Happy Easter '13!

Here in Minnesota, we're still waiting for the snow to go on vacation. But, we know the grass will reappear soon. We will plant carrots, beans, eggplant, and tomatoes as soon as the likelihood of frost has passed. Spring air in my lungs and dirt under my nails renews me as a gardener and as a writer. I will be starting April with NaPoWriMo, National Poetry Writing Month. Will you join the challenge? What creative endeavors are on your agenda, and what will you plant in spring?

Here Comes

The following crumb is in response to Anonymous Legacy's VisDare 12: Waiting, which is about (wait for it) waiting. My first draft was over 200 words, but I whittled it down to 149, right under the Anonymous limit. I call it...

Here Comes

Photo Source

“Every bride secretly hates the wedding photographer,” she mused, fidgeting on the cold folding chair. “They resent us because they know we covered up their blemishes and deleted their extra chins in Photoshop. This bride--who is now fifteen minutes late--hates me specifically.” She heard footsteps. “Gotta go,” she said hastily, slipping the phone into her pocket.

She turned. A man dressed in a white cassock carried an untidy stack of books and papers. He chose the chair directly across the aisle from her and smiled politely. “I would say ‘sorry I’m late,’ but it looks like we’re the only ones here.”

She smiled shyly and retrieved her phone.

“You know,” he said,  “I hate weddings.”

“Me too,” she murmured, “Guess we’re both in the wrong line of business.”

They each made quiet sounds like laughter. 
She turned her attention to her phone. He fumbled through some papers.

Fetch

Here's a response to Anonymous Legacy's photo flash fiction prompt, Visual Dare #7, Secret. I cut it down to 150 words exactly from around 180, and it took me about an hour with a short break to cuddle the progeny and ask him to please, please go to sleep. I'm enjoying reading the other entries as they appear! You can check out #VisDare on Twitter to see who's responding to this photo prompt, and while you're there you could follow me at @gardenofedits--just for the fun of it. Comments, shout-outs, and sangria recipes are always appreciated! 

Photo Source

She found a skeleton key buried in moss near what was left of the farmhouse. “Can I keep it, Daddy?”

“Leave it,” he said sharply. She stuffed it into her pocket.

The tire swing amused her for a while, but she glanced impatiently across the lawn toward her dad’s truck. As she kicked the ground under the swing, a bit of decorative ironwork appeared. Humming, she scraped at the mud with a stick, uncovering the outline of a door. She dropped to her knees beside it and pushed the key into the muddy lock. To her surprise, the door swung upward a few inches. She tossed her stick into the opening. Nothing happened. She got down flat on her belly and stuck her nose into the mud so she could peek inside. She locked eyes with something pale and screamed.

“It’s okay,” it purred. “I have your stick right here.”

Permanently Unstuck

I wound up with another free half hour! How lucky am I? 

So of course I couldn't resist Anonymous Legacy's latest Visual Dare, VisDare 6, Emerging. The usual rules apply: 150-word limit using the posted photo as a prompt. It took me around twenty minutes, and is 148 words cut down from around 160. Not bad. 

Permanently Unstuck

Photo Credit

“Wow, is that from Victorian Secret?”

“Hilarious,” I drawled, tugging up the top of my itchy polyester corset. “I don’t even know what I am supposed to be. Dead prostitute, maybe? They hand everything out by size. At least I’m not the person who cleans up vomit in the specimen room.”

“That’s an actual position? Impressive.” She nodded in mock approval, pinching her lips together and raising her eyebrows.

I nodded toward the house on the left and grabbed my purse and lantern from the floor. “That’s my stop.”

“I couldn’t have guessed what with all the styrofoam tombstones and zombie hands planted in the yard.” 

“Thanks for the lift.” I exited before she could reply. I would hate that job until November first, but then I could slip into another comfortably temporary position somewhere else. Dressing like whatever I was that month would always trump being stuck.

To Serve with Dinner

The following tiny fiction was written for a Visual Dare (VisDare 4: Steps). It took roughly thirty minutes, and is 133 of the 150 maximum allowed words. Thanks to Anonymous Legacy for posting a great creative challenge! I always love to see what others come up with in response to a prompt.

Photo Source

Choosing an appropriate wine to accompany poached halibut was the least of her worries, but she was happy to have an excuse to disappear for a few moments. A hostess must at least seem as though she is taking great pains with the details, she reasoned, stepping barefoot down the smooth stone staircase.  The familiar damp, earthy smell of the cellar made her smile. Although dinner would be delicious—about that, there was no doubt—the seasoning might not agree with her guests. She had never been able to please them before. No matter what she did or said or cooked, ridicule followed. There was no reason to try to please them now. She tapped her fingernails lightly on the rows of bottles, searching for a nice crisp white although she preferred red. 

Neighborly

Moving, gestating, painting, scraping, organizing... Those things sure take away from writing and editing time. Here's my contribution to Litstack's Flash Fiction Challenge #10. It's been a long time coming! Since this challenge was a little flexible on word count, and I'm tired, covered in paint, and rocking swollen ankles, it's a lazy 545 instead of a neat and trim 500. I hope you enjoy it! Leave me a comment if you have a moment. I'd love to hear from you.

