A child is born

The city was awash in lights. Strings of brilliant white festooned store fronts, casting glittering reflections on the falling snow. Decorated shop windows pulled in holiday revelers with Christmas scenes of pine trees draped in tinsel and garland, and children, faces filled with awe and wonder, eagerly opening Santa’s presents.

Audry recognized Landon’s profile as he stood admiring Macy’s window. When he pointed to a toy train that wended through the scene, she realized he wasn’t alone. A petit woman was hidden from sight behind his open overcoat. Stepping behind her, he pointed over her shoulder at another train that circled the base of the Christmas tree.

As the other woman stepped closer to the window, Audry’s breath caught in her throat. She was at least eight months pregnant. The woman lifted her left hand, covering her mouth as she laughed. A diamond on her second finger glinted in the holidays lights.

The flash pierced Audry’s heart as surely as if Landon stabbed her with a dagger. He was obviously married, and they were having a baby. A baby he told Audry he never wanted.

Reaching back, the woman kissed Landon’s cheek, while also rubbing her hands over her bulging stomach. Landon slid a hand down to stroke his wife’s stomach too, grinning widely when he felt the baby stirring.

Audry hadn’t moved from her spot, mesmerized by the familial scene playing out before her. Landon and his wife turned toward her, recognition instant on his face. She stood, frozen, as the pair came closer. Landon whispered in his woman’s ear, then waited a few steps away from Audry. The woman strode past her into the bakery next door, unaware of the turmoil she was causing.

Once the other woman was inside, Landon approached Audry.

“I should have told you,” he kept his face averted, avoiding looking her.

“Told me what?” Audry tried to sound nonplussed. “That you moved on? That you weren’t sitting home alone, pining for me?”

Sighing heavily, Landon finally looked up. “No, that I got married and that we are expecting.”

Fumbling with the buttons on her coat, Audry seethed inside, wanting to slap him.

“Expecting what?” She couldn’t keep her voice from raising an octave with poorly suppressed emotion.

“Still as bitchy as ever, and you wonder why I didn’t want to have children with you.” Adding extra emphasis to “you,” Landon dropped the pretense of regret.

“Yeah, about that.” Audry had dreamed of this moment. “I went off birth control for months before our break up. Even had fertility tests done when I didn’t get pregnant right away. Guess what, lover? There was no reason I shouldn’t’ve pissed a blue stripe. Except… maybe you were shooting blanks.”

She watched the muscle in Landon’s jaw twitch while he chewed on his retort. Going in for the kill, she twisted the knife in his insecurity a little more.

“How sure are you of little Miss Thang?” She smiled seeing her words hit their target. “Still going out of town a lot on business? She’s cute. I bet she doesn’t like being left alone for weeks at a time.”

“You shut your whore mouth!” Landon took a step forward, his arms straight by his side, hands balled into fists.

“Just a little something to think about.” Audry moved around Landon, leaving him alone on the sidewalk. Looking back once, she saw his wife had joined him again with two steaming cups. He stood a little back from her, looking pointedly at her stomach.

Turning the corner, Audry leaned against the brick wall. Breathing deeply, she tried to still her pounding heart. Closing her eyes, she made a mental note to call her doctor the next morning to schedule an exam. Wouldn’t it be ironic if it really was her problem and not Landon’s?

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week: k~ gave me this prompt: A woman runs into an ex who is shopping with his pregnant wife. While they were dating, he told her he didn’t want to have children. How do they deal with the face to face that follows?.
I gave Sinistral Scribblings this prompt: He was my best friend, how could I say no to him?

Until proven guilty

The room was uncannily hushed when we filed into the jury box. The thrill of serving on a high-profile case was tempered by being in a position of public scrutiny if we screwed up the verdict.

For the first two days, we heard testimony from specialists and hired experts. Without our binder of documents, it would have been impossible to understand all the legal jargon.

The defendant was finally scheduled to take the stand, and the gallery was filled to capacity by the morbidly curious. News pundits were predicting a brutal cross-examination from Assistant District Attorney Bonnie Post, a woman on a campaign against domestic violence, and for her boss’ high-backed leather chair.

