It Began With a Hug

This work is fiction.  Written for the;

Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words, Take Two

Your challenge this week is to write a post based on the above picture.

As I walk down the cobblestone sidewalk I finally see her in the distance.  She is as beautiful as in her pictures.   I glance around to see my surroundings.  It is a peculiar location.  A little alley with tall apartment buildings on each side the street car tracks.  As I stand and wait for her to reach me, the street car has stopped to unload its passengers.  I carefully eye each one as they exit.  I look back down the hill as she is finally approaching me.  We look like casual tourist.  I say Hi to her in her native language which brings a smile to her face.  As she reaches for me we hug.   I feel her slide the mini container into my pocket as my eyes look around hoping this goes unnoticed.  With her thick Ukrainian accent she says to hug longer. I comply as I reach in my pocket and pull out the syringe.  I quickly poke her in the stomach.  Her body goes limp as the streetcar begins to move forward.  She struggles to get away from my grip but can’t.  Her body is slowing down as the drug quickly takes away her capacities.  The street has stopped next to us.  I quickly drag the female around the front and reach the door. As we enter I move past the driver and softly lay her down on the floor.  I feel the street car moving forward as I stand up.  My heart is racing as I walk back to the front behind the driver.

“The duffel bag is on the rear seat.  Go to it and get dressed.  Quickly,” the driver says.  “I believe we have gone unnoticed.  But hurry.  We’ve got to get her delivered and you out of here!”

I stand and walk towards the rear seat as instructed.  I look in every direction as I reach the seat.   Everything is as planned.  As I casually take my seat next to the duffel bag I take one final glance out the rear of the streetcar.  I am relieved that no one appears to be following us.  I remove the clothes from the bag and quickly change.  Casual slacks with a nice bright-colored Chaps shirt and loafers.  Inside the duffel bag I find my wallet, passport and ID badge. I am now ready for my flight back to the United States.  I stand up and walk to the front of the street car.  I stop at the head of the woman on the ground and bend down.  I feel for a pulse in her neck.  “She’s still breathing Harry.”  I then rustle through her bag and find what I actually met her for.  Another larger disk is inside her bag.  Ah, like magic I think to myself.  I stand, brush off my clothes then walk toward the front of the street car.

Harry is at the controls of the street car.  He is an agent for the Italian SISMI,  an agency of the Ministry of Defense. I am sure that is not his real name.  His real name is probably Baldovino or Fiorello.  But at this moment I could care less. He is my partner in this joint mission between the United States and Italy.  The SISMI set up this exchange of information between myself and an agent from Ukraine.   A few years planning for a couple of round disks and less than two minutes to execute.  “Two years,” I think as I take a seat behind Harry.  I place both disks inside a brief case behind Harry’s seat.  It is the most important mission in my young CIA career.  Finally able to relax, I feel the cool morning breeze blowing in my face and take in the scenery around me.  I have not slept much in the past week.  Soon this will all end!  A car will pick me up at a drop-off location and take me to the American Embassy.  Soon afterward I will fly home like I was on a summer vacation.  

As we move along the street I notice a car parked across the tracks ahead of us.  Harry looks behind and just nods his head upward.  He then brings the street car to a halt.  He looks at me and says to stay in my seat.  As he exits the street car my heart races with anticipation.  Is there something going wrong with our plan?  Who are these guys?  I wasn’t aware this scenario.  This was not how the mission unfolded in the briefing yesterday!  The rear window of the car rolls down as Harry peers inside.  Suddenly another car stops next to the street car.  Two men slowly exit and enter inside. Without a word they grab the woman and carry her off the streetcar into the rear seat of the vehicle.  My heart is again racing as the car speeds off.

As I look ahead of me I see Harry stand up and turn toward me.  He adjust his shirt and begins walking my direction.  My mind is racing. Is something very wrong about to happen? Harry reaches the street car then takes his seat.  As he begins to move the street car forward he turns around and says “a little change of plans Michael.  But it went down smoothly.  Now off we go to get you back to the embassy. Mission accomplished.”

