The beast

The beast

The beast was getting bolder. No longer satisfied to strike under the shadow of night, he had begun attacking at will. Another daytime raid ended the lives of an entire family of seven, helpless to defend against his brutal might…they were all gone.

It was standing room only in the council hall. Voices were raised in anger and fear. The village couldn’t simply wait to be completely destroyed. Something had to be done, action must be taken to stop the monster.

The council chairman called for order, his gavel thundering over the shouts of the towns people. A subdued rumble continued, as the general of the army stood to address the crowd. He spoke of feeble security measures. Cautioning residents to stay indoors whenever possible, to travel in groups for safety, and to report any sighting of the beast to the nearest defense captain.

His speech was drowned out by an angry roar of disbelief. Calls for his resignation came from all sides. Demands for military force were made. Where were his men when these attacks took the lives of innocents? Counter measures were needed, this monster had to be stopped once and for all.

One lone figured walked slowly to the front of the gathering. Taking a position at the council podium, he stood quietly, his right hand raised until reluctant stillness blanketed the hall. Young and small of stature, his presence was regarded with skepticism and hesitance.

In a soft voice, he outlined a simple idea for dispatching the beast. All that as needed was a small group to join him in implementing his plan. If successfully carried out, the monster would no longer be a threat to the town. The proposal was solid and well-constructed. Though it carried a high risk to life, it was a straightforward strategy.

Cheers rang through the hall. The general clapped the would-be hero on the shoulder, and the chairman hardily shook his hand. Turning to the exuberant crowd, the general called for volunteers. Asking the strongest and bravest to step forward.

The shouting stilled, and the hall silently began to empty. Soon all who remained were the general, the council chairman and the lone figure.

The general claimed he couldn’t join in the plan, he was needed in the village. Without him the town would be lost in fear.

The chairman begged out saying he was needed to keep calm after the killing raids.

The would-be hero left the hall dejected, but determined. Gathering what he needed for his plan, he headed toward the beast’s lair.

His slight body and natural stealth worked in his favor. Silently he entered the den, and found the monster sleeping. Working quickly, he tiptoed around the giant, climbing slowly over its massive body to tie a large silver bell around his neck.

Once secured, he quietly made his way toward freedom, almost escaping before the beast awoke and found the intruder. Though dispatching the village hero with one swipe of his taloned paw, the beast could not remove the bell, his every step, every move, setting off an alarm. The sound, filtering down into the village valley announced the hero’s plan had worked. When he didn’t return, they knew he had made the ultimate sacrifice.

The beast fled, his reign of terror ended and the village safe again, the villagers gathered to honor their hero. Shame and regret haunted the residents for not stepping up and aiding their hero in his quest.

A monument was raised in the town square in his memory, a reminder to all of his service and bravery. Engraved in the stone these words:

“The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.”

Peer challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Leo challenged me with “The strongest man upon Earth is he who stands most alone.” – Henrik Ibsen. Work your post around this quote. and I challenged Chaos Mandy with “You can’t run away from trouble. There ain’t no place that far. – James Baskett”

*With an appreciative nod to Æsop

Lost in the tunnels

Lost in the tunnels

His mail rattling with each step, the sergeant of arms strode with purpose into the cavernous hall. In one hand he dragged the submissive priest behind him, his other hand rested on the hilt of his sword. The whole while, the Prince watched the spectacle, a look of boredom on his face.

He slumped in his throne, one leg bent with his foot resting in the seat cushion, his opposite elbow set on the arm of the chair with his chin planted in his open palm. He visibly jumped when the sergeant flung the priest across the floor, whereupon the cleric slid to the bottom of the raised dais.

Lying in a crumpled pile, the priest mumbled incoherent prayers in between whimpers. Recovering from the surprise of the clergy’s sudden forced genuflection, the Prince straightened in his throne, assuming what he thought was a more regal posture.

“Your highness, the priest you summoned,” the sergeant bent one knee, tipping his helmet in salute.

“Did he tell you where the girl went?” the Prince leaned forward, only far enough to peer at the old man at his feet.

