Really? A courtroom drama? [whine] But I don't wannnnaaaaa!!!![/whine]
Sigh. Okay. I'll give it a shot. I make no promises.
Prompt: THEMED WORD LIST – money, foolish, kneecap, trace, widow
Genre: Courtroom Drama
Word Count: 1000 words or less
Deadline: Thursday, April 21st at 4:30ish.
Judge and Jury
"Foolish child." The mother spit the words out, each syllable clipped with disdain. "You think you can get away with sneaking out and taking my Lexus?" Not a strand of blond hair moved from her chignon as she turned and jerked the front door open. She looked back over her Armani-clad shoulder and narrowed her icy blue eyes. "You'll wish I had broken your kneecap instead."
Julia slumped in the rocking chair, one leg thrown over the wooden arm, her sliced-and-diced jeans exposing more than they covered. She picked at the chipped black polish on her right thumbnail before putting the nail in her mouth to chew it off. Better to have ragged nails than to cry. She pushed her edgy black hair out of her eyes and got up, determined to do something--anything--to get away from here.
She didn't have enough money to catch a bus. Her mother already cut off her allowance for some other made-up infraction. Balling her hands in her red hoodie's pockets, she stomped down the hallway to her room. It was no good slamming the bedroom door. No one was around to hear her. Not anymore.
She heard the front door open again and shut with a bang. Dreading what she'd see, Julia poked her head in the hallway. The witch was back, and even more mad than when she left five minutes earlier. Even the navy blue suit and pearls were threatening. Some times more than others, Julia missed her father's gentle ways. She could use a hug right about now.
"You know, I'm not through with you, missy." Her mother stood in the darkened hallway, french-manicured hands resting on her bony hips, not a trace of grief evident in her posture. The picture of perfection. The opposite of Julia.
"Before you open your mouth, Mother, I have something to say." Julia advanced, tired of the berating, tired of the yelling, tired of being blamed for her father's death. Her mother, unsure of what was happening, took a tentative step back toward the living room.
"What makes you think I took your car?" Julia crossed her arms over her chest.
Her mother's eyes narrowed. "You think I don't keep an eye on the odometer?"
"Do you keep a log of the miles? Do you write down the number on the odometer every single time you park the car in the garage?" Julia was calm.
"You think I don't notice when the gas level is lowered?" Her mother's voice shook.
"Do you mark the level on the gauge each time you use the vehicle?" Julia softened her voice.
"The floormat was dirty!" Her mother's voice increased in volume.
"It was raining yesterday. Was it not? Did you not have to walk from the car to your office--and back? In the rain? In the outdoor parking lot?" Julia advanced again. Just because her mother was now a widow was no excuse for the way she'd been treating Julia.
"What do you think you are doing?" Her mother stumbled into the living room and rested one hand on the couch to balance herself while pointing the other hand at Julie. "This is inappropriate. I know you took the car, and you are grounded for the rest of the school year."
"Just like that?" Julia sighed.
"I'm the lawyer, judge and jury in this house." Her mother straightened and headed to the door, shoulders square, voice cold. "Just for that, young woman, I'm also canceling your cell phone contract, effective immediately."
Julia could hear the gavel echo. Convicted and sentenced without a fair trial. Just because she was at the wheel of the car when struck by the drunk driver who killed her father, she had no rights. None at all. She just had to wait one more year. 18 and she'd be free to grieve on her own.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Monday, April 18, 2011
Higher Learning
I never claimed to make the right choices in life. Or the healthy choices. But I made some interesting choices, that's for sure.
My grandmother didn't make it through high school. Neither did my mom, aunt, uncle, sister, biological father or myself. Only one aunt and my grandfather managed to obtain a high school diploma.
My mom got her GED in her early twenties. Later, she chose to go to community college, back when we lived in California, where school is--or, at least, used to be--cheap. She got her two-year degree and managed to maintain a 4.0 grade average.
As a smart kid--"You may be booksmart," I remember my mother snapping at me as she waggled her finger and chased me around the dining room table for some infraction likely involving my well-laid-out lawyer-speak to dismantle whatever argument for consequence she was proposing at the moment, "But I have common sense!"--I was dismayed at my mother's ability to manage straight-As. I was the straight-A student. She was disrupting the natural order of things. If she had both book smarts and common sense, where did that leave me? Because, as we all knew in the family, I was rather lacking when it came to common sense (along with patience, kindness and selflessness; let's just say I wasn't exactly a virtuous woman, as outlined by Solomon). I vowed I would go to a four-year university and be the first person in my family to graduate with a for-real four-year degree. And I'd do it with straight-As, to boot.