Not far down the road Harry stops the street car.  I notice a man in the suit right in front of where we stopped glancing our direction.  I stand and exit onto the street.  “Thanks for taking the street car today sir, have a great afternoon. Enjoy Italy,” Harry says to me.  I turn to him as he drives away.  He smiles and give me a little wave.  I walk to the man on the street who causally opens his wallet to reveal his embassy credentials.  We walk toward the car without saying a word.  I take my seat in the rear of the car.  My body goes limp as I breathe a sigh of relieve.  Yes Harry, mission accomplished.

Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words, Take Two.

OH Precious Vinyl

OH precious vinyl, where have you gone?

I miss the messages from my favorite artist

written within your album jacket just to me!

My birthday money spent on you

either in 33 or 45 rpm speed.

Sending music into my room

for me to sing along.

 

OH precious vinyl, where have you gone?

You are not longer with us

constantly being replaced by new technology.

Cassette, cds, mp3s.

I miss my trip to my local record store

with my mother years ago.

Thumbing through rows of cardboard jackets

all colorful, each cover their own story.

Protecting the beautiful music within.

 

OH precious vinyl

You may be gone from the public eye

but not from me.

You are hidden inside

stacks and stacks of jackets

worn around the edges and discolored.

But still shiny and perfect condition.

Ready for the player to spin you round and round.

With a needle to act as your microphone.

To play me a memory!

 

This was written for THE MAG

Write a poem or short vignette using the picture featured in this post as your inspiration. Feel free to take the image to use for your post.

Elevator Behavior

I had the inspiration to write about riding in elevators while watching Taylor Swift’s video for “Ours” this morning.   This is very different from anything I have written for this challenge.  Not sure it will work.  Just an observation of elevator behavior I have noticed over the years written in 333 words.  Lots of these behaviors can be seen in the video and she even mentions something about the silence in the song.  The video made me giggle.

I entered on the first floor for my journey to the heavens.  I take the spot next to the buttons to select people’s destination.  I ask politely “what floor are you headed?”  In silence, each person individually steps forward and pressed the own button.  “Ok,” I think, then make my selection. The ritual of stopping and adding people continues for a few floors.  Along our journey skyward, our box accumulates an eclectic group crowded  in the proverbial sardine can.  A gentleman in a nice suit and brief case, the secretary dressed in a low button shirt and a short skirt. A maintenance man in his grey jumpsuit with a tool box.  Each press their own numbered button then stands as far from one another as they possibly can without touching the nearest person.  The smell of various odors ranging from sexy Victory Secret perfume to the foul smell of cigarettes with a little after shave throw in the mix.  What an odd world created with each elevator ride.

Being in an elevator shows very unusual human interaction.  It is void of words spoken and silence only broken with an occasional sniffling nose or clearing of ones throat.  No one dares touch the person next to them. Each is as rigid as the cable pulling the elevator upward.  No one looks around. Each person stares ahead into oblivion or most commonly at the numbers over the door as if they are viewing an angel hovering above the crowd.  Is this universal behavior of an elevator ride?  When the elevator finally comes to a halt and you hear ding of the opening door, the crowd rushes out as forceful as the summer waters raging from the mouth of the Mississippi into the gulf.  Each bolt quickly in every direction for their days work knowing later in the afternoon, the journey begins again.  This time, headed downward toward the depths of hell.  Maybe the silence will be broken by haunting laugh of Vincent Price.  

This was written for Trifecta Writing Challenge Week Sixty-Two.

MOUTH

1a : the natural opening through which food passes into the body of an animal and which in vertebrates is typically bounded externally by the lips and internally by the pharynx and encloses the tongue, gums, and teeth
b : grimace <made a mouth>
c : an individual requiring food <had too many mouths to feed>
2a : voice, speech
b : mouthpiece
3: something that resembles a mouth especially in affording entrance or exit: as

  a : the place where a stream enters a larger body of water

  b : the surface opening of an underground cavity

  c : the opening of a container

  d : an opening in the side of an organ flue pipe

Please remember:

• Your response must be between 33 and 333 words.