“He claims he does not know,” replied the sergeant while aiming an armored boot at the priest’s frail body. “My troops have ransacked the chapel, she is nowhere in the cathedral. We will find her.”

Rising from his throne, the Prince moved to sit on the bottom step of the dais. Stroking the old man’s head as he would pet one of his prized hounds, he murmured sounds of comfort. With the same reassuring hand, the Prince snatched a fist full of the priest’s white hair, pulling his head up to expose his pale neck. In his other hand a stiletto, kept hidden in his boot, was pressed against the old man’s jugular.

“You gave her sanctuary,” the Prince accused.

“No, sire, I did not, I could not,” the priest words almost too quiet to be heard. “I do not know where the girl is, I swear.”

“Take him,” the Prince released the priest, letting him dropped to the floor. “Either find out where he has secreted my bride or send him to his Maker.”

Taking a handful of the priest’s cowl, the sergeant dragged him back out of the hall. The Prince gestured to one of his other attendants, directing him to bring one of his consort to his bed chamber. If the sergeant returned with the missing girl, he would deal with her as only he could.

When the sergeant finished his interrogation, he found the Prince in his rooms, the unlucky consort’s pale and lifeless body on the floor in front of the brazier, her eyes open and unfocused. The sergeant briefly surveyed the scene in the bed chamber, quietly giving an order to the attendants at the door to remove the dead woman.

“What did you find out?” the Prince, smeared in crimson blood, didn’t bother to cover his own nakedness, a languid smile on his face.

Watching the prince trace random designs in the spatter on his chest, the sergeant forced down the urge to gag. A man accustom to ordered violence, the sergeant couldn’t comprehend the Prince’s lust for inflicting pain for pleasure.

“The girl went into the catacombs,” the sergeant assumed his customary deportment. “The priest gave her his rosary, a sign to the spirits to allow her passage.”

“Did she escape?” Finally looking up, the Prince used the bed covers to wipe off his hands.

“I ordered two men into the tunnels, but they were sent back, barely able to report,” the sergeant, shook his head, remembering how terrified his men were. “The spirits will only speak to you sire. They are aware you are seeking the girl, and won’t answer to any one else.”

“As it should be,” standing by a ewer of fresh water, the Prince allowed one of his attendants to wash the gore from his body. “What else did the spirits say?”

Giving his full report, the sergeant relayed that the spirits refused passage to any other without the Prince’s presence.

“You will accompany me to the catacombs,” ordered the Prince. Once the Prince was washed and dressed, he didn’t want to wait any longer to hunt down his wayward bride.

A troop of men stood guard at the entrance of the tombs. A low, moaning wind kept them far from the gate.

“They will tell me where the girl is?” the Prince asked his sergeant.

“That is my understanding,” the sergeant stood in the dark doorway, his sword drawn at the ready.

Pushing his way around the guard, the Prince moved into the pitch black. Followed by the sergeant and two torch bearers, he announced himself to the spirits.

Stumbling out of the gate days later, the sergeant was alone and near death. Fading in and out of consciousness, it was another week before he could speak coherently about what happened.

Once the Prince was in the labyrinth of tunnels in the catacombs, the spirits began speaking to him. Playing on his vanity, they easily separated him from the other men, telling him that he alone was worthy of their help. Lost in the dark, ghosts of  long dead kings buried within the tombs bolstered his false sense power and eminence. Leading him deeper, down into forgotten depths, the Prince was abandoned in the blackness, the voices of his ancestors taunting him for his pride and arrogance.

Outside the castle, far away from her past life, a young woman sat at a massive loom, weaving a pattern she created for her first commission as a full guild member. A well-worn rosary, a life-saving gift, hung from her belt. The town people whispered that she had the gift of a seer, able to speak to the dead, a skill she learned in the castle catacombs.

