Change

Charlie and Ruth liked to get to the diner early on Sunday, the old Buick angled in to a parking spot right in front of the diner's windows so that Charlie could ensure nobody was stealing his old Buick, not that anyone would want to steal that old boat of a car, Ruth always thought.

"Three eggs over easy," Charlie told the waitress when she tried to hand him a menu. "Sausage. Toast, no butter. You new here?"

The waitress blushed, fingered the lace at her collar. "Can you tell?"

"You're doing fine, sweetie." Ruth hated the way her husband was so darn bossy all the time, acting as if the entire world ought to know what exactly what Charlie Browning wanted. She opened her menu and pretended to study it, even though she, like Charlie, always ordered the same thing every day. "Half a grapefruit, please." She smiled at the waitress, noticed her name tag read Carolyne. She liked that spelling, liked the way it was just a bit different. "With a maraschino cherry, please." She regretted the second please. Charlie would tell her she was groveling later, in the car while they were driving home. "And two Belgian waffles, no whipped cream." She folded the menu and gave it to Carolyne.

Read more »

How to Dismantle a House

The old farmhouse was sided in pine. It leaned...just a bit...to the right. Six months ago when they'd first looked at this place, the real estate agent had said it was an eyesore, interfering with the beauty of the pretty little farmhouse at the top of the hill. Tish and Paul had ignored her and stepped inside, Paul making excited plans and sketching out blueprints in the dusty air.

"You know your father wanted to turn this into his workshop," Tish says now, running a hand across the old boards, the wood weathered and grey.

Timmy nods and bites his lip. "You ready?"

No. "Yes."

"You sure you want to...?"

In response, Tish climbs the ladder and began working, worrying her crowbar beneath a piece of siding.

"Be careful, Mom."

"I'm fine." Tish snaps out the words like old nails breaking beneath her hand. She glances down at her son. His dark brown hair. His squinting eyes. "I'm OK, Timmy. I'm sorry."

Read more »

Reflection

Cara glances at the spoon her mother holds towards her, a spot of lime Jell-o at the tip. She sees herself upside down, a long drawn-out face, a wall of books behind her.

"Cara." Her mother shakes the spoon. The Jell-o moves in response, little reverberations spreading out like an accusation. Cara opens her mouth. A baby bird.

"I'm too thin," she says after swallowing.

"You're beautiful."

"I can still see, Mom." She sighs. "You know what I just realized?"

Her mother dabs at Cara's face with a napkin. "What's that?"

"I see the world through reflection."

Read more »

Don't Boo...

"You don't boo the stripper." Jensen frowned into his drink, regretting his partner's choice of venue for fleshing the truth from Carl DeAngelo. DeAngelo's wife's version of the truth, that is; the version that would guarantee a favorable divorce settlement and seal a nice commission for Jensen and Jensen, Private Detectives. It'll be perfect, Louise had said. Get him to a strip club. Buy him a few rounds. He'll spill his guts. Louise was probably at home right now, tucked into her favorite armchair, cracking the spine of a new mystery. Why had he chosen to go into business with Louise? Why, indeed, had he asked her to marry him?

"You lecturing me on local etiquette, Jensen? I guess you don't want my business that bad."

His cover was that of a hardware salesmen. Jensen didn't know a doorknob from a doorbell, but Louise seemed to think he could pull it off. "Nothing local about it. You just don't do it."

Read more »

The Promise of Spring

"The soldiers stare at Annika when we go for rations."

"Let them look." Liam snatched a biscuit from the plate. "Her beauty will save us. As long as there is something to dangle in front of them, they will leave us alone."

"She is your daughter, not an enticement. When will they be no longer satisfied with...?"

"We all need to survive, Bekka." Liam looked out the window. "It will be a cold winter. We must find more wood."

"The hickory shells..."

"...mere phantom of warmth. You and Annika go to the forest tomorrow. Bring back what you can in the sled."

"I won't take her, not with the soldiers."

"The New Decree forbids your disobedience."

Read more »

Visions

"A stranger approaches from the east!"

Before the war, strangers were welcome. Now...