When I was 17 and in the throes of adolescent angst exacerbated by the lines fed me by my fiance--"Your family doesn't care about you, like I do..." or "They don't love you, like I do..."--I wallowed in my self-pity while drowning in the pleasures of all-consuming infatuation. I ignored school. I skipped class. I got a--gasp!---C in Chemistry. When my mother discovered my transgressions and offered the choice of dropping out and obtaining my GED, I jumped. A C might as well be an F. And I get to be a grown-up already? Let the party begin.
And so, I followed in my mother's footsteps: high school dropout, married at 17, young mother (her: 19; me: 24), early divorce (her: 20ish; me: 28), community college later in life. She did remarry and become a stay-at-home mom, something I didn't--haven't, won't--do.
Why should I let being a divorced single mom get in the way of my college degree dream? Spring semester, 2009, I started at the local community college. Two-and-a-half years later, Friday, April 15, 2011, I received word from the University of Arizona that I'd been accepted for the fall semester. And into the Honors College, no less. (You think I'd do it without a 4.0 GPA?)
Yes, I am an official Wildcat. I can root for the football team and have it mean something. I no longer have to clients who ask what school I went to, "Oh, you know--the school of hard knocks," and laugh as though I have no care in the world. No, I can say, with pride: "The University of Arizona."
I'm the first in my biological family to do so. I may be 33, a single mom who is looking at at least another four years to complete a simple Bachelor's degree and another few years after that for my MFA, but, by God, I am going to a four-year University where I will eventually obtain both my Bachelor's and my Master's degree in Creative Writing.
In addition to learning about literary analysis, rock formations, more higher algebraic functions than I'll ever want to know and how not to get into a workshop fight with a fellow (idiotic) classmate, I learned I'm not going to worry about the 4.0 GPA part. Some things are worth putting an effort into--time with my son, time with my partner, a clean cat-litter box--and other things aren't. I'm damn proud of how far I've come and how well I've done it, and now it's time for a new chapter.
Maybe I learned some common sense after all.
My grandmother didn't make it through high school. Neither did my mom, aunt, uncle, sister, biological father or myself. Only one aunt and my grandfather managed to obtain a high school diploma.
My mom got her GED in her early twenties. Later, she chose to go to community college, back when we lived in California, where school is--or, at least, used to be--cheap. She got her two-year degree and managed to maintain a 4.0 grade average.
As a smart kid--"You may be booksmart," I remember my mother snapping at me as she waggled her finger and chased me around the dining room table for some infraction likely involving my well-laid-out lawyer-speak to dismantle whatever argument for consequence she was proposing at the moment, "But I have common sense!"--I was dismayed at my mother's ability to manage straight-As. I was the straight-A student. She was disrupting the natural order of things. If she had both book smarts and common sense, where did that leave me? Because, as we all knew in the family, I was rather lacking when it came to common sense (along with patience, kindness and selflessness; let's just say I wasn't exactly a virtuous woman, as outlined by Solomon). I vowed I would go to a four-year university and be the first person in my family to graduate with a for-real four-year degree. And I'd do it with straight-As, to boot.
When I was 17 and in the throes of adolescent angst exacerbated by the lines fed me by my fiance--"Your family doesn't care about you, like I do..." or "They don't love you, like I do..."--I wallowed in my self-pity while drowning in the pleasures of all-consuming infatuation. I ignored school. I skipped class. I got a--gasp!---C in Chemistry. When my mother discovered my transgressions and offered the choice of dropping out and obtaining my GED, I jumped. A C might as well be an F. And I get to be a grown-up already? Let the party begin.
And so, I followed in my mother's footsteps: high school dropout, married at 17, young mother (her: 19; me: 24), early divorce (her: 20ish; me: 28), community college later in life. She did remarry and become a stay-at-home mom, something I didn't--haven't, won't--do.
Why should I let being a divorced single mom get in the way of my college degree dream? Spring semester, 2009, I started at the local community college. Two-and-a-half years later, Friday, April 15, 2011, I received word from the University of Arizona that I'd been accepted for the fall semester. And into the Honors College, no less. (You think I'd do it without a 4.0 GPA?)
Yes, I am an official Wildcat. I can root for the football team and have it mean something. I no longer have to clients who ask what school I went to, "Oh, you know--the school of hard knocks," and laugh as though I have no care in the world. No, I can say, with pride: "The University of Arizona."