A continuation of this story: Catacombs

Peer prompted

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Janey challenged me with ‘Vanity working on a weak head produces every kind of mischief.’ (Jane Austen)” and I challenged Fran with ‘If you live to be 100, I hope I live to be 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live without you.’ ~ Winnie the Pooh”

Dear mother

Gone but not forgotten

Her heart monitor beeps were in sync with the pain that radiated through her body. The slightest movement sent electric shocks through every nerve. Shallow breaths were all she could stand, the ache keeping her just at the brink of consciousness. If she could have spoken, she would have begged for mercy, a released from her torture.

Men in white coats and woman in blue shirts, stood around her bed, jotting down observations of her condition. Noting her rapid eye movement, and the tensing of her muscles. Sensors taped to her shaved head, sent out a constant stream of hums and blips with every surge of pain.

One of the women, filling a syringe from a silver tipped vial, inserted the needle into her patient’s IV port, slowly emptying the chamber. Stepping back to watch the effects, the patient’s breathing resumed a normal rhythm, and her body visibly relaxed. Despite the outward indicators, her pain remained, she was merely unable to respond to it. Her last thought before darkness overcame her was a fervent wish for the relief death would bring.

Panic welled up in her chest. She knew she was waking up and she braced herself for the pain to resume its control. Her eye lids flickered, and she risked one deep breath. There was no pain.

She opened her eyes without moving her head, trying to get her bearings. The sterile decor of her hospital room had changed. The once industrial green walls were draped in diaphanous pastel fabric. A light breeze through an open window billowed the material, its gentle rustling a welcome change from the mechanical chirping from the absent machinery. The hospital’s acrid antiseptic smell now a pleasant hint of lavender.

She experimented with her seemingly new body. First raising her head, then lifting her body up onto her elbows. A wave of near hysterical laughter from the relief she felt threatened to break the quiet of the room. Memories of the accident flooded back – the sickening sound of metal and glass crumbling, the excruciating pain, the overpowering smell of burning flesh, the endless screaming.

This sudden change, she thought, could only mean she died, her wish granted. She sat up, relieved to feel no pain from the exertion, wondering at the miraculous healing of her fractured and torn body. Swinging her legs off the edge of the bed, she looked around the room, startled to see a man standing by the window facing out onto a well-manicured lawn. His eyes closed, a beatific smile on his sun-bathed face.

Without opening his eyes, he spoke her name, “Welcome home Carla, we’ve prepared your rooms in anticipation of your return.”

Even in profile she remembered the man, his voice, the way he stood.

When she was a teenager, Carla had her wisdom teeth pulled. During the procedure, she had an allergic reaction to the anesthesia and suffered through anaphylaxis. While doctors worked to stabilize her blood pressure, she lost consciousness and woke in this very same room, greeted by the same man.

That encounter ended when the man explained that her rooms weren’t ready yet and she would have to come back another time. Waking in the dentist’s office, Carla remembered little of that other time until this reunion.

She stood and walked to the window. The man held out his hand to her, his eyes now open, looking intently into the distance. Accepting the familiar gesture, Carla looked out the window, wondering what held his attention.

The world outside appeared the same as the one she left, yet different. Crisper, more in focus, colors and textures richer and more detailed. Smells were sweeter, sounds deeper and more harmonic.

“Will you be staying with us this time Carla,” the man’s voice reverberated through her entire body, awaking feelings long forgotten through the pain she had left behind. “It’s still your choice.”

Releasing his hand, Carla pulled back, confused.

“What sort of choice is that,” her voice on edge. “What is there to return to, pain, suffering, regret?”

“Your family is still there, they continue to look for answers, hoping to relieve your pain,” he continued to look at the horizon. “If you stay here, that hope is for nothing.”

“I’m not dead,” Carla questioned her host.

“Not at all,” he finally turned toward her. “You exist on both planes. There, your linear body experiences pain, your memories dominated by that which led you to that reality. Here, your body is whole again, absent of pain.”

“What of my memories,” visions of her young daughter flashing before her, the lingering touch of her husband on her skin.

“Like your pain, those too will be gone soon,” his smile unchanging. “If you stay, all memories of your past will vanish. If you stay, the memories those you left behind have of you will also fade and recede.”

