Write365

(prompt from the Write Brain workbook)

It was just a teeny-weeny lie… I told my boss I had to leave work early to let the maintenance guy in to fix our water heater. Of course the water heater wasn’t really broken, and even if it was, all that meant was a cold shower in the morning. Something that might have come in useful after my secret tryst with Marco.

My heart had been pounding all morning, ever since I got his email, asking me to come over to his house. His wife was away for a few days, though he phrased it differently than that. I believe he said “I’m a bachelor till Friday.” Funny how the language we use makes our own morality. Just like lies about mundane things like water heaters make even an adulterous liaison seem like just another part of a blase life. Albeit the most exciting part.

I could barely eat lunch in anticipation. I hadn’t seen him over a year and had given up anything more ever happening with him. He was kind of an asshole, and an emotionally unavailable one at that. Though being a married woman myself, I wasn’t totally turned off by that. Basically I just wanted him, but couldn’t really explain why. He emailed me directions to his house and with a “good luck with the water heater!” from my boss, I skipped off for an afternoon delight.

I pulled up to his house in the country, which looked disconcertingly like my own house in the country. I could easily imagine trading this house, this man, for my own. But what would be the point of that. The bright afternoon sun made my naturally timid personality come out and I felt like an oaf. Where do women learn to be seductresses? I was clearly not cut out for this. We started kissing and undressing despite the awkwardness and just as I started relaxing, I heard a car pull up. He looked unnaturally calm and I acted alarmingly panicked. Luckily, I had a secret power that Marcus or his wife didn’t know about. I could make myself invisible.

I quickly put my clothes back on, grabbed my purse and ran around a corner in order to transform. Marcus was following behind me talking, clearly trying to rehearse a lie. What he didn’t realize was that the water heater lie was as much as I was capable of. I couldn’t lie in the face of someone who would quickly deduce the truth. Even if my intentions in her husband’s house were innocent, I would still look and sound as guilty as I actually was. So, I pulled a small vial from my purse and ingested a silver capsule given to me by my great uncle Shem. He knew what was up. He’d given them to me for christmas last year after an honest, yet drunken, heart to heart about my marriage. He’d been using these things for years.

I watched Marcus gasp as I slowly dissolved in front of him. I stood stock still as I watched his wife open the door, a look of anger and betrayal already written on her face. I couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t the first time that look had crossed her face. Marcus was fantastic at many things, and lying was definitely one of them. “Hey Babe!” he bellowed as he strode over and gave her a giant bear hug. I fumed with jealousy and briefly considered reappearing, which was always an option. But I hated to see anyone’s heart break, even if it was my adversary in love.

As they walked upstairs to talk about why she was home and what he was doing and why there was a strange car in the driveway, I quietly exited, got in my car and drove away. How did he explain the car? I have no idea, nor do I care. I’m sure it was an adept lie that made her almost doubt the fact that he had cheated again. Enough to make her wonder if she was just going crazy or if she had married a lousy, philandering shithead.

Meanwhile, I was driving home, gradually coming back into the visual plane. I passed nobody for the 20 minutes until I got to the highway, so as far as I know, there were no reports of a fire engine red mini driving itself. I sniffed myself for telltale smells and tried to stop my heart from beating fast before I walked in the door. I arrived home at the time I normally would from work so I hoped to avoid having to tell another lie. If my husband found me out, it would take more than a silver pill to make it all better.

It hit me like a ton of bricks. I was leaving town for the Shwartz family Christmas in less than 48 hours. Now don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But more than one relative of mine has a screw or two loose. I can’t nail down exactly what it is…maybe the melancholy German genes in us, or the knack for addictions, or the tendency to fly off the handle. Whatever it is, though, it always makes for interesting get-togethers.

Take my father for example. At 72, he’s as sharp as a tack. Once a member of Mensa and a key player in Air Force Intelligence during the Cold War, now he spends his time renovating an old bed & breakfast. I’m not talking about touching up some paint here and there either. I’m talking about laying floorboards, putting up drywall, rewiring electricity. That type of thing.