• You must use the 3rd definition of the given word in your post.

• The word itself needs to be included in your response.

• You may not use a variation of the word; it needs to be exactly as stated above.

• Only one entry per writer.
• Trifecta is open to everyone.  Please join us.

Do I know you?

Do I know you?

You were my father.

So many years ago

What do I know?

I know you enjoyed alcohol.

I know you liked outdoors.

I know you worked hard.

Those are superficial.

You never shared you deepest thoughts.

Those were washed away

by streams from cans and bottles

as swift as the mighty Mississippi.

You were my father.

Did you love?  Did you care?

Did you hope?  Did you dream?

Unanswered questions fill my thoughts

so many years later.

You left me a child.

Now this  man understands.

I didn’t just lose you to alcohol.

Alcohol never let me know you.

A Clown in the Room

I sat next to her bed on a cold winter morning.  She looks as beautiful as ever.  So peaceful in her sleep.  Like she can live thousands of years.  The stark reality is that I know she can’t.  She’ll be lucky to live hundred days.  As I sit and stare at my lovely wife the nurse walks in.  “Time for her medication Mr. Moseby.”  She awakens my wife, who looks over at me and smiles.  

“I brought you something Helen, ”  I said.  I stand up and walk over to the head of the bed.  She thanks the nurse after she swallows her last pill.  Then she turns to me with her beautiful eyes and smiles once again.  My heart pounds as she looks into me.  I feel my body overcome with emotion.  The way she looks at me.  She always did that to me.  Our eyes meet and there is no one else in the world but the two of us.

“Look what I brought.  This beautiful picture of us from before we were married”  I tell her.  I look at the picture briefly before I show her. Our bodies  are entangled together into one.  So elegant.  The emotion of the moment captured in one snap of that camera years ago.  When I look at that picture now I see the young us but with a reflection of the current us.  She is still as beautiful as the picture in my eyes.  Sure time has taken away so much from her.  But when I look into those eyes of hers it’s as if it was the first time.  My body tingles and my heart races with joy.  

I slowly hand her the picture.  She looks at it and smiles.  I see her face change.  She looks so loving at this moment.  A smile slowly comes upon her face and she reaches her fingers to the picture and runs it across our bodies trapped in time.  My whole body is tingling in anticipation of her comments.  She looks at that picture so lovingly.  I know she remembers that moment.  I can tell she feels the feeling we had when our bodies were woven together.  

She slowly puts the picture face down onto her chest.  Her smile goes away and her chest rises and slowly retreats downward.  Her eyes are affixed to a spot on the ceiling for a moment then she glances and says “I remember.”  She smiles and grabs the picture and hands it back to me.  “Why is there a clown sitting in the chair of my room?” she ask me.

The moment is gone.  I exhale loudly as my heart suddenly aches.  She is gone again.  Gone into her world of her mind.  A world that no longer includes the man and woman in the picture.  Gone to the world of Alzheimer’s.  I feel all alone.  

“The clown is not in your room dear.  Only in your mind.”  This will mean nothing to her.  Like that photo meant nothing.  Although for one brief second, I felt she remembered.  Then she was gone.  Back into a different world.  I know the reality.  It will never dismiss the pain.  

This is fiction.  It was written for Picture it & Write

I urge people to join in, comment with your paragraph of fiction to accompany the image. It doesn’t have to follow my story or reflect the same themes. It can be a poem or in a different language (provide a translation please). Anyone who wants to join in, is welcome. This photograph will be reblogged under Ermisenda on tumblr and added to the Picture it & Write gallery on Facebook and Pintrest.

Bonding with Kids Daily Prompt: Musical

This was written for the Daily Prompt: Musical

What role does music play in your life?

There are so many different aspects of my life where music has played a prominent role.  From listening to music with friends during my teen years, dancing during the disco era (yes I am admitting it!) to going to concerts of my favorite bands.  Music is something in my teen years that I shared with friends and it was important to all of us.  It strengthened our bond.  