“My child won’t remember me,” for the first time, Carla felt something akin to pain. Her chest contracting, her arms aching to hold her baby. “She won’t miss me, wonder why I left her?”

“No, she will not, and you will be unaware of what came before your arrival here,” he reassured her. “You will remember nothing of your old life, and no one in your old life will remember you.”

The decision was confusing to make. Return to an existence where all she knew was pain, but be remembered by her child, or stay in this utopia pain-free, but also losing all memories of those she loved and who loved her.

While the phantom pains niggled around her consciousness, Carla made her choice. She would stay, comforted by the thought of eventually losing all recollection of her past.

He left abruptly once she made her decision, no words of good-bye nor explanation.

Returning to the window, she was there when two others entered her rooms.

They questioned her about how long she had been there, who had she talked with, what commitments had she made. Carla slowly realized her host deceived her. Her decision had not freed her, it had condemned her.

Her blind faith in promises of freedom were for naught. She wasn’t allowed to rescind her pledge to remain. The stranger’s promise to relieve her pain was true, but not his assurance her memories would also fade. She could not return to her earthly body, her nightmares of never seeing her family again all too real. His other promises also proved false. Her family was destroyed by her temporal absence. Her child aware of who she was, but never knowing her as anything more than the withered shell of a ghost.

This paradise became her hell, worse than her pain, worse than death.

Writing Challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Michael challenged me with “Blind faith, in your leaders, or in anything, will get you killed. – Bruce Springsteen” and I challenged Lisa with “How do you know where you’re going, if you don’t know where you’ve been?”

Writing prompt

For Story Dam, an online writing community offering weekly and monthly writing prompts. This week’s theme is: “…you aren’t in Kansas anymore.”

The interview

Bound

I had interviewed authors before, but this one was going to be more difficult than anything else I’d done. At least with other writers whose work I didn’t like, because they wrote about an uninteresting topic or a literary genre I found dull, I could still find a way to make the review compelling.

I did my homework on the authors. I read their latest publication as well as their older books. I perused previous interviews and articles looking for questions I could expound on. I was always well-prepared, but with this one I wasn’t sure I could be objective.

My libertarian editors most likely chose me for the task because they knew how repugnant I found the book’s subject matter. It’d be a struggle to remain civil let alone give an unbiased critique.

Cameron Bigelow had penned his own book of interviews. Through a collection of vignettes exploring the lives of some of the country’s most heinous criminals, Bigelow was attempting to put a human face on death row inmates.

Initially I pushed to have our meeting at the newspaper offices. Bigelow, knowing I had written several pro-death penalty op-ed pieces, asked for a more neutral venue. We agreed on a conference room at the local public library Settling into our plastic, retro classroom chairs, a cheap wood laminate table between us, we faced off like two modern-day gladiators.

I spread out my questions, written in long-hand on yellow legal pads, notes scribbled in the margins for follow ups on each inquiry. A small digital recorder lay on the table, a cache of replacement batteries in my jacket pocket in case the interview ran long.

Bigelow, leaned back in his chair, legs crossed, arms crossed, trying to look relaxed. His clenched jaw, muscles twitching along his exposed neck, gave away his unease.

We dispensed with routine background quickly ~ early childhood heroes, education, the who and why he developed his anti-capital punishment stance ~ then we got to the crux of the interview. I smelled blood in the water, and Bigelow’s composed posture changed slightly – he was bracing himself for the feeding frenzy.

“While preparing for this interview, I contacted several survivors of your subjects’ murder victims. Understandably, they were upset by the publication of your book.” I left the question unsaid, leaning my elbows on the table, waiting for Bigelow’s reaction.

“I don’t see why they would be upset,” Bigelow seemed genuinely surprised. “Aside from a brief explanation of why each of the men is incarcerated, there was no more mention of the other people.”

“You say, ‘each of the men,’ and ‘the other people,‘ can you bring yourself to actually say, ‘murderers’ and ‘victims’?” I watched his face, wanting to see some sort of guilt or remorse.

