Friday, October 31, 2014

The Sound of Footseps Walking Away

 The war between Sam and Kelly was all-consuming destroying everything it came in contact with. Kelly  was insure what started the conflict.  She had made a delicious dinner. She dressed the table with her favorite vintage tablecloth, good china and silverware. She lit candles for ambiance.  Everything looked perfect, but yet, before they finished the meal the dining room would become a war zone.

Special dishes shattered against the wall like mortars. Gravy and candle wax stained the vintage tablecloth. Chairs knocked to the floor.  The meal flung on the floor. Kelly assesses the damages.  She then realized that as traumatized as she is by the sudden explosion of anger and hate that her sons, were even more scarred. Two more casualties in a war that she couldn’t explain. The boys fled the room at the first sign of engagement.

Kelly raced to her sanctuary, the sewing room.  She slammed the door and locked Sam and his assault out.  With her back against the door, she cowered, covering her ears. She slid herself to the floor, barricading herself even more in her favorite foxhole.

After some time, Kelly realized that quiet returned to the house, a temporary cease fire in place. Listening, she could hear heavy steps approaching the door.  It wasn’t the knock on the door she dreaded but the sound of the footsteps walking away. Peace will not be brokered here tonight.footsteps walking away.

Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Fall 2014 Story Starter #1

As I look for my husband among the Blackjack tables, I realize that I am being followed.  Specifically, by a tall thin man wearing a University of Michigan sweatshirt, jeans, and a black fedora. Aware, but unconcerned yet, I continue scouring the tables for Steve.

The Blackjack tables are full. I am worrying. I am worrying about the time, Betsey, our babysitter needs to get home.  I’m worried about the fact that I CANNOT find Steve. He promised he would stay at the Blackjack tables if I wanted to walk around. 

My awareness of the man in the sweatshirt following me is quickly moving into the concerned zone. The man in the sweatshirt continues to pace me from one aisle over and I am nearing the end of my aisle. I am definitely concerned. As I near the end of the aisle, I slow my brisk walk to a stroll. So does Sweatshirt Man. Damn.

I stop between the final table and the next to stall for time and “look” for my cell phone in my purse. Thankfully, Sweatshirt Man isn’t in the next aisle over. I blow out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding.   Sweatshirt Man takes this opportunity to grab my by my elbow. How did he get over here?

“Please come with me quietly and we’ll meet your husband, Steve, in the parking lot.  Don’t worry. Betsey is on her way home.  Alice is sound asleep in her crib and being watched over.  It’s best to let sleeping babies lie. We wouldn’t want Alice to be woke at this hour do we?” Sweatshirt Man whispers in my ear.

They say you see stars before the lights go out and that is exactly the last thing I remember before waking up in a small cell, grey cement walls surrounding me and a single bulb above my head intermittently blinking on and off.  All I could do was lie on my back and stare at the bulb and then marvel at the dots repeatedly created before my eyes.  It was better than thinking.

Slowly I sat up and took stock of my surroundings.  I half expected to be tied up but no, I was not.  I got up off the floor of the cell thinking that jails should at least have one bed.

And then it struck me.  This wasn't a jail, was it?

Panic seized me in the name of Alice.  Was she still at home safe?  Who was watching her if Betsey was on her way home?  And who told her she could go home before Steve or I arrived?  And where was Steve?  Sweatshirt Man had said we'd see him in the parking lot.  Did we?  

I don't remember.