off, lording it over the lesser flowers in the beds across the aisle of plush green grass. Nina's gaze lowered to the soil covering the roots of those bushes. Her mind's eye saw how perfectly she might fit in that space between and without another thought she dashed out of the room, down the hall, and out onto the back patio. Outside on the sun warmed bricks, she kicked off the black shoes she still wore since lunch with her grandparents. This called for bare feet.

She was right. She fit perfectly on the patch between the pink roses and the yellow ones. Nina pressed her back against the dirt, trying to feel the life beneath her, the hidden roots responsible for the vibrant petals gathered into sculpted blooms above her face. Suddenly she thought she did feel them. A throb, a pulse pushed against her in return and Nina let a gasp escape before she realized it was the vibrations of Daddy's car pulling into the driveway.

It didn't matter though. She knew it was all there. She remembered Mother digging up two bushes once. Nina had sat on the grass and watched. Mother explained about the roots, about how much they mattered. Nina listened that time, wondering all the while over their ugliness. Such ugliness to produce such beauty. It was entirely incongruous in Nina's mind. She'd learned that word four days ago and this was her first opportunity to use it.

Nina laid like that for an hour. She felt the sun start to burn her bare feet. She heard her mother and father's banal chatter over what was for dinner, what tomorrow's weather might be, and whether grandma seemed more or less confused today. She felt Freckles, their gray, long haired cat, paw at her legs where they extended out on the soft grass. Nina thought a hundred thoughts, remembered a dozen memories, and not a single other soul knew of it. It was the finest hour of her life.

Pictures & Words Day 15: Don't Forget to Play

Photo/Writing Prompt: Play
(2 pictures because they are one moment together)

"Don't forget to play." Of all the things for my grandfather to say on his death bed, this was not what I expected.

I drove down from Detroit to see him one last time. The nurses said he would likely go in the next twenty-four hours. When I entered his room at the nursing home, pulled a chair up beside his bed, and waited for him to wake, I wondered what I could possibly say. Mom said he knew the end was around the corner. His clear mind was housed in a body exhausted to its limit. Grandpa was always full of advice and information. He could tell you something about everything while never claiming to know it all. My own mind was still blank when Grandpa's eyes opened. They were watery and dim. Short, sparse gray hairs stood askew upon his head. Grandpa was a big man, tall, broad, and thick. Even in his diminished state, he filled the standard issue bed to its edges. He lifted a hand, gesturing for me to lean closer. I did and he planted a kiss with his dry lips on my cheek. That's when I knew I wasn't going to come up with anything worth saying. I didn't have to though. Grandpa started right in.

"Patrick, I'm glad you're here."

I nodded. A lump was forming in my throat and I didn't trust myself to speak.

"I was thinking about you and that little boy of yours. And the little boy you used to be."

He reached for the plastic cup on his bedside table. I held it while he sipped water, the gurgle of air bubbles in the straw the only sound in the room.

"You were such a serious little one. Wanting to be older, wanting to be bigger, wanting to do important things."

I chuckled quietly. "I was, wasn't I?"

Grandpa had no smile though. He went on. "I know you're frustrated at that job. Feels like less than what you should be doing."

I ran a hand over my thinning hair. We'd had plenty of conversations on the topic.

"You are doing important things." He narrowed his eyes when I began to shake my head. "That boy, he's your important thing."

He needed another drink. I could see the strain that it was for his neck to hold his head up from the pillow for those few seconds.

"When your Laurie died, I knew your son would be okay. I wasn't so sure you would be okay, but I knew he would be. He's your important thing and you're doing it right. Can I give you just one bit of advice though?"

"Of course."

He hand engulfed mine. "Don't forget to play."

I'm sure the puzzlement was written on my face. "What do you mean, Grandpa?"

"Just that!" His deep voice rose urgently. "Don't forget to play! You have so much on your shoulders, so much worry. I see it in you from every angle, Patrick. Your son needs to see you play. He needs to see you laugh and smile and enjoy yourself. When he's older, he'll understand without a doubt how hard you worked to provide for him. He'll realize all the sacrifices you made. But don't let him wonder if you enjoyed your years with him. Don't let him question that."

I smiled then, aware that of all the advice he could give me in this moment, this was exactly what I needed to hear.

Grandpa's face relaxed and his eyes lost their focus on me. "You remember how we used to play, Patrick?"

