Number Four

Writing is tough work. It may seem like an idyllic, cushy hobby of a job, but it's not easy. Trust me. I've been staring at the three paragraphs below the prompt wondering where the heck to take this story for so long that banging my head against the desk seems much more appealing and fun than continuing to write does. That's the frustrating thing about writing. Some days it flows, and some days (most days), even when you have an idea, it's stagnant.

I realize I've written about death in each of my most recent posts. I've always leaned more toward dark storylines. I guess it's just my preferred style, but I feel like something more uplifting in is order for the next few days. My body and mind are craving it.... Still, though, I love this prompt. I just have to get myself in the right emotional state in order to take it in the direction I have in mind. Frankly, I don't have the energy to get to that place right now. But this is something I definitely plan to come back to.

(9:00pm- Mom gave me a few good and happier sounding ideas for this number four prompt. Maybe I'll retry tomorrow. Goodnight!)



She's curled up on the couch. Tears trickle down her cheeks, and I haven't seen her blink in the last four minutes. I made her a cup of tea. Valerian root. It smells like rotten feet, but I thought it'd help her sleep. She hasn't touched it. In fact, she hasn't moved since late last night after the last wave of cramps rippled through her body.

I know the worst is over so I move the makeshift toilet out to the back porch. I want to burn it, the seatless chair with a trash bag lined five gallon bucket underneath to catch the blood and gray tissue escaping her body. I tie the ends of the trash bag together, grab a shovel, and trudge to the Japanese maple in the far right corner of the back yard. I bury what is left of my child.

This one would have been a boy. I am sure of it, just as I am sure that the first three were girls. She hadn't carried any of them long enough to determine the sex, but I knew. The girls came and went over the course of one year, and three years passed before she became pregnant again. The doctor warned us not to get our hopes up, but I insisted we name him. Thomas Caleb.

When I left... a writing prompt

When I left the river I never expected to see his face again. I laid him face down in the mud. The slick earth swallowed him whole, sucked him into the creamy muck. I smattered his grave with rocks and broken tree limbs left over from the storm. I lit a cigarette and inhaled, pulling the orange glow toward my lips and walked away.

I first fell in love with his face. His smooth, chiseled jaw. His skin, tanned and taut except for a deep furrow in his brow. His eyes were as dark as fresh tilled soil. He only half smiled, curling up the corners of his mouth just enough to make me want to kiss him and unlock his lips. I never did kiss him.

He awarded me a peck on the cheek once. It was a Sunday in October. We stood in the empty parking lot of the church. He leaned toward me, wrapping his arms around my waist and pressed his lips against the side of my face. As he pulled away, fibers of my wool sweater dress clung in patches to his dark, tailored jacket.

"There's someone else," he whispered. His eyes locked onto mine, but I shifted my gaze to the gravel at my feet and chuckled.

"I only invited you to church. I didn't expect anything more." I lied.

He grinned and exhaled. "Good. I just wanted to make sure you knew."
He hugged me again, more of my dress transferred to his sleeves, branding him.

I saw him weeks later with her. They sat on the same side of the booth, investigating a single menu. Black whiskers peppered his chin and upper lip. He smiled fully now, his straight teeth glistening in the glow of the restaurant light. She turned and pressed her full lips onto his. My cheek burned recalling his feather touch.

A thick beard masked his beautiful face at their wedding. Hair blanketed his entire jaw, and a mustache hooded his broad smile. He wore his tailored jacket. Remnants of my dress still lingered. She stroked his furry chin at the reception, and he nuzzled it against her neck as they shared their first dance.

When the storm came, I called him. He arrived at my house just as the river banks overflowed and crept toward my back door. He lifted me into his arms, carrying me over the water to his truck. His beard grated my cheek like sandpaper. He placed me in the cab and climbed into the driver's seat. As he turned the key, I pulled the paring knife from my pants pocket and drew it across his throat. A thick crimson river trailed down his neck, and his chin dropped to his chest.

I grabbed clumps of his matted, damp beard and sawed them of with the knife. The strong, angular face I so loved slowly revealed itself. I retrieved a razor and cup of warm water from the house. His jaw was smooth when the rain stopped. I kissed his chin, cheeks and pushed his lips into a frozen half smile. I drove him to the river.