Looking uncomfortable in his suit and tie, the defendant kept nervously tugging at his tight collar. When answering questions from his attorney, he leaned awkwardly toward the microphone at the witness stand, until the judge told him he didn’t need to move.

After an hour, Post stepped up. The hatred she felt toward him was palpable.

“Do you feel like a man when you push her around?” She wasted no time in her attack. “Do you beat all your girlfriends?”

The judge fielded objections from his attorney on nearly every question the ADA posed.

“Why did you try to kill the victim?”

“I didn’t try to kill her,” his voice rising. “After I made it rain at the restaurant, throwing all her whore money back in her face, she came at me.”

“She’s nearly half your size, you expect the court to believe you felt threatened?” Post added a condescending chuckle to punctuate her question.

“Her size didn’t matter,” bringing his volume back under control. “A knife can kill big people too. I pushed her to get away from that switchblade. It wasn’t the first time she tried to cut me.”

Unbuttoning his shirt, he revealed crisscrossed pink scars on his chest, evidence of prior attacks.

“Women aren’t the only victims of domestic violence.”

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Rain [transitive verb \rān\] 3: to take a lot of money in bill form and toss it up in the air.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane gave me this prompt: Do you feel like a man when you push her around?.

I gave Julia Mae this prompt: Interpret the quote however you want, and you don’t have to use the actual quote: “The present was an egg laid by the past that had the future inside its shell.”–Zora Neale Hurston

Proof

Dried leaves, filtering through the collapsing roof, crunched under her feet. Walking from room to room, flashbacks from her childhood twisted through her memory.

The door long gone, she stepped over the threshold of the closet where she slept. A metal chest sat forlorn in the corner. Inside, she was shocked to find the remains of long forgotten toys and storybooks. When she picked them up, a photo fell out and floated to the floor. She picked it up and gasped, crumbling to the floor.

Her tears, soundless and bitter, fell. She had her proof. He couldn’t deny his sins.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Diane Trujillo gave me this prompt: When she picked them up, a photo fell out and floated to the floor. She picked it up and gasped.

I gave Major Bedhead this prompt: You buy an old camera at a thrift store, when you get it home you discover there is still film inside. Do you get it developed? If you do, what is on the film?

The 100 Word Challenge, theme this week is ‘Soundless’

Bequest

The room was designed to intimidate. The oversized partners desk and chair made any visitor feel Lilliputian. I sank into the antique, leather wingback opposite the solicitor who ruled the domain, my toes barely brushing the floor.

The Wallis family retainer for generations, this would be the final last will and testament Raymond Blackburn, Esq., administered as executor. Effie’s heirs had challenged my inheritance, and attempted to invalidate her bequest to me, a mere domestic.

They refused to acknowledge that, as her caregiver for the past 10 years, I had been her constant companion and confidant, whereas they were only visitors on gift-giving holidays. Their main concern was that she had left my gift open-ended. I was given first-refusal over all her material assets.

That was why Blackburn summoned me into his realm of old money and greed. It was time for me to choose.

From a large, black attaché, he removed a piece of crisp, white parchment, and slid it across the desk toward me.

Struggling to lift myself from the confines of the chair, I managed to grab the table’s edge and drew the paper closer. The spreadsheet listing all of Effie’s valuables filled one column – antiques, fine china and silver sets, jewelry and original artwork by the masters. In the column to the right, each item’s appraised value was noted.

Amassed by her late husband, Effie was unconcerned with material wealth. If she had her way, it would all be sold at auction and the proceeds given to charity. The conditions of her will were determined by her husband at the end of his life, she was only able to add a codicil to include me in her coterie of beneficiaries.

Running a finger down the list of chattel, I didn’t find what I was looking for, and pushed the sheet away.

“It’s not there,” I told him, standing with as much grace as I could.

A frown creased his already deeply wrinkled face, as he tucked the paper back into his briefcase.

“What are you wanting to find?” He leaned back against his chair, steepling his fingers. He was still able to look down at me from his lofty position.

I described the item, saying it was the only thing I wanted that belonged to Effie.

He continued to frown, but I saw from his subtle reaction, he knew what I was asking.