Now that I am way past my teen years, I use music to bring me to different places mentally.  It can help me out of depression, ease my mind from life’s challenges or brings back great memories of my younger years.  Music has placed stamps on my course through life.  

As I have gotten older, I began to listen to the lyrics.  And reading the lyrics.  This aspect of music has brought new light to what musicians offer.  As a young man, I would just sing the song and never understand truly what was behind the song.  Now, I am constantly amazed how they poured their heart out to the public.  They weren’t afraid to share their struggles of their life even when it was obviously painful.   I think of “Time for Me to Fly” by REO Speedwagon.  Great song from a musical sense.  But listen to the lyrics.  There is a young man understanding a relationship has been one-sided and he must move on.  So beautiful.  The music on Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumors” album is filled with the pain of two couples breaking up during the recording process.  How did Ronnie Van Zant write such a beautiful song as “Freebird” while he drank  and partied to excess?  Like it or not that song will be around for eternity.  I heard John Mellencamp once say in an interview that he wrote “Jack and Dianne” for himself but over the years he understand it is not his song any more, it is the audiences.  And he was fine with that.  How cool.  

Isn’t Stevie Beautiful

Currently I have to say that music has been another way to connect with my kids.  Unlike my father when I was a kid, I am enjoying current music while my kids will like songs I listen when I was their age.  My daughter came up to me recently with a Fleetwood Mac song and asked if I remember the song “Never going Back Again’?  I was floored.  It’s not one of their more popular songs but it is beautiful.  How did she find it, I can’t recall.  But the connection is wonderful.  Same with my oldest son.  We constantly trade songs on iTunes.  And listen to music on You Tube.

I remember a line in the movie City Slicker’s where Daniel Stern’s character says something to the effect of  When he was 18 and him and his dad couldn’t relate to anything, they always had baseball”.  Now I don’t ever feel that distant from my kids, but I feel we always have music.

Right now I am so in love with the video and song by Annie Lennox called “No More I Love You'”.  HERE is the video.  It’s so very soothing and so beautiful both musically and visually.  

Oh I could go on and on.  I’d leave with how music puts me in a place of calmness, even when life is throwing everything it has at me.  Escape.  Even if it’s only for three or four minutes!

Till we meet again.  Good Day!

Mind of Shoo!

Daily Prompt: Musical.

Sounds Within Silence

The projectiles scream in flight,
ripping flesh howls in pain.
The grunting floor absorbs the fallen.
Silence yells as life ceases.
Blood spitting onto white carpet.
Four walls cry at the view below.

This was difficult for me.  Not sure if I got the essance of personifaction.

This was written for Trifextra: Week Fifty-two

We want you to give us a 33-word example of personification.  Wait.  What?  You forget what that is?  It’s the practice of attaching human traits and characteristics with inanimate objects, pheomena and animals. (http://literary-devices.com).

Your Oz

This was written for the Daily Prompt, Dearly Departed.

Write your own eulogy.

Enjoy!

Oh dear Ron.  What do we say about the enigma that is you.

You were born premature leading your mom to say you could fit inside a shoe box.  The foundation of your life was not set properly,  yet you managed to build yourself into the man you are.

You personality was colorful like the Van Gogh’s you admired.  Yet inside you were painted black.  

You were caring about everyone except the one that was just as important.  You.  

You lived in a fantasy land.  Following an endless yellow brick road alone though you passed many along the way.  

You had potential yet you underachieved.  You tried but never prospered.  Yet you brought out the actor in you and said on to the next one.  

You never felt loved.  You searched throughout time and space but could never grab it from the many who gave.  Yet you gave like an overflowing river.

You sang us beautiful songs and imparted words of wisdom to many but never listened to yourself.

You never let anyone in though many were knocking.

Your mind was filled with stories yet they never escaped your fingertips.

You were a wonderful actor.  You acted happy your entire life yet you never were.

You worked to escape your past but it held you in its vise grip, never letting go.

You can stop giving.  You have been taken away from us.

Now you have reached your OZ.  May it be as beautiful as you imagined.