My mom on the other hand is a little bit wired. Hailing from England,she drinks a lot of tea. That seems to keep her pretty perky and also annoyingly positive. If anyone had a god given right to be named “Pollyanna,” it would be my mother.I appreciate her good humor, but she can make my sisters fly off the handle.

“That’s my favorite color, you know,” he said as we stood in the parking lot.

I looked down at my sweater to see what color it was. Green. Not just green, but seafoam green.

I imagined the two of us in the waters of South Florida, kayaking around islands, looking for wildlife. He’d be far ahead of me, confidently paddling away, excited by the possibility of what was ahead. He excelled at everything. He was fearless. The gap between us would widen and I’d be out on my own, frightened and feeling abandoned. I’d call out to him but he wouldn’t hear me. I’d look back toward the shore but it was too far to go back alone, so I’d steel myself, paddle hard and catch up to him. I’d feel green from sea-sickness and would want to yell at him, but then he’d turn to me with a smile and I would forgive him instantly.

Or maybe it wasn’t seafoam green, it was the green of pine trees. We’d be out for a hike and he’d tell me all about the natural history of the area. Obscure things about history and how to survive if you were stranded out here in a snowstorm.  He’d ask me if I knew that the botanical name of this particular pine tree was Pinus Strobus and I’d say “no.” I’d be amazed by his brilliance but he’d make me feel green, like an unripened tomato. I’d never know as much as he did or be as interesting, or have as much to say. Then he’d give me the kind of bear hug that squeezed all the air out of my lungs and I’d think that I had died and gone to heaven.

Or perhaps it was the green of a shamrock on St. Patrick’s day. We’d go to Ireland on our honeymoon. We’d go to a pub and I’d drink too much beer as he charmed the locals with stories from America. They’d say how surprised they were at how funny and smart Americans could be. Then, I’d be green with envy as he learned Irish dancing from a pretty redhead. He picked it up instantly and danced with her all night.

Back in the parking lot, I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. Of course, he was calm about it. He just shrugged his shoulders and said “Well, I guess the grass is always greener. Have a good life.” I cried as I walked away.

 

 

Exercise: When Louis Armstrong was asked what jazz is, he replied “Man, if you gotta ask, you’ll never know.” Use this quote in a sotry. Start wtih:

The captain shouted, “Anchors aweigh, my boys,” and we….

looked around, confused. None of us knew what that meant. Does that mean we put the anchor down, and if so, how do you do that? Or, does that mean you pull the anchor up, and again, how? This didn’t bode well. Besides, I didn’t like being called a boy, since I obviously wasn’t one. The captain pulled me aside and asked me this question, “Is the boat moving?” Good question. I picked an island to focus on and then noticed that it was getting farther away. Proud of myself, I answered “Yes!” He then walked me over to where a metal rope was on a circle-y thing, like a garden hose. He showed me how to unwind it and put the anchor down. It was really heavy, but after about twenty minutes of grunting, the boat came to a halt. Of course, by this time, we were nowhere near where we wanted to be, but the captain seemed pretty laid back.

For October, it was warm, about 60 degrees, and sunny. The first mate brought out coolers of sandwiches , chips, and cookies. That was a nice touch. I went for the double chocolate chip cookie before I even took a sandwich, just to be sure I got what I wanted. When I went back for a sandwich, there were none left, so I took two more cookies. Let those pigs live without dessert. On a sugar high now, I asked the captain what I could do. He replied, “Man, if you have to ask, you’ll never know.” And with that, I took off my glasses, climbed over the edge, and jumped head first into Casco Bay.

I’m still working on my cheating story (or at least plan to really really soon), and I’ve blown off my writing group, so I thought the least I could do is a writing exercise:

This is from the Writer’s Idea book. “Write about the place you most want to go-for a visit or to live. It must be a place you’ve never been before. Open with details, unbarnacled with explanation. Describe what you know of the place, waht you’ve seen in photographs or on television. Then, move to exploring why this place appeals to you so much. Which elements of your personality are hooked into this place?