"Haste, Marcus."

I hurry along the grassy path leading to the village's center.

The baker is here already, a dusting of flour on his skin. The ironworker clenches a hammer in his hand. The mute healer sits on the ground, herbs spread upon her lap, hair wild, eyes wilder, rocking to a rhythm she alone can hear. Wrapped up in her visions, the healer never sees the world as it truly is.

"The stranger wears the brand of wealth." The sentry approaches with a woman. "Clean and sturdy boots. Nary a patch upon her dress. Pale skin. Clear eyes."

I look up and into the eyes of my sister Sauren.

"Marcus," she whispers.

"Kill her."

The healer looks at me, her rocking ceased.

"Her city has been built upon the backs of our people," I say. "She has trod through her world in pretty lambskin boots, made, no doubt, by Wynne." I gesture to the bootmaker. "And what does Sauren do in thanks? Cuts off Wynne's hand."

Sauren's husband couldn't keep his hands off Wynne's round bottom as she'd knelt before him measuring his feet. 'Get your hands off that vile creature,' Sauren had said. And Wynne had dared to speak. 'I'm not dirty, Miss. Just poor.'

"Sauren's actions started this war," I say to the healer.

"Please, Marcus," Sauren says.

My sister had cut off Wynne's hand because it was in her power to do so. Was I doing the same? Even among the woodspeople, there is power and hierarchy and thirst for recognition. "No." I turn as the sentry raises his sword. "Stop." The people of the village gaze at me. "A change in sentence, perhaps. Wynne is in need of an apprentice. Sauren, meet your employer. And your niece."

Wynne smiles broadly and Sauren commences crying, although from relief or resignation or sadness, I do not know.

The healer returns to her herbs and recommences her rocking.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. The word was brand.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Things More Easily Understood

"Why did he do it, Gramps?"

The man sighed. No amount of education or experience could prepare someone for this. "When your daddy came back, he couldn't grasp the fact of what he'd done." He cleared his throat and spat. "What he'd been made to do. He'd sit for hours in his hickory rocker on the front porch."

"He made that," the boy said, pride in his voice.

"He did. He sat in that rocker, staring wide-eyed over the farm as if he'd never known it. He couldn't hold onto a conversation; couldn't hang onto the ideas that swirled around his head like golden threads just out of his reach. Do you understand?"

"A little." The boy pictured his father, poised behind a computer monitor, pressing a joystick to send bombs raining down over neighborhoods and onto buildings full of people just setting down to their dinner. He wondered if they liked fried chicken, where his father had been, and the apple pie his grandfather managed to coax from the oven every once in a while.

Read more »

Crack

"I need to tell you something."

There had been rumors about his affairs. "What is it?"

"There's a crack in the universe."

My father had taught literature for forty years until the board forced his retirement. At the time I'd thought it was a bad idea. Now I wasn't so sure.

"Maybe it's a crack in time."

"A wrinkle?"

"No." He held his palm against the sky, smoothing it agains emptiness. "If you're real careful, you can feel it."

"No, Dad."

"Humor an old man."

I reached out halfheartedly.

"Put your hand flat." He placed his hand against mine and pushed before moving my hand slowly to the right.

"I don't see what this..."

Read more »

Rebirth

Agnes rubbed at her swollen left wrist and closed her eyes, as if to shutter out the throbbing.

"What's wrong, Grandma?" A wide-eyed boy, no more than seven, stood before her, his tiny hands resting on the worn blue arm of the chair in which his grandmother sat.

"Fetch me my heating pad, David. I got a pain birthing in my wrist."

David ran to his grandmother's bedroom and retrieved the pad. This he plugged in, and arranged over his grandmother's wrist.

"Not too hot, child."

David nodded and pushed the yellow button--warm--which made a satisfactory click in response.

"Oh, that's better, David," Agnes said, after a few moments had passed. "You're a good boy."

The words filled David with sudden warmth and pride. He smiled.

Agnes opened her eyes and patted her lap. "Come on up, David," she said. "I got me some scarecrow legs for sure, but you don't weigh but a minute." She laughed. "Why I bet that book we're reading weighs more'n you."