“It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

“It holds great sentimental value for me.” I stood firm, refusing to let him dissuade me.

“I’ll see what I can do to locate it,” his tone dismissive. “My secretary will contact you.”

His brief phone call to the estate’s appraiser, revealed that the small, porcelain vase had no, real monetary value and could be packaged, and delivered to me within a few days.

Unwrapping Effie’s treasure, I placed it on top of my bureau. A simple little trinket, but I knew she had cherished it above all else.

“Oh, Carl, it’s beautiful. I love it.”

“It’s just a little thing, Effie, but I wanted you to have something to remember me by.”

“I could never forget you Carl Bowman, you know that, don’t you?”

“I do, Effie. You can never tell anyone where you got this, it would be bad for both of us.”

“I know, and I wish it were different.”

“A black man in the south can’t be giving a white woman gifts, it’s too dangerous.”

“That’s why you’re leaving, isn’t it?”

“I can’t stay here, Effie. It’s too hard to see you and not be with you. I can’t put you in that position. It’s best this way.”

“But, Carl… there’s a war on, you could be killed.”

“Just promise you’ll never forget me, promise me that.”

“Carl I will always love you, that’s a solemn promise.”

“I love you too Effie Johnson, more than I can ever say.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Melissa gave me this prompt: “It’s just an old figurine, what could you possibly want with it?”

I gave Dara this prompt: It’s nothing a second cup of coffee won’t cure.

Seriously, just absolutely fabulous!

Except for the never-ending spell checker, and the occasional perusal through a thesaurus to make sure the word I want to use is actually the word I need to use, I write pretty much like I talk.

I tend to be extremely verbose and will repeat myself several times, only rephrasing, to the chagrin of both myself and all those around me.

Since I began blogging, and Twittering, and Facebooking, writing nearly everyday, I have become painfully aware of what must be for all of you ~ since it has become a persistent irritation for me ~ a nearly mind numbing vexation of constantly reading or hearing me repeat the same few words over and over until you think your ears will bleed.

I cannot seem to break the addiction of these few annoying terms:

• just
• absolutely
• definitely
• fabulous
• seriously

So you don’t feel alone in your misery, I also over use these in every day spoken conversation. I know there are many others, but to list them all would be too mortifying.

Until recently, I had never thought about how often I use the word “just.” Now, even when it’s warranted, I try to find a substitute because I used up my allotment, my lifetime allotment, all in the past few months, if not weeks.

I do know that I’m stuck in a rut, know I use the same few adverbs, the same hyperbole to the point I should be jabbed with stick until I stop. I even know what my trigger words are. I try to catch myself, to break the chain of abuse, but it’s as if my brain says, “Stop!” and my mouth says, “Absolutely!”

Instead of clicking “select all” to find all my misspellings and grammar gaffes, I do a “find all” to search and destroy my list of offending words.

Just be aware, that I absolutely know that I seriously have a problem, and I’m definitely working on a solution. Your continued support would be fabulous!

When I received this week’s Scriptic prompt, it made me think of this piece I wrote more than THREE years ago. Imagine my horror, when I realized it holds true today. So much for breaking bad habits. I continue to double-check everything I write, removing gratuitous “justs.” Only now, I have to add “still” to my list of overused verbiage.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, kgwaite gave me this prompt: misspellings and misconceptions.

I gave Michael this prompt: Like it never even happened.

*From the Vault of IMSO, originally published 11/11/08. Edited and updated.

Freelancing

Once again, he had been let down. This year, he decided, things would be different.

“It’s just not fair,” he sounded like a petulant child. “That should be me.”

“What are you on about now?” Gabe tuned the strings on his lyre, trying to ignore Michael’s incessant complaining about the newest messengers. They both watched in awe as each left the assembly, fitted out in their full regalia.

“It should have been me, that’s all I’m saying,” Michael pushed around non-existent dirt with a pristine broom. It was more an act of futility than any real effort to tidy the grand hall.

Gabe knew he would regret asking, but Michael would tell him anyway regardless of a lack of inquery. “What should have been you?”

“The promotion,” the uplift in his voice meant he considered it an obvious slight. Pointing to the last messengers, “I’ve been here longer than they have, a whole year longer, that implies seniority. That should mean something.”