We bounce along a rough road. My body hurls from one end of the land rover to the over as we hit pot holes, caked in mud, and ruts from thousands of hooves as they made their way across the savannah. The air is rapidly getting colder. When we started out just before sunset, I had hesitated about bringing a sweater. Now, as I watch a pink, purple, and mauve sky glow over miles and miles of African plains, I wish I’d brought something heavier. But though cold, the air feels good…clean, refreshing, and with the smell of something exotic. We slow down and I look at my guide to see what he was doing. As I had just rammed my body against his during the half hour ride, I didn’t feel shy anymore. Something about rough bodily contact works better than any ice breaker in a conference room back home. “Tell everyone 2 things about you, and one false thing. Make them guess which one isn’t true.” I hate that one. My lie is always “I have 2 dogs named Tom & Jerry,” when obviously Tom & Jerry are cats.

Now I’m about to see much bigger cats. I have my camera so I can show Tom & Jerry when I get home. I reach down to find it on the floor of the rover but it has slidden backward. I start climbing over my seat when I’m stopped by Ralph, my guide. “What are you doing? Sit DOWN!” His South African accent is super sexy. So is he, but I still don’t like being yelled at. “I need my camera,” I say, with a wounded look. Thinking of the big tip he’s about to lose, he softens up. “Oh, I’m sorry. You have to be careful out here. We’re in the dark, we’re in the wild, and there’s nothing between us and the fiercest animals on earth except two rollbars. I look at him, bored. “I’ll get your camera,” and he climbs over the seat, and I check out his ass.Nice. That was worth the $100 fee just for that.

All of a sudden, I hear a rustle out there in the dark. I nervously look behind me and see nothing. “Ralph!” I whisper hoarsely. Nothing. I squint my eyes and peer out to my right again. The headlights are shining straight ahead, but they don’t help since they’re pointing the wrong way. If anything, they are blinding me more. I can see a silhouette creeping toward me. Six thoughts reach my head at one time: where’s my fucking camera I have to take a picture of this where’s the stud did he get eaten by a lion holy fuck I’m going to die. And then my feet went numb from fear and I started crying. “Boo!”

I screamed and started clobbering my idiot guide with the purse I grabbed from his hand as he climbed back over the seat. “There’s a fucking lion there you idiot. Drive!” I was expecting a panicked and sorry look from him, but he just looked calmly over at the lion who was now 2 feet from my face, purring. Not wanting to make any sudden moves, I nearly go blind by trying to look at Ralph without moving my head. He’s smiling and climbing over me (hmm… he smells good). Then he reaches out and starts petting the freaking lion! “What the eff?” I ask? He doesn’t know what that means, so I spell it out for him. “What the fuck?”

“She’s my friend. I’ve known her since she was a cub. My parents own a refuge and picked her up from a couple in Capetown who had illegally purchased her, thinking they could keep her as a pet. When she got too big, my parents took her in. A year ago, they released her here. She remembers me, and I take all of my clients to meet her.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s a surprise. Do you like it?” I’m starting to feel more like I’m on a first date, then an expensive safari trip. I suppose he does this to all the ladies. Not that I care. Hell, I’m on vacation, I’m not opposed to expensive flirting. “Yes, I like your surprise,” I say and laugh, flinging my hair back dramatically. I reach out and pet the lionness. She looks remarkably like Tom, just bigger, smellier (in a good way), and less colorful. She reaches her paw out and puts it on my head. This is officially the coolest vacation ever and I start making mental plans to never come home.

Cheating is a strategy, not a philosophy. You shouldn’t take it personally. Truly, I don’t really consider what I do cheating anyway. I’m just trying to get by, just like we all are. And I’m getting by just fine.

I haven’t always been like this though. I started out my life quite earnestly. When the pastor told me that virtuousness would be rewarded in heaven, I was first in line at the virtue hut. When I entered school, I was sure that hard work and studying would get me far—all the way to high school, and beyond, with my proud parents at my high school graduation…! But when an entire afternoon and a good part of the night were spent studying, and I still flunked my first math test, I lost my faith. My dad called me dumb, my mom called me lazy. I’m neither dumb nor lazy. In fact, I’m quite bright. Bright enough to know that that was the last time I was going to put in that amount of hard work for zero reward.

