Beacon Hill


"I left Beacon Hill when I was three." She laughs. "I can barely recall."

He prods. "What do you remember? Tell me one thing."

"I remember the robins clinging to the trees."

He smiles, encouraging. Gentle. "One thing more."

This one thing more. His way, always, of digging deeper, deeper, deeper, until, by the end of the time she finds herself exhausted. "I remember the roses that grew in the garden of the next door neighbor. He would let me touch the petals, and they were so soft. So, so soft." Her voice trails off for a moment before she continues. "I remember one morning, just after a rain, or maybe it was raining still, a misty sort of rain you don't really notice." She looks at him. Is he paying attention?


He nods behind tortoiseshell glasses.

"Anyway..." She rubs a thumb along the velvet of the couch. Stares off into space. "A bit of water had gathered in a fallen petal and it looked just like the petal, that one red petal, was cradling the water like a child."

He leans in. "Good," he says. "Good." He echoes himself before sitting back again and recrossing his legs.

"My mom held me that way. My father too."

He nods, picks up his pencil, begins to write on the long yellow pad with blue lines. Her life could never be contained on those blue lines. Not all of it. Even with his incessant questions. Never could her life fit on those blue lines. Blue lines. Something she'd forgotten to tell him last week: "I took a pregnancy test."

His eyes widen. His pencil falls to the ground. It makes a little click on the hardwood floors. "When?"

"Last week." She notices he hasn't retrieved his pencil. Perhaps he doesn't want to write this down.

"And?"

"No need to worry." She smiles and reaches for his pencil; Hands it to him. "Two blue lines."

He removes his tortoiseshell glasses, wipes them on his handkerchief, neatly starched. "I'm glad," he says.

"Me too," she replies. "It wouldn't be good for my biographer to be the father of my child."

He laughs and begins writing again. "One thing more," he says,"about Beacon Hill."

This was written for today's One Minute Writer prompt: Beacon Hill.



Labels: , ,

Writing in the Margins, Bursting at the Seams: Beacon Hill

Friday, November 22, 2013

Beacon Hill


"I left Beacon Hill when I was three." She laughs. "I can barely recall."

He prods. "What do you remember? Tell me one thing."

"I remember the robins clinging to the trees."

He smiles, encouraging. Gentle. "One thing more."

This one thing more. His way, always, of digging deeper, deeper, deeper, until, by the end of the time she finds herself exhausted. "I remember the roses that grew in the garden of the next door neighbor. He would let me touch the petals, and they were so soft. So, so soft." Her voice trails off for a moment before she continues. "I remember one morning, just after a rain, or maybe it was raining still, a misty sort of rain you don't really notice." She looks at him. Is he paying attention?


He nods behind tortoiseshell glasses.

"Anyway..." She rubs a thumb along the velvet of the couch. Stares off into space. "A bit of water had gathered in a fallen petal and it looked just like the petal, that one red petal, was cradling the water like a child."

He leans in. "Good," he says. "Good." He echoes himself before sitting back again and recrossing his legs.

"My mom held me that way. My father too."

He nods, picks up his pencil, begins to write on the long yellow pad with blue lines. Her life could never be contained on those blue lines. Not all of it. Even with his incessant questions. Never could her life fit on those blue lines. Blue lines. Something she'd forgotten to tell him last week: "I took a pregnancy test."

His eyes widen. His pencil falls to the ground. It makes a little click on the hardwood floors. "When?"

"Last week." She notices he hasn't retrieved his pencil. Perhaps he doesn't want to write this down.

"And?"

"No need to worry." She smiles and reaches for his pencil; Hands it to him. "Two blue lines."

He removes his tortoiseshell glasses, wipes them on his handkerchief, neatly starched. "I'm glad," he says.

"Me too," she replies. "It wouldn't be good for my biographer to be the father of my child."

He laughs and begins writing again. "One thing more," he says,"about Beacon Hill."

This was written for today's One Minute Writer prompt: Beacon Hill.



Labels: , ,

10 Comments:

At November 22, 2013 at 3:42 PM , Blogger j umbaugh said...

What a surprise ending. The story had my attention from the start, trying to predict the ending ... One more thing, all my endings were wrong (and not as good as yours).

 
At November 22, 2013 at 5:58 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks - I wanted to do something unexpected...

 
At November 22, 2013 at 6:02 PM , Blogger Linda Rosen said...

Never expected that ending - very clever

 
At November 22, 2013 at 6:59 PM , Blogger Ruby Manchanda said...

Beautiful

 
At November 23, 2013 at 5:59 AM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks, Linda!

 
At November 23, 2013 at 5:59 AM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thank you, Ruby.

 
At November 23, 2013 at 9:32 AM , Anonymous injaynesworld said...

Love the whole way you wove together the images of a rose petal and a cradled baby with the blue lines of the tablet, then the pregnancy test. Lovely work, as usual, my friend.

 
At November 23, 2013 at 1:27 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks so much, Jayne!

 
At November 24, 2013 at 5:16 PM , Blogger Jo-Anne Teal said...

Such beautiful story telling: so gentle and so powerful. Really enjoy your writing, Kelly.

 
At November 24, 2013 at 5:26 PM , Blogger Kelly Garriott Waite said...

Thanks so much, Jo-Anne! I appreciate your reading a non-Trifecta of mine!

 

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