I'm the first in my biological family to do so. I may be 33, a single mom who is looking at at least another four years to complete a simple Bachelor's degree and another few years after that for my MFA, but, by God, I am going to a four-year University where I will eventually obtain both my Bachelor's and my Master's degree in Creative Writing.
In addition to learning about literary analysis, rock formations, more higher algebraic functions than I'll ever want to know and how not to get into a workshop fight with a fellow (idiotic) classmate, I learned I'm not going to worry about the 4.0 GPA part. Some things are worth putting an effort into--time with my son, time with my partner, a clean cat-litter box--and other things aren't. I'm damn proud of how far I've come and how well I've done it, and now it's time for a new chapter.
Maybe I learned some common sense after all.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless
What if...
...California fell off the west coast?
...your kid fell off his/her bike?
...your spouse fell off the face of the earth?
...your birthday was today? (You'd be in the company of Thomas Jefferson and my Uncle Les and, well, me!)
...California fell off the west coast?
...your kid fell off his/her bike?
...your spouse fell off the face of the earth?
...your birthday was today? (You'd be in the company of Thomas Jefferson and my Uncle Les and, well, me!)
Monday, April 11, 2011
Fight Like a Girl
This week's F3 prompt: the pugilist...
Prompt: THEMED WORDLIST – Fist, Jab, Knuckle, Spirit, Fighter, Rhythm
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1500
Deadline: Thursday, April 14, 2011 about 4:30 pm.
Genre: Any
Word Count: 1500
Deadline: Thursday, April 14, 2011 about 4:30 pm.
Fight Like a Girl
His fist came at my chin, slow-motion, I could see the blonde hairs standing up on every knuckle, the blonde hair that was a pale imitation of the cheaply dyed hair on his over-oiled head. Why do Huffy's men have to be such pugilists? Really, a gun'll do you better every time.
I leaned back, way back, Matrix-style, setting my right hand on the sticky alley pavement to support my lowered body and giving thanks that I wasn't wearing a Matrix-style trenchcoat that would only get in the way. A half-undone sequin dress provides much better maneuverability, even if it did catch the streetlight and possibly bring attention to us.
Where'd my date go? He wouldn't want to have missed seeing my dress shredded. It's the most he'd've seen of me yet. Two weeks of me dodging his advances had left him frustrated. He deserved to see what he could. It's the least I could do for the guy. Lord knows I wished I could've let him convince me to do the naked dance. The man was hot.
Still hyper-aware, the slight breeze caused by the hooligan's arm passing over my barely clad body gave me goosebumps. I tucked my body inside itself, then arched up in a breakdancer-style move, courtesy of Paulie, my brother who fancied himself a b-boy back in the day. I swung around to the rhythm of Run DMC, my black hair flying out, a steady beat in my head keeping time with my blood, and I lifted my left leg approximately chest height to catch the thug in the lungs. Too bad I wasn't wearing my stilettos. Would've torn a hole in him instead of just giving him a barefoot-size bruise. Where'd my shoes go?
He heaved backward. Good. I hate guys who think they are champion fighters, boxers with no one to brutalize except women they meet on the street. Okay, so I'm no ordinary woman, but still. Whatever happened to the spirit of chivalry? I really rather prefer men who defer to women. Makes my job much easier.
Deep breath. I advanced, coming after him like a bad nightmare, relentless in my forward motion. Jab, twirl, step, turn, duck, bob away from his never-ending, completely predictable moves. It was like dance practice, but boring dance practice for a routine you've done a million times before. Slide, shuffle, slide to the right. Clap your hands and do-si-do.
He fell, exhausted, heaving and holding his over-extended gut. Maybe at one time he was fit, a real boxer. But not anymore. He's no match for a professional. I gave him one last kick in the kidneys for good measure, then bent my knees and leaned real close to his bleeding ear.
"You give Huffy a message for me, got it?" I used my most threatening voice, somewhere between a hiss and a growl.
He nodded.
"You tell him Nat's back in town and back on the job. You tell him he sends another one of you after me, and I won't content myself with a beat down. I'll string the next guy up from ear to ear and then come after Huffy and make him wish he'd never been born."
He grimaced. God, you throw a couple of cliches at these bruisers and they take you seriously. Huffy really needs to upgrade.
"Got it?" I smacked his oily head for good measure.
He groaned.
I stood up, found my discarded purse and strived for nonchalance as I walked away, barefoot and torn up. And I'd lost track of my so-called date to boot. Jones was gonna have my head. I screw up my chance at being a legitimate bodyguard by losing the hot shot they'd assigned to me. Fat lotta good trying to rise out of the gutters'll do for me. Maybe I should go back to freelancing. Ugh.
