Amateur

“I need you to work your magic, and keep that old man away from me,” my father stormed into the library where I was reading, trying to avoid the other guests in the main room of the estate. “I can’t stand that he keeps defending that monster son of his.”

I looked up from my book to see “The Monster” standing in the shadows on the other side of the room. Dad, noticing the direction of my gaze, was rendered speechless in his self-imposed awkwardness.

“I actually think that’s great,” the topic of discussion said as Dad made a hasty exit from the room.

I continued with my reading without commentary.

Closing the distance between us in a way that would make someone else feel threatened, he stood just outside of my comfort zone. His stare intense, his posture open and arrogant.

“What do you think?” A hungry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Is my father wrong?”

I returned his scrutiny, keeping my face an indiscernable mask.

“I don’t know your father, and I don’t know you.” I watched for any twitch of reaction from him. “So, I haven’t formed an opinion of either of you.”

“Looking at me now, what do you think?” Opening his arms, he made a slow turn.

“It would depend,” Standing, I took full measure of him. “Does he believe you’re innocent of your alleged crime, or does he believe you committed it, but justified in your actions? Does he know you did it with malice and forethought, cold and heartless, but defends you through a depraved sense of loyalty to his only son, no matter how sick and twisted?”

Moving a step closer, his tongue flicking across his dark lips, he tilted his head slightly so he was looking at me askew.

“Yes,” punctuating his whispered hiss with a single raised eyebrow. His attempted intimidation was amusing.

Laying down my book, I closed the gap between us even further. Keeping my voice low enough so only he could hear, I allowed him to finally see my true feelings. I could taste his panic. My lips quivering in an effort to not laugh aloud, I held eye contact with him.

“You want my assessment? You’re an amateur.” My words cut through his bogus swagger. “You have no finesse. Your work is sloppy and disorganized.”

Leaning in even closer, I raised my cupped right hand to his face without touching him. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, as I murmured in his ear, my words a hot caress against his skin. Gratified to see the bravado draining from his body, a dark stain spread down one pant leg.

“It’s not my opinion of your father that you need to fear.”

This week’s Studio30 Plus prompt is “Hope,” and/or “Old.”

*I woke from an odd, and quickly dissipating dream with that opening line of dialogue rattling around in my head. I quickly wrote it down in a notebook I keep by my bed. The remainder of this story sort of percolated the rest of the day. Color me happy when it fit into the Studio30 Plus prompt for this week. Photo venue: A grotesque adorning the outer wall of Biltmore Mansion, Asheville, NC.

A father’s right

He sat on the curb, legs bent so he could rest his elbows on his knees. A freshly fired pistol, now unloaded and its clip removed, lay on the sidewalk beside him, but out of reach.

Dressed in clean jeans, his most comfortable pair of running shoes and the red plaid button-down his wife always complimented him on, he looked like an average, middle-aged man. Except for the blood spatter hidden in the pattern of his shirt, and flecks of crimson dotting his face, he could be the guy next door.

His cell phone buzzed, but he ignored the noise. The last number he called was showing on the caller ID, but he had nothing left to say to the person on the other end. He said it all minutes before:

“I need a police officer and ambulance at 1212 Caster Street. I just shot someone.”

He was sure his target was dead, but he requested the ambulance just in case. He wanted the other man dead, hoped he was, but another bullet would only make the situation worse. He made his point already, anything more was unnecessary.

This was his last act of hopelessness. All his complaints, all the emails and voice messages, the notes left on her windshield, even hospital photos of ghastly injuries weren’t enough to get anyone to help. If the legal system wouldn’t stop the abuse, then there was only one option left.

When he finally came to trial for the murder of the man he claimed was physically and psychologically tormenting his daughter, neighbors and friends asked the inevitable questions about why he did what he did.

What gave him the right to take the law into his own hands, to act as judge, jury, and executioner.

In her opening statement, his attorney answered:

“Desperation had given him authority.”

Inspired by T.H. White’s “Once and Future King”
“Desperation had given him authority”

Twisted

I turned down that dark road, 
         Abandoning who I was 
                For who you wanted me to be.

Contorted and transformed, 
         I have become unrecognizable in the mirror 
                Held up to my down-turned, shame-filled face

Careful where I tread,
         I twisted an ankle trying
                Not to break the eggshells I walked on.

My stomach knotted with every malformed word I uttered.
         Lies and disgrace, like heavy stones in my mouth,
                Choked out my cries for help.

Hunchbacked from being
         So long under your thumb,
                 My mishapened spirit may never stand tall and free again.

Your weight has broken me.