“I could if I were speaking of them in that context. The goal of my book was not to revisit the crime that put these men in prison, that condemned them to death, but what came before, before their lives changed, before they changed the lives of these other people.” His eyes flashed, his knuckles turned white where he was gripping his upper arms. “These men weren’t always murderers, not always drug traffickers and sexual predators.”

“But, they did commit these crimes which resulted, often in particularly gruesome ways, in the deaths of innocent people, in some cases children,” I felt my objectivity falling way. I had stopped taking notes. “How does anything other than those actions define who these animals are, and how we should view them?”

“Those actions, undeniably despicable, define them now,” he had moved from his tightly held posture and was now leaning across the table toward me. I was the one pulling into myself, our positions exchanged. “But, before that, perhaps years before that, they were still just someone’s son, a brother, someone’s husband or father. They were more than a deliverer of death, and they were loved.”

“Why not write about their victims,” I asked, my knuckles now white as I gripped my crossed arms. “Their life stories are so often lost in the circus of media trials and court cases?”

“They have family and friends, people who love them to carry on their stories, to keep their memories alive,” he was almost pleading with me to understand. “You’ve heard the phrase ‘dead man walking’? For the people these men leave behind there is a tremendous amount of shame and ridicule they have to endure. Their family and friends are trying to forget them long before they’re executed. I speak for the dead.”

Writing challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Wendryn challenged me with “”I speak for the dead.” Don’t go the Orson Scott Card route, please. Make it scientific rather than psychological.” and I challenged kelly garriott waite with “If there were dreams to sell, what would you buy?” – Thomas Lovell Beddoes”

Stone soup

“You have less than two dollars and no access to more money. Begging is illegal and the police are vigilant. How do you get food?”

Professor Oliver walked around the lecture hall passing out one dollar bills.

Frantic hands went up, questions thrown out in rapid-fire succession.

Oliver held up an unconcerned hand, waiting for quiet.

“Figure it out. You can work in groups, but the same rules apply. Be creative!”

Looking at the crumpled bills, I was at a loss to what I could buy with so little money. Well, food that I was willing to actually eat. I could afford a few packages of Ramen noodles. Maybe a box of Kraft mac’n’cheese, but I couldn’t buy any milk to make it. There definitely would be no fresh meat involved.

I thought about vegetables, but I could only really afford a single potato, or onion, maybe a carrot, a stalk or two of celery. What then?

The more I pondered the assignment, the less sure I felt that I could complete it. Looking around at my classmates, their reactions told me they were having the same thoughts.

Oliver leaned against the lectern on stage, looking over the students, a wicked smile played across his face. He was known for weeding out freshmen with these seemingly impossible projects. I was determined to not be one of his weeds.

My usual suspects gathered around me in the back of the room.

“What a crap assignment.” Ray complained, he who couldn’t force himself to eat at the quad cafe. “No one can eat on only two dollars.”

“There are six of us, that’s $12, that won’t even get us a large pizza,” Claire whined, ever the optimist, and fast food junkie. “I wonder if Oliver would let us use coupons?”

I tuned out their gripes, trying to figure out a solution that we could all agree on and one that would fill our bellies. It suddenly became eerily quiet. Looking up, I saw all five sets of eyes on me, waiting.

“What? I don’t know what we can do either, but Claire’s got a good idea of pooling our resources. We just have to figure out the best way to make it stretch.”

I wasn’t sure what they were expecting, but hearing that I had no instant solution, they all gathered up their books and left the hall.

“Can you all come by my room tonight, we can brainstorm,” I called after them, getting noncommittal grunts and waves.

Putting aside thoughts of this assignment, I had a little time before my next class, a modern culture course studying original versions of folk tales comparing them to contemporary tellings. Flipping through the textbook, I stumbled on one story that seemed prophetic… “Stone Soup.”

As I read the tale of a group of travelers who convinced townspeople at one of their stops to contribute to a communal stew pot, I had an idea, a wonderfully savory idea.