He climbed into her lap and stroked her cheek with feathery fingers. "Grandma?"

"Hmmm?"

"You reckon that heating pad will help me?"

Agnes frowned. "You got you a hurt somewhere?"

David blinked and pointed to his chest.

"Oh, David," Agnes said. "There's two types of pain. There's a pain of the body, like this here wrist. Then there's a deeper pain: a pain of the heart. Ain't no pills nor no heating pad gonna' take away that pain."

"We both have a pain of the heart."

"Yes, David. We do."

"What takes it away?"

"Only time, child. Time and lots of love." They sat in silence for a time, each of them lost in the memory of that awful night when David's parents were killed. Agnes barely had time to mourn her daughter before she began to fight for custody of David." She closed her eyes again. Lord, help me to raise this child up proper. Every day was full of doubt. What am I going to do? I ain't got but a first grade education. She'd fought hard for the child, lying to Social Services, getting the neighbor lady, the one with the lawering daughter, to fix up the documents right: High school diploma. A year of community college. The rest--good citizen, a regular churchgoer, model employee--all that, Agnes was proud to say, was true.

"Pain lets us know we alive David. Reminds us to appreciate the simple pleasures in life, like a chocolate ice cream cone."

"Ice cream doesn't last long, Grandma."

"No it don't, David. But neither will the pain."

He turned to look at her. "You know what, Grandma? You're pretty smart."

Agnes beamed. "Why, thank you, David." She flexed her wrist experimentally. "I believe I'm feeling better now." She reached for the book on the cocktail table and handed it to her grandson. "Where did we leave off?"

"Chapter Four." David opened to the bookmark he'd fashioned from construction paper and buttons from Agnes's sewing box.

She took the book, wrapped an arm around her grandson and pretended to read the words that swam before her eyes, making up the story as she went along, relying upon the pictures to fashion her story.

And David, following the words on the pages, pretended he could not read, so as to enjoy the tale his grandmother wove.

"Some day, you gonna' read to me, child."

"Some day." And David nodded and snuggled up closer to his grandmother.

For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Cheney at http://hellocheney.blogspot.com gave me this prompt: Write about the birth of something.

I gave SAM at http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com this prompt: Write the blurb for your current WIP.

 Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Power

They stare at the city, contemplating the power of nature and of man. Bombs can destroy whole cities. Corn can be engineered. But grass can split apart asphalt in search of the sun.

For this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge, we were to write 33 words to accompany this picture:

mohammadali / Love Photos / CC BY-NC-SA

http://foter.com/photo/iran-tehran/

mohammadali / Love Photos / CC BY-NC-SA Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Under Cover

Jennifer Pratt unwraps the cellophane on her pack of Kents and neatly tears open the foil beneath before thumbing the lighter in.

The stranger beside her laughs. "Thought I was the only one to have a car old enough to have one of those."

The lighter pops. Jennifer pulls it out; holds the glowing coils to the cigarette grasped between her lips. She inhales deeply, sucks down greedily. "Want one?"

The stranger waves a hand away. "Can't. Pregnant again."

Jennifer looks at her. "Are congratulations in order?"

"Unexpected, both of them. This wasn't the way I'd planned for life to go."

Read more »

Mended

"I don't care if is door. Or a window. It's nothing but a thin sliver of chance." Momma perched on the edge of her green recliner, the gaps in the vinyl mended with duct tape. She was always fixing things that way, doctoring arguments and things broken with patches or kisses floated through the air upon a ring of smoke.

I pushed aside the tarp covering the cabin's entrance and stepped into cool mountain air. The tips of the pine needles birthed fat drops of rain. The birdsong was tentative and cautionary.

"You leave me now, you ain't never seeing me again, you hear?"

I headed down the mountain. The rain transitioned from drizzle to downpour. My mother would say it was a sign; brittle bones tossed tossed into the air and falling to the earth to arrange themselves into a pattern of significance that I chose to ignore.

Read more »

Earl Grey

Broken-hearted lovers. Wedgewood china. Every moment a play with lines to memorize.