I sighed, then froze. A shadow approached, and I crouched. Really? Another one? I blew my bangs out of my eyes. God, I wish this night was over.
"Are these yours?" Mr. Tall, Dark and Sexy held out my four-inch Jimmie Choos. I stood up, reluctantly. Where'd he been hiding the last few minutes? At least he wasn't dead. My job was still safe. For the moment.
My heart fluttered, damn it. "Yes." I tore them from his grasp, relentless against the betrayal of my hormones. I balanced on one foot, then the other, to put them back on. I pulled the hem of my dress down and the top of my dress up, wiggling my hips while trying to look at least halfway decent. "Let's go."
I sashayed off in a huff, leaving Adonis reeling behind me. There's more than one way to bring 'em to their knees.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Broken Wine Glasses
What does it say about me that I've broken two of the six wineglasses given to me, er, I mean, given to my boyfriend, for Christmas?Apparently, I need heavy-duty wineglasses. Or plastic wineglasses. Or maybe I just need to stop drinking wine.
Yeah, right.
With nine credits worth of classes, 40+ hours of work, one son, no spouse, two cats and a neurotic tendency to have to KEEP. MY. HOUSE. CLEAN., there's no other way to wind down at the end of the day.
Except maybe with valium. Or xanax. Hell, a vicoden'll work if there's nothing else.
But I think red wine--good for the heart!--is a better choice than addictive painkillers.
I think the culprit is my cast-iron sink. First time I've ever had a cast-iron sink. It's destroyed three of my sturdy ceramic bowls, two salad plates and one dinner plate. The mugs are still managing to hang in there, but there are chips and cracks in all four.
I try to be careful...I wash and rinse the glasses gently, yet the cracks are still appearing. And today, the second one broke.
Sigh. Maybe I just need to start budgeting for ongoing wine glass purchase.
Dammit.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
What-if Wednesdays: No What-If is Useless
What if...
...you followed a disappearing cat?
dog?
bird?
tree?
car?
person?
star?
...you followed a disappearing cat?
dog?
bird?
tree?
car?
person?
star?
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Into the Wild
This week's F3 challenge: write a short story about being caught with your pants down. Now, all I can think about is that silly American Idol song about pants on the ground...
Excuse the, er, scatological nature of this particular story. Pants down and all, you know, this is where my brain went...
Prompt: Someone is caught with their pants down
Genre: Any
Word Count: I don’t honestly know what 1500-1800 words looks like, so let’s say keep it to less than two 8×11′s.
Deadline: Thursday, April 7, 2011 A.D., on or about 4:30ish.
Into the Wild
I don't know why my bowels have to move--urgently--every time I go hiking. Is it the fear of being in the wilderness, away from all that is known? Is it some sort of primal reconnection with my hunter-gatherer ancestors? Perhaps it's just that my gut is as obstinate and ornery as the rest of me.
I sigh and readjust my position. I managed to find a good couple boulders to squat against while doing my business, and the pine trees above provide shade. I life my head and smile against the feel of the sunlight filtered through the forest. I feel better than last time, when I was exposed on a ridgeline, with the caress of the mountain breeze against my vulnerable backside.
At least I know to be prepared. There's an entire roll of toilet paper in my backpack. If only my quads weren't burning from being stuck in this ungainly position, this would be a nice rest. I can hear the soft gurgle of a nearby stream. The birds have paused in their chirping, and all is silent. It's a little eerie.
I call out to my companions, thinking maybe they are approaching.
"Private business here!"
No response. Huh. I shift again, trying to relieve the pressure from a particularly pointy part of the boulder beneath my right butt cheek.
"Hello?"
Still no response. My forearms prickle and I reach for my backpack, thinking I'll grab the pepper spray I keep handy. The backpack slides away from me.
Shit.
I freeze as something big drags the pack across the sun-dappled pine needles, something I can only see a shadow of before my pack disappears.
My pepper spray is in there. My toilet paper is in there. I'm stuck, with my pants down, in the middle of the wilderness.
What if it returns? What if I'm the next thing it grabs? I look around for a stick, anything big enough I can use to defend myself.
I hear a low growl, and I grab the nearest thing--a 12-inch twig. Lotta good that'll do me.
I lift myself off the boulders, praying the numbness in my ass will disappear so I can run. So much for cleanliness. One-handed, I try to hoist my underwear and pants back up into position.