Opening up my laptop I perused one of my bookmarked cooking sites looking for just the right recipe. The next stop would be the grocery store to research whether my idea would work. I had $12, split six ways, to get what we needed – was it doable?

segue

“I don’t like kidney beans,” Patrick made a face, shaking his head at the thought of eating the organ-shaped legumes.

“It works for me too to leave them out, I’m not crazy about kidney beans either,” I said scratching off that ingredient from our list.

“We could substitute black beans or navy beans,” Hannah added, leaning in to point at the recipe. “The extra protein would be good.”

“Black beans would be okay,” Pat nodded, agreeing to the change.

“Will we have enough money left for toppings, like cheese or sour cream,” Greg asked. “We’ve got to pimp out the chili.”

“I think any extras like that are going to be out of the budget, but after we get the soup made, based on our cost restrictions, sure pimp away,” I said, loving how enthusiastic they all were about our version of Stone Soup.“If we get store brands, look for sales, we should be good.”

Once we had the recipe worked out, each of us picked an item or two from the list. We only had our $2 to get specific ingredients. After we had everything, we’d meet back at my place to dump everything into a communal pot.

segue

“That’s cheating! They can’t do that,” complaints were coming from all sides.

“We stayed within the perimeters. We each still only spent less than $2. We even split up the cost of the ground beef. Hannah and Ray each bought half a pound. Prof. Oliver said we could work in groups,” I said, defending our chili as legitimate.

“She’s right. I didn’t say you couldn’t pool resources, just not the money. They turned in receipts and each one spent within their budget,” Oliver stood at the front of the class, hands shoved into his front pants pockets. Shrugging away any more protests, he declared our group winners of the project.

After class I brought him a Tupperware container of chili.

“Just so you know, it actually turned out to be very tasty,” I said as I set the bowl on the lectern.

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jester Queen challenged me with “You have less than two dollars and no access to more money. Begging is illegal and the police are vigilant. How do you get food?” and I challenged DimDom with “You never know what’s going to happen when you wake up in the morning.”

I did check out ingredient costs, and there is a way to divide the list by six for under $2 each. The total cost was about $11.03 without any extra toppings. In Florida there is no sales tax on most food items, but even adding as much as 7% tax, the overall expenditure is under $12. I posted this recipe once before, slightly different here.

Easy Ranch Chili

1 pound ground beef
1 small onion, chopped
2 10 oz. cans tomatoes and chilies
2 15 oz. cans black beans, undrained
1 envelope taco seasoning mix
1 envelope Ranch dressing, dry mix (do not substitute bottled dressing)

In a dutch oven, brown beef and onion together, drain grease. Add in remaining ingredients, cover and simmer on low heat until heated through. Stirring occasionally. All ingredients may also be placed in a Crockpot, and simmered on low for 4-6 hours.

The longer it simmers, the more the flavors come out.

Recommended toppings: crushed corn chips, shredded cheddar cheese and/or sour cream.

Ranch chili

We hardly recognized her

A change of heart

During the first few months, we took turns sitting vigil. She was never left alone. If one of us weren’t with her, talking to her, reading from a beloved book, or playing a favorite song, doctors and interns were there poking and prodding.

There were hushed discussion regarding brain activity and vital body functions. Whispering behind our hands on the off-chance that she, on some level, was aware of what was being said. It was important to always be positive when speaking aloud, to keep her hopes up for improvement… and ours.

After the first year, we slacked off on our visits. We needed to return to our lives, to the living. One of us would try to stop by at least once a week, then once a month, relying on the staff to notify one of us is there were any major changes in her condition.

Had she been more approachable before her accident, more amiable, perhaps we would have been more diligent in our care for her afterwards. She was dear to us because she was our mother, but none could say we missed that acerbic tongue of hers. Her caustic way of making everyone feel inadequate in whatever we attempted, even if was trying to love her at her most unlovable.

This whole time we had no way of knowing what was going on in her mind. What she was truly aware of, what she remembered from her past, or from her time suspended in this limbo.

While she appeared to be sleeping, untroubled and unfettered from this world, she was in truth reliving every moment of her life. Watching not through her own eyes, but as a spectator. Conscious not only of her actions and words, but also privy to the feelings and thoughts of the targets of her disdain.