The police questioned me, but nothing was proven. His wife held a memorial service. She hugged me as I left.

The next storm arrived two months later. Rain hammered the ground, and the river swelled, birthing a flood. The water seeped into my home and bathed my floors. It took a day or two for the earth to drink in the excess. When the waters receded, I sloshed through the kitchen and opened the door to the back porch. Murky inches spilled onto the pine boards and pooled around the body. His body, green and stiff. His face, sunken but still smooth. His lips still curled in the half smile only for me.

October challenge: write every day

I'm not sure if October is national write every day month, but I've seen a lot of the people and pages I follow on Facebook mention that daily writing is their goal for this month. Considering that November is National Novel Writing Month it makes perfect sense to prepare and cultivate the writing habit in now in October. So I throw my hat in with the rest of you. I am going to write every day in October. Maybe just a paragraph or a page. Maybe I'll hit on something ingenious and crank out a whole story. My hope is that I create some spring board ideas from which to launch the novel I commit to write in November. Note: it will be a shitty novel, but that's ok. The first ones usually are.

I'll post everthing here because 1.) it will keep me accountable and 2.) it just seems easier this way. Editing will go by the wayside for this month. Each misspelled word and forgotten comma will haunt my inner grammarian, but for now I'll resist the proof reading urge for the sake of getting words on the screen. You've been warned. Try not to judge me based on those errors.

I've no plan as for what to write. One day may be a reflective essay followed the next day by a poem and the next day by rant. I try to avoid the use of profanity in my writing. I feel like it's a cop-out for more creative and unique description. But sometimes the only appropriate word that works is a big, fat "fuck" (or "shitty" in the case of describing a really awful first novel writing attempt in November). I won't censor myself here. So again, you've been warned.

Now that we've covered all that, here is today's work....

I'm not good with death. The death of someone I know. I fumble around feelings and trip over words. I cry a little, but I don't think I cry enough. Or sometimes I think I cry too much. Death is one of the few things in life on which we can rely. Sooner or later, painfully or peacefully, quickly or drawn out, we will all die. It's a fact that has never sat well on my heart. Even the belief that after death we will go to heaven doesn't soothe its sting.

Mrs. Mary Lou Robbins and Mrs. Esther Mallard both died this summer. Their lives were long and rich, but my world dimmed with their passing. I didn't cry when I heard the news of their individual deaths. People were around, and I felt awkward. Awkward because I hadn't seen Mrs. Esther for a few years and Mrs. Mary Lou for a few months, and though they were dear ladies it wasn't like I was best friends with either of them. Truth is I was just too worried people, family would think I was weird for breaking down over the deaths of two women I only saw on the occassional Thursday lunch gathering.

For several years now, a group of silver haired, firecracker women meet for lunch every Thursday. They call themselves the OMDs which stands for "oscillate my derriere" which simplified means "kiss my ass". I attended my first OMD lunch over five yeras ago at the invitation of my grandmother, one of the group's founders. I saw it as a good opportunity to spend time with her so I agreed to go even though the thought of being at lunch with a group of people I didn't know flamed my social anxiety. I left that meal spellbound and in love with the laughter, the gossip, and the perfectly laquered lips that were repainted after eating. I returned almost every Thursday until I got married and moved to North Georgia. As the lunches and weeks passed these women transitioned from being friends of my grandmother's to dear friends of my own, and I transitioned from Alice's granddaughter to bonafide OMD member.

I want to continue to tell you about these ladies. I want to tell you about Mrs. Mary Lou and how she would lean in to tell you something and then pull back with eyebrows lifted. I want to tell you about Mrs. Esther and how she came to believe I was writing a book about my grandfather, for whom she worked back in the day, and how even though she was in the advanced stages of alzheimer's she still asked about me and how the book was coming along. I want to tell you these things and more, but the words are tangled in my head, much like the feelings that wouldn't let me cry when they died.

But I'm crying now. Crying because I loved them and miss them. Crying because I can't get sentences on the page that will do them justice....and for now this is all I have. Maybe tomorrow will be better.