Before I can complete the task, a tawny hide appears. It's a mountain lion, slinking low across the forest floor, skimming its belly across the needles and almost blending in.
I drop my pants and take off, tripping over the clothes entangled around my ankles and rolling to a stop on my belly.
I throw myself on my back.
The lion pounces.
Excuse the, er, scatological nature of this particular story. Pants down and all, you know, this is where my brain went...
Prompt: Someone is caught with their pants down
Genre: Any
Word Count: I don’t honestly know what 1500-1800 words looks like, so let’s say keep it to less than two 8×11′s.
Deadline: Thursday, April 7, 2011 A.D., on or about 4:30ish.
Into the Wild
I don't know why my bowels have to move--urgently--every time I go hiking. Is it the fear of being in the wilderness, away from all that is known? Is it some sort of primal reconnection with my hunter-gatherer ancestors? Perhaps it's just that my gut is as obstinate and ornery as the rest of me.
I sigh and readjust my position. I managed to find a good couple boulders to squat against while doing my business, and the pine trees above provide shade. I life my head and smile against the feel of the sunlight filtered through the forest. I feel better than last time, when I was exposed on a ridgeline, with the caress of the mountain breeze against my vulnerable backside.
At least I know to be prepared. There's an entire roll of toilet paper in my backpack. If only my quads weren't burning from being stuck in this ungainly position, this would be a nice rest. I can hear the soft gurgle of a nearby stream. The birds have paused in their chirping, and all is silent. It's a little eerie.
I call out to my companions, thinking maybe they are approaching.
"Private business here!"
No response. Huh. I shift again, trying to relieve the pressure from a particularly pointy part of the boulder beneath my right butt cheek.
"Hello?"
Still no response. My forearms prickle and I reach for my backpack, thinking I'll grab the pepper spray I keep handy. The backpack slides away from me.
Shit.
I freeze as something big drags the pack across the sun-dappled pine needles, something I can only see a shadow of before my pack disappears.
My pepper spray is in there. My toilet paper is in there. I'm stuck, with my pants down, in the middle of the wilderness.
What if it returns? What if I'm the next thing it grabs? I look around for a stick, anything big enough I can use to defend myself.
I hear a low growl, and I grab the nearest thing--a 12-inch twig. Lotta good that'll do me.
I lift myself off the boulders, praying the numbness in my ass will disappear so I can run. So much for cleanliness. One-handed, I try to hoist my underwear and pants back up into position.
Before I can complete the task, a tawny hide appears. It's a mountain lion, slinking low across the forest floor, skimming its belly across the needles and almost blending in.
I drop my pants and take off, tripping over the clothes entangled around my ankles and rolling to a stop on my belly.
I throw myself on my back.
The lion pounces.
Friday, April 1, 2011
No Flash Fiction This Friday
I tried. Really, I did.
I checked this week's F3 prompt. I researched "pulp fiction." I found lots of really cool covers. I learned that "pulp" refers to the type of paper (pulpy, cheap) that these magazines were printed on. I discovered that Indiana Jones is considered pulp fiction. I thought--well, I can write something like Indiana Jones.
I listened as my son watched Disney's recent version of "The Sorcerer's Apprentice" in the background. I contemplated its pulp fiction characteristics: over-the-top heroes and villians, sorcery, magic, adventure. It was missing the scantily clad damsel in distress, though. Which is good. An eight-year-old doesn't need to watch a movie with scantily clad damsels, regardless of said damsels' distress levels.
I thought about ways I could turn the genre on its ear. I'm resistant to the whole "woman needs a man to rescue her" storyline we perpetuate in our culture. Maybe I'd put a man in distress and have a woman rescue him.
Or what about lesbian pulp fiction? I did more research. Turns out the women always "got what was coming to them" in the end. I didn't like that. Maybe I'd give my heroine(s) a happy ending.
I opened my word processing software. I watched the cursor blink, mocking me. I waited a day, to see if ideas would appear. I stared at a blank page during my work hour. I turned on my computer at home and tried again. No luck.
I turned off the computer and snuggled with my son while we watched "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". Again. Still no ideas. But it was a good way to spend an evening, even if it was the second time watching a silly movie with a thousand plot holes. The eight-year-old's giggles were worth it.
I did homework. I went to class. I went to my other class. And then I woke up, and it was Friday, and I still didn't have a pulp fiction piece.
But I tried. That counts for something, right? And, who knows--maybe someday the research will germinate and a little flower of an idea will start to grow and something crazy or wonderful or fun will blossom from this little exercise.
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