She felt every insult, every humiliation, every wound. She saw the pain in eyes of her children and husband, then the tears of her grandchildren who had no understanding of what they did to earn their grandmother’s unceasing contempt.

The only outward clue to what she was enduring was an occasional tear that would trickle down her slack cheek. Wiped clear by an unaffected nurse during her morning bath, her wet pillow case changed by an unsympathetic orderly.

These vignettes played on a continuous loop in her mind, and as they persisted, she saw herself as others did. And it changed her. Now she wanted to live long enough to make amends.

Slowly, during the third year of her imprisonment in her mind, she began to regain consciousness. At first we held out little hope of a total recovery, but soon the awaking was undeniable. She seemed different in ways we couldn’t quite characterize. It was in a look, a tentative smile, the tone of her voice.

It was one of her youngest scions that realized the truth. A precocious preschooler when her grandmother fell into her deep sleep, the urchin sat at the foot of her Nana’s bed, watching with rapt attention watching her and her mother talking tenderly together. They held hands like she and her mother did when sharing secrets.

Tilting her head to one side, as children are wont to do when listening intently, she closed her eyes, a look of solemn concentration wrinkling her brow.

Sitting up suddenly, the little girl squealed, “I remember you now!” Clapping her hands excitedly, “You used to be mean, you’re not anymore. You were gone for so long, I hardly recognized you. I like you so much better this way.”

“I hardly recognize myself sweetie, but all that is going to change because I like myself better this way too,” the old woman said squeezing her daughter’s hand, grateful her child squeezed back.

Writing Challenge

For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Jen O. challenged me with “She was gone for so long, we hardly recognized her.” and I challenged Lilu with “Somewhere over the rainbow“

Prom queen

“Not if you were the last person on earth!”

She made flouncing an art form. An effortless flip of her perfectly coiffed fall of auburn hair, a quick turn on her delicate, well-pedicured heels, and she was a distant memory.

A faint aroma of singed ear hairs settled in a fog around him, his cheeks burning bright red from her rebuff.

What was he thinking, asking the most lusted after girl in the junior class to prom. His act of desperation wasn’t even borne out of a bet or dare. As the words left his lips, he regretted his idiocy. There was no hope that it would end well.

Just as he thought he had escaped further humiliation, having timed his invitation during a lull in the usual hallway riot of students, his cell phone hummed in his pocket.

Curious who would be texting him during school hours, he checked the message to find he was the subject of an email blast detailing his ill-fated attempt to beg a date from Her. There would be no hiding now. As soon as classrooms emptied out, the entire student body was abuzz with barely contained excitement. Fresh blood was in the water and a feeding frenzy was imminent.

The following week was spent lingering in alcoves and bathrooms between classes until the last possible minute. He kept his head down, answering only direct questions from faculty and staff. Lunch was eaten clandestinely in library carrels, away from the constant barrage of insults and jokes.

If he could make it through the dance weekend, by the following Monday there would be a new punch line. Someone who had managed to arrive at the prom drunk or stoned, an explosive break up or wardrobe malfunction would supplant his faux pas and his life could resume along its former mundane path.

Friday night, as his family gathered around their 55-inch Vizio, dinner plates perched atop pale, faux wood-tone TV trays, the local anchor was narrating a video clip from earlier that afternoon. A local high school debutant had been critically injured in a two-car accident on Highway 29. The 2012 Candy Apple Red Mustang driven by the deb had cross the centerline, side-swiping a 1998 Volvo wagon driven by 65-year-old Chester Preston of Franksburg.

Preston, who had been wearing a seat belt, was taken by ambulance to Sacred Heart with cuts and abrasions, and a broken arm. The deb was airlifted to St. Michael’s in critical condition with severe facial lacerations.

According to witnesses, young deb had been texting when the accident occurred. Charges were pending.

He nearly choked on his chicken-fried steak at the mention of the young debutant’s name. The one and only who so contemptuously turned down his request to attend the spring formal. Looked like she would be missing the dance too. He couldn’t help but wonder whether she felt slighted that she couldn’t be identified as a prom queen.