Submitted to WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge. This week the theme was to “…write a poem about anything you choose, and in any style you choose. The catch: play around with the formatting in your verse.”

The 100 Word Challenge is to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Contorted’

Favorite mistake

A slight wind was blowing, and thick clouds kept the sun concealed. A mix of grey tones was the only delineation between the sky and the park walkway.

Having rained the night before, small puddles dotted the lawn. Paquin ambled through the wet leaves, breathing in the petrichor, wishing she could bottle that ‘after the rain’ scent.

Several small tables were spread out in a well-manicured clearing. At each, two men sat facing each other, a chess set and timing clock separating them. Paquin frowned slightly at the sight. She had hoped the rain would dampen the benches too much, and keep the wood pushers away. The time was now, though, so she couldn’t delay her plans.

Keeping to the edge of the clearing, she slid into the shadows of the forest canopy to find her favorite scrying bowl. To an outsider, it appeared to be an ordinatry birdbath. Yet, a closer inspection showed precious silver and intricate scroll designs under the green patina. Filled with rainwater from spring’s first shower, and the last leaves from winter, it was ideal for divination.

She took a cursory look over her shoulder, and in her haste, forgot a cloaking spell to shield her from prying eyes. From the amalgam of leaves and rain she pulled a simulacrum, lifting it out of the bowl to seek its counsel.

“What strange alchemy is this?”

A slight wave of her hand, and the effigy slid under the wet leaves.

Without turning, she calmly addressed the intruding old-timer.

“It is not alchemy. You did not see anything amiss. It was simply a distortion of light and shadow.”

She heard the shuffle of feet through wet leaves. Glancing back, she saw the elderly man return to his chess match, but his younger opponent remained outside her purview, a knowing smirk playing across his face.

Returning his smile, she would later tell their children this day was her favorite mistake.

The Trifecta challenge this week is: Alchemy [noun \al-kə-mē\] 3: an inexplicable or mysterious transmuting

This week’s Studio30 Plus theme is “a favorite mistake”

Small bouts of bravery

Bravery doesn’t have to mean risking your life. Bravery can mean dropping to your knees to take a serendipitous photo of a violet blooming through a sidewalk crack, and not caring who’s watching.

The Trifextra Weekend challenge is: 33 words of advice

The sun on my face

Grey, lackluster skies are thick with regret. Rain and tears both threatening, my emotions and the weather mirroring equal measure of melancholy.

The energy I expend withdrawing from the emptiness of my room is Herculean. Cocooned in my isolation, I’m comforted by the predictable trivialities of what my life has become. Living in the world terrifies me.

My journey takes me far away from these fears, far from the pervasive and oppressive anxiety. The sun on my upturned face is a warm, loving caress on my skin. The gentle breeze, a mother’s kiss.

One step, one day at a time.

The 100 Word Challenge is to tell a story in only 100 words. This week’s theme is ‘Lackluster’

Submitted to Skywatch Friday, Season 6: Episode 39

*Photo venue: Fort Pickens, Gulfshores National Seashore, Pensacola, FL

Personal Pequod

His gruff persona was as iconic as the lighthouse standing vigil on the knoll above the marina. If you were in the harbor when he returned from a voyage, you would spy him at the helm of his boat, greasy ball cap shoved down over his bald pate, his eyes barely visible. His characteristic oil cloth Grundens, slick with ocean spray, snapped to his chin.

The aroma of crab pots, emptied of their bugs and stacked on the starboard side of the deck, entice a squabble of gulls, cawing their discontent over having no morsels to steal. Life-preservers, once bright safety orange, now faded to a dull vermillion, serve as dock bumpers.

The enigmatic captain was the epitome of Ahab, and his trawler, his personal Pequod. His Moby wasn’t a Great White, instead the monster he chased after was unknown to even him. All he knew was he longed for the sea, that he only felt at home in deep water.

He stayed in port only long enough to sell his catch, and take on supplies. His family stopped coming into greet him long ago, so long that no one remembered he was married. His wife would tell strangers she was a widow and her children fatherless, true enough it was.

When he died, few mourned his passing. The absence of the caricature of who he was, noticed far more than the real person he was. His legacy, a plaque at the local fishing museum and a meager display of his handcrafted lures, was all that remained of his life.

Submitted to WordPress Weekly Writing Challenge. This week the theme was to “snap a photo of something that is iconic to you… write a story using your picture.”

This week’s Studio30 Plus theme is “If I were to do it all over again,” and/or “Orange.”

*Living on the Gulf Coast of Florida, near the “The World’s Luckiest Fishing Village,” crab traps are as ubiquitous, and iconic, as seagulls on the beaches.