Say Hi to Vincent.

Daily Prompt: Dearly Departed.

Stephen King says I can’t write!

Stephen King said it!  The master himself told me directly!  You can’t write!  Well, not really directly but somewhat indirectly.  

Mr. King laughing at me!

After countless recommendations I finally broke down and purchased Mr. King’s book “On Writing”.  I have always admired King though I have not read much of his work.  I know he has written outside the horror genre, but generally his writing is not for me.  With that said, he has written two stories that I absolutely love!  That being Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption (not this again!) and The Body.  Anyways, back to “On Writing”.  It has been a great read.  He is a very amusing gentleman.  He makes so many valid points as you would expect from such an accomplished writer.  It seems what he got out of his early life was determination.  He found his niche early in life and worked to refine his craft into a monstrous career.  

Now the main message I took from “On Writing” is Stephen King telling me I can’t write.   If I can’t make time to read lots of books and to write, then writing is not for me!  That was his message!  Is it true? Now I understand Mr. King’s success has given him time to read seventy plus books a year.  It has given him the time to write two thousand words a day.  Even before he had the financial stability to have writing as his full-time job, he found time. Hell, he wrote “Carrie” with a kid on his lap most of the days.  Or so he states.  

But Stevie, come on man!  Give a guy a break!  I have to read that many books?  Outside the genre I enjoy?  Really?  Damn!  You are breaking my heart!  Smashing my dreams.  You are tearing down my poster of Raquel before I finished my tunnel.  You are excluding me from my outing with my three buddies!  You know the one.  Running from the train!  Leaches!  Bullies!  Well, “suck my big one you rich, successful author”!  Work and kids cut into any precious time I have to write.  I know the lap thing worked for you.  I get that!  But I am different.  I will be “The Shining” example of someone who may not had much free time and struggled to read many books but found a way to write successfully!  

Your book “On Writing” is brilliant.  Although at this moment I am not at it’s end, I have learned lots.  My highlighter is yelling at me to give “It” a break!  It’s original bright yellow has given way to faint peach on the pages!  And though I learned lots, I probably made most of the mistakes you mentioned in your book in this little ten minute writing prompt!

So give me my fast food and set my alarm for four in the morning.  I’ll make time dammit!   And I’ll prove you wrong Mr. King.  And before you die, I’ll give you a copy of my first book!  Or invite you to the opening night of the first script that makes it to the big screen! Or both!  I’ll have that opening in Bangor and give you a signed copy.  If you have the time.

This was written for “Daily Prompt: Ready, Set, Go even though I have NO clue how to get my link on the page!

Till we meet again.  Good Day!

Mind of Shoo

Daily Prompt: Ready, Set Go.

At the Ocean’s Edge

This week’s image comes to us from Renee Homan Heath:

WELCOME TO FRIDAY FICTIONEERS WHERE EVERY PICTURE TELLS A STORY

We are a growing community of blogging writers who come together each week from all parts of the globe to share individual flash fictions from a single photo prompt (above). The prompt goes up early Wednesday morning  CST to give each writer time to compose a story by Friday. Some use the photo as a mere inspiration while others use it as an illustration. Use your imagination and think outside the box.

I stared at this picture for what seemed like hours.  While I could have wrote of beauty or love, my mind kept going towards a graduation speech as a metaphor for life.  The word limit kinda hurt what wanted to come out.  So here is what escaped the cutting room floor.  I call it :  At the Ocean’s Edge

 

Mike closes his eyes as his toes touch the ocean.  He hears the speech he gave at graduation twenty years ago:

 “Fellow classmates, we have walked the path of knowledge and arrived at the ocean’s edge.  Today is our new beginning.  With our feet in the water, we must now cross the ocean.  The method we each choose to cross this vastness will be different.  Understand the challenge is not just crossing the ocean but enjoying the journey.  Embrace this challenge.”  

A curve in the road, too much alcohol and an innocent life taken landed him to prison.  He now stares beyond prison walls at the ocean.  His journey finally begins.