Submit your own flash! http://litstack.com/?p=9060

Stella lived alone, so there were never many dirty dishes. As she swished her teacup and saucer in warm water, she watched the couple across the street carrying boxes to and from the UHaul. This was the best time to observe them—before they knew anyone was watching. Even though the kitchen window was open, she couldn’t make out what they were saying. She wouldn’t be able to catch many of their conversations. The family next door was a different story. They all spoke so loudly that everyone in a three-block radius knew when they needed mulch for the begonias.

The new people’s furniture looked cheap and modern. It was not to her taste. It. And it was just the two of them over there. Either they didn’t have any friends or they were moving from some other place. She hadn’t seen kids either. The dishes sat clean and dry on the counter waiting to be returned to the cupboard. She gazed out the window a few more moments, then pulled the plug from the drain, sighing.

“Francie!” she called. The Bichon’s tag jingled as she ambled obediently into the kitchen. They’d start by walking down their side of the street, go a few blocks, and come back on the other side of the street to initiate a neighborly chat. The dog was a good ice-breaker, although Stella had never had trouble starting a conversation. They walked purposefully, although Francie, in her purple bandana, stopped here and there to sniff. When they found themselves across the street from their own house, the new people’s car was gone from the driveway. Darn. The gate to the backyard was open. It wouldn’t hurt to have a quick look. She and Francie took quick steps through the gate. There wasn’t much back there except weeds and a plaster gnome statue. Oh, gnome people, she thought, rolling her eyes. The back door to the garage was also open. Francie sneezed as they proceeded to that door. It took Stella’s eyes a half second to adjust to the dim light through the doorway, but when they did, they locked with the new woman of the house.

“Umm…hi?” said the woman, closing the cardboard box she’d been unpacking.

“Hi!” Stella replied. “I didn’t think you were ho—I’m your neighbor across the street. I wondered if the little dog I saw running loose is yours?”

The woman smiled. “We don’t have a dog.” She waved a polite goodbye.

Stella nodded and gave a little yank on Francie’s leash. They had taken only a step away when the woman called out, “Could you give me a hand?”

Stella smiled and turned back. “Sure!”

“There’s a tape measure in the toolbox by the door. Could you toss it to me?”

Stella looked down and saw a yellow plastic toolbox at her feet and another box next to it onto which someone had glued wooden letters: P-R-I-V-A-T-E.  A few flakes of paint fell off when she opened the cover.

“Do you see it?” asked the woman, trying to peer over the stack of boxes between them.

Stella didn’t reply. She stared into the wooden box. Francie pulled at the end of the leash and whined softly, but Stella could not turn her attention away.

Learning to Drive

LitStack Flash Fiction Challenge #9

It's been a few months since my last post. You could say that I've been otherwise occupied--but I won't bore you with the details. Not today, anyway. The wonderful people at Litstack  have put up a new flash fiction challenge, and I just could not resist. Plus, it's Labor Day and I'm taking a bit of time just for myself. My draft, which I began about two hours ago, was almost 700 words. Whittling it down was tough when I reached 560, but I finally made it (with small breaks for iced coffee and email) to exactly 500. I hope you enjoy it. 

Photo Source

The gap between the door and the top of the crooked doorframe gave Abby a narrow view of the backyard. She could see the rear of the baby blue Toyota that had brought her to this place. When she was nine or ten, her dad had let her steer their Impala up and down the driveway, but that was the end of her experience behind the wheel. She was sure she could figure it out, though. Pretty sure.

An electric lantern provided most of the light in the room, but in the early daytime the gap in the door let in a sunbeam. It ended on the wall just above Jeremiah’s shoulder as he slept on his cot. The man who made her call him Father would likely still be sleeping too. He’d been up all night, and while he’d had the presence of mind to take his empty vodka bottle when he stumbled out, he’d been sloppy refastening the fetter around her ankle. He’d also left his keys. She’d heard the heavy ring fall out of his pants during last night’s visit, but he hadn’t noticed. She found a skeleton key for the door to their shelter and one marked Toyota. No more visits or sore ankles.

The boy was only five, but sometimes she saw a familiar meanness that turned his eyes from pond water to gravel. There was plenty of time for him to forget. But the next child, she vowed, would never see this place. On tiptoe, she scanned the backyard for movement. The tall weeds swayed in the breeze. There was no sign of Father or Mother. The doorknob squeaked as she turned it. Jeremiah coughed and sat up. “Mama?”

“Baby, we’re going to run across the grass. Can you do that?” She smiled at him fearfully.

“Now?”

“Yes, right now. Are you ready? You must be quiet.”

“A game?” he asked, rubbing his eyelids.

“Yes, a game. Who can run the quietest. Let’s go.”

He got up and took her hand as she pulled the door inward.  Jeremiah screamed when the sunlight hit his face and body. “Baby, we have to go!” she whispered frantically, yanking his arm. The car was only a dozen yards away. She picked him up, but he flailed and kneed her hard in the stomach, still screaming. Gasping, she dropped him against the door. Glancing toward the big house, she saw the screen door open. The Toyota key ready in her right hand, she dragged Jeremiah a few feet, but Father was near enough that she could see rage on his face.

She let go of the boy’s hand, backing away. “I’ll come back for you!”

“I don’t care!” he screamed, his tears dripping onto the ground.

She ran, something she hadn’t done in eight years, and found the Toyota’s door unlocked. She shoved the key into the ignition and turned. As Father banged his fist on the hood, she shifted into D and stomped on the right pedal.