"I do. I remember you teaching us baseball in the backyard. I remember sitting on your shoulders for half a mile to reach the river and filling my jar up with tadpoles. You used to carry me around upside down and I'd tell you what I saw that was different than when I was right side up."

Tears were trickling onto his leathery cheeks but he was smiling so I continued.

"I remember you pretending to be a bear and chasing us around the field behind your house. There was one night we had a board game marathon and you tried to play Twister with us. We all laughed so hard that Grandma almost peed in her pants. I remember the whole family going camping out at Carter Lake. It was the only time all year we could count on Dad taking a couple days off from work. You and Dad taught us boys how to handle a canoe but our first time out alone we tipped it. I remember surfacing next to Greg and the two of you were up on the shore laughing at us."

Grandpa nodded. I squeezed his hand and added, "It made me want to tip it a second time so I could hear you laugh that hard again."

His eyes refocused on me, brighter than before. "So, you'll remember to play?"

"I will."

Grandpa died several hours later. My brother Greg and I were there beside him. My mother, too, but she had dozed in her chair. His passing was so quiet, so calm, that it was over before we realized she was sleeping through it.

After the funeral, the whole family went to Grandpa's favorite restaurant. We had reserved most of the tables in there and still had trouble finding seats for all of us. Everyone swapped stories and memories, laughing and crying together. As we walked out to our cars later, my little boy squeezed in between my brother and me. Without a word we both grabbed his hands and swung him as high as we could manage. Giggles poured out of him and he shouted, "Again, Daddy, again!" I could hear my grandfather's laugh in my ears as we lifted him again.

Pictures & Words Day 13: 3001 Marley Road

Photo/Writing Prompt: Black & White
*Disclaimer: The title is not the actual location of this picture. It's a fictitious address for the purpose of the story.

The solitary lamp post at the end of the dirt drive was encompassed by wildflowers. They stood tall and bristly with names unknown to Tate. Tate stopped at the edge of the road, a narrow two lane stretch of countryside cracked pavement. He fixed his green eyes on the dirt path in front of him. Plenty wide enough for a car yet not a trace of tracks upon it. No divots typical of gravel driveways from the repeated passing of the same vehicle day after day. Nor were there any fresh disturbances of the dust and pebbles to signify recent activity. He stepped sideways to the crooked mailbox. The rusted door creaked as it was opened just enough to see inside. Empty. He checked the blue numbers painted on its side again.

3001.

Yes, that was the address he was given and this was the only Marley Road in the county, or any of the neighboring counties. He'd checked. Tate rubbed the scruff that grew over his cheeks and chin in the last two days. He had packed his bag in a hurry and his razor was forgotten.

A breeze wafted through the trees, rustling the leaves like the sound of a dozen whispering children. The wildflowers' heady scents rose to his nostrils. The early sunshine was warm already and Tate wiped away the bead of sweat trickling down the back of his neck.

His eyes kept returning to the lamp post. It was lit. Someone is here, it announced. A solemn, proud butler at the entrance to his master's home. Can I help you, sir?

Yes, someone is here and by God, I certainly hope you can help me. Tate nearly answered aloud before laughing uneasily at himself.

Elections; earthquakes and hurricanes; Afghanistan and Iraq. Tate had covered them all and much more. He'd followed each story wherever it led, to whomever it led, until his pen was satisfied. None had tortured his nerves like this one. 27 years. That's how long he'd followed this story. 27 years of questions, theories, interviews, leads - some adding a piece to the puzzle, some detouring him from the right path.

27 years to bring him here. 3001 Marley Road, Black Mills, Wisconsin. A lamp post and a dirt drive and a house beyond the trees in which, if he finally had it right, Tate would find the brown haired girl he watched get kidnapped when he was 7 years old.

Pictures & Words Day 10: Ever in Motion

Photo/Writing Prompt: Motion

There were numerous reasons to love the lake. Everyone had a favorite. For Alex, it was the movement. The lake was ever in motion. Even when it appeared so, it was not still. There would always be a current beneath the surface. Tides would roll in and back out. The lake wasn't capable of stillness.Therein was the romance, in Alex's opinion.

That perpetual movement meant you could not be still if you were to be a part of it. Swimming, floating, boating. Either move yourself or let the lake move you. True stillness was not an option.

Alex's favorite hours to kayak were at dawn when the surface was as close to motionless as it could manage. Paddling until she was surrounded by water a quarter mile in any direction, then laying that paddle across her knees, Alex let the lake have the helm. Often she could see straight down to the ribbed sand 12 feet below. Picking an object still discernible on shore, usually a tree, Alex would watch it to gauge where and how far the lake took her when she offered no resistance. 