I looked into other options for passing math tests. I looked at a lot of options. The best one was a boy called Carl. Now, I didn’t exactly ask him to let me cheat off of him. I asked him to be my tutor. We did make some progress and the next test I got a C. That wasn’t good enough for Carl, and it wasn’t good enough for me either. The next time we did better, even if it did involve me looking over at Carl’s test to be reminded of the right answers. Men and boys are the best people to work with when you’re doing stuff like that. Girls are not only prone to incredulousness, but they are also very competitive and don’t really want to get anyone else get ahead – especially not another woman.

My parents praised me after my math improvement, but I wasn’t interested in them anymore. I was going to succeed, but not so I could get their approval. I saw how fickle that could be, and in the end, they couldn’t help me anyway. A waitress at the local Denny’s and a manager at Walmart—these were my parents. At first I felt a certain amount of anger at them for expecting too much of me. Then, I quickly realized that the opposite was true. They didn’t expect nearly enough of me. And, in turn, I expected nothing of them.

I know what you’re wondering. Did I sleep with Carl? Well, yes, I did. And I’ve slept with many men since who have helped me out – in school, in life, in my career. But I’m not a slut. Compared to my friend Dina, my numbers are quite low. She sleeps with men to make her feel better about herself. I sleep with men who happen to be in positions where they can put in a good word for me. But, you know, it only works if you have something to offer. And I’m not talking about in the bedroom. I’m merely average there. But I do offer a bit of flattery to generally neglected, perfect attractive, married men. And I give them a chance to help someone out. I read somewhere that that was good for your heart – literally. It’s good for my career too.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Carl had never let me cheat that first time. Of course, now I have no need to know math. But I gained a much greater skill than dividing fractions that sunny afternoon in Mrs. Hines class. I learned the best strategy of all. And one that comes in very handy in my current role. There’s a knock on my door….

There was so much to remember. The responsibility of being a priestess of the goddess was great and she didn’t want to mess up. But the knowledge that the elders gave to her was overwhelming. A young man came to see her yesterday and wanted help. He had been married 7 months and his wife still hadn’t conceived a child. Out of the 125 or so herbs, roots, and flowers that she was qualified to give out, she couldn’t remember which one to give. Should it be something for him, or for his wife? But as a priestess, she could not show hesitation or doubt. As he waited, with reverance and anticipation, she ground up the leaves of the blue flower that grows on the foothills of the mountains. “Give this to your wife. Tell her to take it right before the full moon. Come back in 2 months if she hasnt’ bled.” She said it confidential, but truthfully she had no clue if this was right. Though she did no that it could do no harm. Sometimes people just seemed to need hope, and that cured them just fine.

In the meantime, she seriously needed to brush up on her knowledge. When the sun went down, the tent was packed up and her and the other priestesses retired for the night. Samwa, the wisest of the older priestesses always settled down near her for the night, so she took the opportunity to ask her, “what is the herb for fertility?” Samwa had a lengthy answer, depending on any number of variables that she had neglected to ask the young man. “Does she bleed normally? At what time of month are they active? Is she taking any other herbs? She listened carefully and kept repeating the information to hersefl all night until the sun came up.

When it was light, she grabbed a stick and walked far back behind the sleeping tents. She scratched into the earth with the stick a penis. From that, she drew a line to an aster shaped flower. Under that, she drew 2 stick figures, back to back, and a line to a picture of a jagged leaf. That was for couples who weren’t in the mood. She drew 3 more pictures of marital circumstances linked with 3 pictures of different roots and flowers. Now I’ll remember! But after the first rains, she knew she needed a better solution. The men were making clay for bricks and she watched as they made patterns in it when it was wet. She stole 2 bricks and brought them back to her spot beyond the tents. When it rained, she etched her pictures in with a sharp tool.

Over the years, she continued etching her pictures, but showing no one. She become the most sought afer priestess because she retained the most knowledge. Never did she have to seek advice, never did she have a doubt. When she became an elder priestess and the season’s new devotees entered, she picked one to pass the knowledge on to. She taught her the pictures and the secret pace she kept them. When she died, her devotee taught the pictures to everyone and they created a wall of mosaics that held all the sacred knowledge that they held. Nothing now would be forgotten, nothing lost. And so it was that the written language was born.