“What’s a year? You know time has no meaning here. There is no ‘year,’ there is no minute or hour, or day.” Gabe tried to not let his frustration leak into his voice. “You have no reason to be jealous, you have your own role to play, focus on that.”

“Role to play, pffft.” Michael leaned on the broom, splaying the bristles to the point of breaking. “And, just what would that be, huh? Pushing this prop around for eternity? I want out in the field, I want to save souls. I want that kind of influence.”

Gabe strummed a discordant note, forcing Michael to look at him.

“Maybe that’s your problem right there.” Standing, Gabe slung his harp over his shoulder, and took the broom from Michael. “You want what you want, and not what He wants from you. You could be pushing around your non-existent dirt until you can accept that.”

The confused look on Michael’s face told Gabe he didn’t understand. Tossing the broom back at him, Gabe left the hall. He could hear the faint scraping of bristles against the tiles, and the muffled muttering of his disgruntled friend.

“Maybe I’ll just do a little freelancing,” Michael mused, the flicker of a plan catching fire. Walking out of the hall, he missed the scattering of straw fragments left on the floor. “I’ll bring a few lost souls in on my own, then they’ll see how important I am. Yeah, this year, it’ll be different.”

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, femmefauxpas gave me this prompt: Once again, he had been let down. This year, he decided, things would be different.
I gave Kit this prompt: Planes, trains and automobiles

To whom it may concern

Dear…

I’ve thought about writing to you often since we parted, probably since we left it so… undone. Your last phone call caught me off guard. I didn’t expect to hear from you again, and I couldn’t bear to see you again.

When you left, when you packed up and moved out of state, I didn’t know what you expected me to do. Did you think I would wait until you decided what to do with your life, and what part I played in it? You made your choice to leave, and I made mine to let you go. When you came back, it didn’t change anything.

Our break-up came only a few months after telling me you had cheated on me. Told me like I should be grateful for your honesty, grateful that you didn’t lie to me about it. You were so cavalier, telling me over a bowl of popcorn and an old movie on TV, tucking it in-between commercials and another beer.

It was just one more way you ignored my feelings. Even ‘ignore’ is the wrong word. You were completely oblivious to what your words and actions meant to me. What they really said about how insignificant I was to you. How you took for granted that I would always be there, always take what you gave and be satisfied with what little thought you put into our relationship.

Even our first time together was an afterthought. It didn’t matter that I was left in tears. I imagined that it would be so much more, that I would feel loved and cherished, not just a warm body for you to use. I should have left then, but I thought maybe it would get better. That it signified some kind of serious commitment to each other… it didn’t.

I’m actually surprised that I am still so pissed off after so many years. I’ve had an amazing life. I have the most incredible family. Something I doubt I would have had with you. Deep down I knew that if we had married, I’d be another statistic. It would have never lasted.

I didn’t trust you, and I knew that I would never be accepted by your family. Your dad was wonderful. He even shed a few tears when I stopped by your house to pick up the last of my things.

Your mother… gawd! That woman hated me. HATED. ME. She probably told you she saw me a few years after we broke up. Made a point of telling me how well you were doing – “not that I would care,” her words. Mister and I were engaged by then, happy and excited about our future. I held no animosity toward you. I truly hoped you were happy too.

She had so much control over your life. That wouldn’t have changed if we married. If anything, I knew it would get worse. You refused to cut that cord, and she kept yanking it tighter. The thought of her being grandmother to our children was terrifying. We would have never been allowed to live our lives without her interference. She was definitely another major factor in our break-up.

I do wonder sometimes what happened to you. What sort of life you’ve had. Did you marry? Do you have your own children? Are you happy? And, I wonder if you ever think of me… if you’re sorry for how you treated me, or hurt I didn’t take you back. Then I look at my kids, or smile at my husband, and wonder why I care.

Peace,

T.

For the Scriptic prompt exchange this week, Heather O. gave me this prompt: Write a letter to the first person who ever broke your heart.

I gave Michael this prompt: (Character name)’s contribution to the holiday cookie exchange shocked all of us.