Nothing soothed, excited, or satisfied like the endless motion of the lake.

Pictures and Words Day 2: Cherry on Top

Photo/Writing Prompt: Reflection

Photo taken at Beernsten's Candy & Ice Cream Shop, Manitowoc, WI

The little guy was in the booth kitty corner from mine. There was a mirror on the wall beside each table and I caught him watching me in the reflection. Smile on his lips and cherry ice cream on his chin; I guessed he was about three. Every time I snuck a glance, there he was with his shining eyes on me.

Lowell made me promise when he left for Afghanistan that I would treat myself to something every single day. Just until he returned, I had to treat myself as well as he treated me. That's how he put it, with that self assured smirk of his that made me want to kiss him. I was terrible at taking care of myself, of checking in with my own consciousness and seeing to its needs. Lowell was always calling me out on it. He was the one who made sure I came home at ten on the fifth night after four nights of working on a case until two a.m. He'd pack my lunches then text to remind me to eat. If I made an absentminded remark on needing a haircut, the next week I had a voicemail from my salon with an appointment reminder for a cut and a manicure.

Those are only a few examples, of course. So many little things. So many little things I did my best not to take for granted. So many little things I miss until it aches now.

While he's been away, I have tried to keep my promise. I kept a calendar and wrote on each and every square.

September 3: Finally replaced my running shoes that I have complained about for months. The new ones are pink.

November 22: Went to our favorite coffeshop by myself for the first time since you left.

December 11: Came home early from work with a migraine. When it let up, I didn't go back to the office. Stayed on the couch in my pajamas and finished the novel I started when you were still here.

February 14: Found the exact same truffles you bought for me last year. Ate one for you and one for me.

April 30: Attempted two recipes from Pinterest from the hundreds I have saved but never tried. Results were tasty.

May 6: Painted my nails in the color I wore on our wedding day.

June 25: Caught up on casework at home instead of at the office since it's Saturday. I watched hours and hours of my favorite TV shows while I finished it all.

And today. July 2: Left work at 6:30 and stopped at Beernsten's for ice cream. Again and again, I smile back at the little boy in the mirror. His cheeriness is contagious. This is the last day, the cherry on top of all the good moments I've clung to in the last year. I already know what I'll write on the calendar tomorrow.

July 3: Picked up Lowell at the airport.

Pictures & Words Day 1: Listen to the Lake

Photo/Writing Prompt: Through My Window

Photo taken from my car at North Point Park, Sheboygan, WI

I thought about getting out of the car. Crossing the rocks, putting my toes in the waves. I could hear the handful of children braving the cold water down at the beach. Squeals and shouts, words indiscernible as the breeze took them up and away. I considered walking down there, sitting in the sand. Still, I stayed in my car. Through my open window, the blue view filled my eyes until I closed them against the midday sun. Keeping them closed, I waited. The prism of outlines faded from the backs of my eyelids. The children's voices and passing cars fell behind the hum of the wind. Everything went to the background except the water. 

It was my therapy, listening to the lake. I'd started driving here after work on the worst days. The days when I had no wish to go home to face what was there. Or what was not there. Instead I'd drive here. I would stay until the sun was dipping on the other side of the trees and my stomach growled as if food still tasted worthwhile. At first, I kept my eyes open. I tried to notice everything, anything that could hold my focus. Every movement, every face, every smell and sound. Each one gave me a few seconds outside of my head. After some weeks I learned to listen to the lake instead. It was the only thing that could hold me long enough to do any good. 

That was a year ago. A year. A year without him. I've listened for a year to the crescendo as the water swells before breaking and the waves course over the shore's rocks. Twelve months of hearing the lapping water on the smooth little stones closer to the beach. 

Even through winter I came. Window down, heat high in the car. It was less often by then though. I didn't miss him any less but I was less startled by the absence. The emptiness of his favorite chair and his side of the bed didn't choke me when I walked into the room. Instead of the lake after work, I'd leave early some mornings to sit in the grass and lean my back against his gravestone. That helped, too, certainly, but nothing could soothe like the lake. 

Now summer has come again. Indifferent to my feelings, it would not be put off. Maybe I'll get out of the car tomorrow. There's a picnic table under a willow tree that's empty most days. Maybe I'll get out, walk that much closer to the water, sit cross legged on the wood of that table, close my eyes, and listen to the lake.