She wasn’t really the type to wander into an art gallery. Not that she didn’t like art, but something about the pretentiousness of wandering in off the street into an art gallery was beyond her. A science museum, certainly. She could look for hours at fossils of trilobytes and peer over displays made for children without one thought of self-consciousness. She loved to learn, after all, and was not ashamed of that.

But art was something she hadn’t thought much about since college, when she fell in love with Renaissance art, especially Boticelli. The romance of it all was what appealed to her, till she wouldn’t be satisfied until she went to Italy to see it all firsthand. She finally made it there, with the first substantial boyfriend who could afford the trip. But after the stress of traveling with someone who had never been oversees, and the annoyance of traveling with someone who didn’t give a damn about art, she felt unbearably let down. But she took what the universe gave her. “It is what it is,” she told herself.

No one would have thought her the romantic type anyway. Serious face, never smiling, except with people she was familiar with. Then she laughed a lot. But most people thought her a little uptight. Starched white button down shirts, knit vests for some color. The shoes were bit adventurous, but never too much so. The 3 inch heels raised a few eyebrows, especially since they brought her height to nearly 6 feet. But never an ample breast revealed, or a thigh uncovered.

Today, she was wearing jeans, since she was on vacation. They weren’t loose, or of the “grannie” variety found at LL Bean. No, these were real boot cut jeans that showed off a nice curve of an upper thigh, tapered down to the knees and then flared out slightly, accentuating her height and her figure. On top, she wore a white tank top covered by a tailored khaki jacket. Yes, it was a bit out of character. Visiting her sister in Washington, DC, they had gone shopping. Alone (as in without her husband) for the first time in ages, she found herself being talked into all kinds of purchases that she would never have bought at home. And now, here she was, wandering through an art gallery, looking nothing like herself, and frankly, feeling nothing like herself. And she liked it.

Out of nostalgia, first she headed to the medieval and renaissance section. Now, it just made her feel sad. Like the possibilities that never worked out. There were only a few Botticellis on display. One simply titled “Portrait of a youth.” She looked at the youth - a young man with long brown hair, and a red hat like a fez. Attractive. Exotic. Beautiful. She walked on with her typical blank expression on her face. She felt down. What had she done with her life? She sighed audibly. She was agitated. She should call her husband, but she didnt’ want to.

In the West wing of the gallery there was a photography exhibition. Something recent. She never fancied herself one for modern art, but she felt a gnawing need to get out of where she was. She crossed over the covered walkway and walked up the stairs. They were pictures of people at the beach in hawaii. People in clusters on towels. Couples, friends, singles. Spaced appropriately enough away from each other. She wondered why they were all white. Wait, here were two japanese guys. Something about the picture appealed to the voyeur in her. She loved to people watch. Sometimes people could be incredibly boring. But sometimes they could be utterly fascinating. At the museum, there was no one to watch, which just made the art more appealing.

She stood in front of a giant photograph, stretched across half a wall. A vast beach, totally free of people except one couple laying on a crumpled blue towel, locked in an embrace. Diagonally across the top 1/5 of the sheet, the water from the ocean laps the edge of the sand. There something beautiful about the photo, yet something disturbing as well. The sand looked inviting - soft, like talcum powder. But she felt sorry for the cavorting couple. She was mad that the photographer took this photo of them. It was intrusive and voyeuristic. And yet, she herself couldn’t stop looking. She wondered when the last time she was locked into an embrace of such intense desire. High school? She sighed. An older man next to her sighed too and said “There’s no use wanting that again. That kind of love is for the young.” She laughed and smiled at him. “Yes, I guess you’re right,” she agreed.

And yet, she suddenly wanted that. She suddently knew that she could have that again. Yes, she could. She stood a little straighter and lifted her chest. As she walked out, she locked eyes with an attractive stranger waiting on the steps. She purposefully stopped at a kiosk to buy a map and turned her head to look at him again. He was standing beside her, smiling. “Can I show you around town?” he asked. Yes, sometimes the universe gives you what you ask for.