In the morning he called the hospital, trying to get an update on her condition, only to be told that information was restricted by her family. He asked if she was allowed visitors, but before the nurse could answer she was called away to a Code Blue.

Driving to the hospital, he rehearsed what he thought would be a convincing monologue, some far-fetched story about being her boyfriend, hoping it would get him passed the nurses’ station. He stopped at the first floor gift shop and bought a small bouquet of yellow roses. The Pink Lady working the visitor’s information desk was able to direct him to the fifth floor where he was told she was in room 505.

Visiting hours weren’t for another 20 minutes, but he was welcome to have a seat in the waiting room. The nurse took the flowers, promising to find a vase to put in her room.

The blond woman already in the room had to be her mother. There was no mistaking the family resemblance, despite the stark difference in hair color. Walking over to her, he reached out his hand, introducing himself as a classmate, and asking about her condition. Reaching up from her seat to grasp his hand, she turned her red-rimmed eyes to him, a wavering smile on her face, thanking him for coming by.

With her mother as his escort, he was lead into the girl’s room. A faint scent of A&D ointment, mixed with antiseptic, assaulted his senses. Machines helping her breathe hummed softly, and another beeped with each beat of her heart.

Her long hair, shaved off to bare skin, was replaced by bloody white bandages. Both eyes, bruised purple and green, were swollen shut. Angry black stitches ran down one cheek and along her chin. If he didn’t know who she was, he would have never recognized her.

Taking the empty chair beside her bed, he sat down. Looking intently at her, he tried to see something amid the carnage that was familiar. He asked her mother if she would know he was there. She assured him that doctors felt she would, and encouraged visitors to talk with her. Reaching out, he touched the back of her hand. Her eyelids fluttered, but didn’t open.

Over the following weeks, he visited every day. Sometimes reading to her from one of the novels on their English book list, or when she seemed particularly agitated, he would merely sit nearby, stroking her arm. Her mother told him once that he was the only one of her classmates who visited.

He was there when she finally woke up.

The next day, she was alert and aware of her surroundings. Her mother met him at the nurse’s desk, asking him to join her in the waiting room. She warned him that she may not remember him, a consequence of her head injury. A development he thought may not be so bad. Unfortunately, the moment he entered the room, it was apparent she knew exactly who he was.

Her mother, thinking the two would want to be alone for their reunion, left them to make a quick run to the hospital cafeteria.

“Why are you here,” she asked, her speech slightly slurred and voice raspy from little use.

“I’ve been here every day since your accident,” he stayed close to the door, suddenly shy to be near her. A flashback to the last words she said to him ringing in his ears.

“My mother told me. You let her believe you were my friend.” She seemed to be struggling with her emotions, but he couldn’t tell if she was angry or sad.

“I saw no reason to tell her anything different.” He took a step forward.

“But, why did you come? Were you here to gloat, to see me brought to this,” hardly able to lift her arms, she gestured best she could at her disfigured face.

“No, it wasn’t that.” Another step forward. “I wanted to help. I wanted to show you I could be a friend.”

“I remember someone reading to me, was that you?” She pointed to the chair beside her bed.

“Yes,” he took the offered seat. “Some days I would just sit with you.”

“Mom said you were the only visitor I had besides family,” a single tear spilled down her cheek.

“I was glad to come,” he reached out for her hand.

“What now,” she squeezed his fingers. “Will you keep coming by?”

“I will if you want me to,” he scooted the chair closer to her bed, smiling at her request. “We could get to know each other better, because to know me is to love me.”

She laughed softly, relaxing into her pillows, but didn’t let go of his hand.

When her mother returned later, she saw him sitting by her daughter’s bed, holding her hand while she peacefully slept. She stepped quietly out of the room, closing the door and saying a prayer of thanks for the boy who helped bring her daughter back from the brink of death.

Writing Challenge

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Lisa challenged me with “To know me is to love me” and I challenged Pamela with “The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated“.