Prompt: Finish the story. Start with “The first time I saw him, he was digging ketchup out of a bottle with a knife…”

The first time I saw him, he was digging ketchup out of a bottle with a knife. The only reason I noticed him was because the girl he was with was beautiful. Long, blonde hair and eyes likes moons-wide and bright. I was with my husband and we were one of those couples that look miserable when we went out. The couple past its prime that the first daters hope they never become. I was wiggling my straw around the ice in my glass, trying to get the last remaining drops of watered down diet coke out-not because I was thirsty, but because I had nothing else to do. I certainly didn’t want to look across the table.

The ketchup guy was doing it all wrong. I started to get agitated watching him. Hopefully his girlfriend would help him out. She was staring blindly out the window, apparently deep in thought, as he tried to get the too-thick knife into the bottle as his greasy hamburger lay below him, naked and dry. I liked to mind my own business but soon I was going to have to intervene. Clink, clink, clink, sigh. He was getting frustrated, and so was I. I stood up and walked over to his table. He was ready to accept my help, looking up at me in expectation. I grabbed the bottle and hit it smack dab on the label, 2/3 of the way down. A gob of ketchup hit his plate and I handed the bottle to him. “Hit it here and aim,” I said. He looked flustered and relieved at the same time. He gave me a half smile and I walked away. My husband didn’t comment.

6 months later, I was at work needing help setting up an email account for a promotion we were working on. We were holding a photography contest for senior citizens and I needed a box set up where they could email their entries-photos of the good old days. I felt a presence behind me and turned around (isn’t it funny how you just know when someone is hovering). It was him, blushing first and then stuttering. Where did this guy come from? Did he work here? “You need help with an email box?” Oh yes, the new help desk guy. He helped me and never mentioned the ketchup.

Months went by and we didn’t talk. I was divorced by now and dating a man much older than me, but nice and attractive. Ketcup guy would give me looks when we passed on the sidewalk-coming and going from smoking cigarettes, or whatever he was doing out there. He was young. I happened by his cubicle one day and saw a photograph of two young children, blonde.

One day I finally asked him “How’s your pretty, blonde girlfriend?” He blushed and walked away, not answering me. I gave up on him. I only have enough stamina to give them one chance and that was it. Later that afternoon, I got an email “You’re the ketchup girl!” and I emailed back “and your’e the ketchup guy.” I was flattered he called me a”girl” even though I was clearly far from being a girl. He asked me out and I said no. I’m smart enough to never follow a gorgeous blonde, especially one who has given birth to his children.

Prompt: Write from the point of view of a spoon inside a dishwasher.

Another journey has begun. We’d been waylaid in the big silver pit for over a day, longer than on the other trips. We all wondered what was going on. One of the giant creatures had picked me out of my holding cell and tried to smother me in a vat of gooey, sweet, yellow pus. After being submerged for several sections, it would pretend to eat me, threatening me by putting my head in it’s mouth and closing. Of course, this happened every week or so. For some, it happened more often, every few days. And for some, they were tortured by getting dipped in scalding hot liquids. Sometimes they were even left in there for minutes at a time. The sliver pit was sometimes a peaceful place, other times we were forced to bake in the sun and get doused with water - sometimes hot, sometimes painfully cold. Finally, we were put into the tranpsortaiton vehicle. This too was a familiar place. The little cells where we were all placed - not just spoons like me, but forks, knives, and even the larger creatures known as plates, pots, and glasses. They were worse off than us - more exposed. We at least had the slight protection of the holding cages.

The door was shut and we started moving. I could feel the vehicle move back and forth with force. Soap burned my face and the hot water bursted all around me. For some reason, we were always “cleaned” on route. I dont’ know where we were taken or why because the door was never opened. But it was always a round trip journey, taking us back to the prison we knew. After what seemed like days, the door was opened again. We all breathed a sigh of relief. I felt myself being picked up by the giant creature between two appendages slightly smaller than my whole body. it threw me back into my cell, and I fortuitously landed right on martha. We cuddled together, her concave head nestling against the back of mine. I felt comforted, happy to be back in the cell - even if just for a little while.