He steps out of character. "I want a divorce."

She drops her cup, watches the stain creep across the Persian rug.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge.

This weekend we are bringing you back to class with a little refresher course on compound modifiers.  We are talking about two words that combine together to describe something.  Such as a well-rounded individual or aone-way street or a lightly-oiled pan.  Here's a fun Trifextra trick: conventionally, if the compound modifier comes BEFORE the word it modifies, it requires a hyphen and counts as one word.  If it comes AFTER the noun, it doesn't need a hyphen and counts as two. 

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Rain

Leandra Jamison studies the cobwebbed ceiling tiles as her hairdresser scrubs a mint shampoo into her hair. "I hate these sinks."

"Why?" Cyndee rubs vigorously, jamming Leandra's neck into cold ceramic.

"They hurt my neck."

"Oh. Here." Cyndee reaches into the cabinet above her head and brings down two thin towels which she doubles over. "Lift." Leandra does and Cyndee shoves the towels beneath her head. "Better?"

No. "Yes. Thanks."

Read more »

Stone

My parents utterly and completely believed in their right to have a place in this world. They laughed loudly; smiled broadly; closed every party while I sat like stone wondering where I fit.

This was written for this weekend's Trifecta Writing Challenge and is the first line to a short story I'm working on. The word was stone.

Kelly Garriott Waite on Google+

Impossibilities

The next morning, Gerri finds her brother sitting at the breakfast table in his usual spot at the usual time.

"What's new?" Frank asks, spreading a thin layer of butter across his toast, brown and crisp. The knife makes a satisfactory scratching sound. Frank's dogs gather at his feet in response, sniffing the air.

"Quit my job." Gerri pulls out a chair and flops into it, her eyes gleaming.

Frank lifts his eyebrows at this. "I hope you're joking."

"Nope." She grins and breaks off a piece from Frank's toast. It makes a loud crunching between her teeth not unlike the grinding of her teeth when her boss was being overly-demanding.

"I always eat two slices of toast in the morning, Gerri."

She shrugs. "So?"

"So you just took some. Now I won't get the full two slices."

Read more »

Escape

"Tell me that story again, Grandmother. The story about Billy and Cassidy."

I nodded and began.

Cousin Billy came back to the mountain one day showing off his Mustang lke he was the only one in the en-tire universe who'd ever acquired a new car. He pulled up beside Cassidy. Rolled down his windows with the touch of a button. "What's goin' on, Cassidy?"

Cassidy shrugged. Kept plodding her feet forwards like she had somewheres important to go. "Meemaw went missing, 'bout three months back."

 Read the rest here. 
Thanks for Studio 30+ for featuring me today.

Main Street

At this hour of the morning, before the main of humanity has awakened from its slumber, Main Street, a product of those who sleep, is largely silent and still. The stores along Main—Irvin's Hardware; Andee Miller's beauty shoppe; the Laundromat—are still locked, their window shades pulled to. Even at Harvey's Diner, the sign is flipped to Closed. But at Harvey's the lights are on inside. A warm glow flows through the diner like a heartbeat and spills through the glass of the front door and onto the sidewalk.

Bleary-eyed waitresses bustle around inside, tying aprons around waists gone soft, setting out paper placemats, putting on pots of coffee. Deidree Hazlett suddenly pauses in her work and laughs, slack-jawed. She folds herself neatly in half and holds onto her sides.

"Ain't nuthin' that funny at this hour of t'day," Winnie Jamison observes before returning to the handful of spoons she's buffing.

Read more »

The Woods Are Wild...

The old house was hidden beneath pine needles. Ribs and bones; Entrails of life past; Remnants discovered in the woods by children. Quiescence.

The woods are wild: A gentle lapping to devour corporeality.

This was written for this week's Trifecta Writing Challenge. Pick 33 words at random from page 33 of Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout.

All Exits Are Final

"I hate the way you rattle your paper about." Cheryl frowns.

Frank glances at her and grins as he shakes the newspaper violently.

"Stop that."

"Are you feeling OK, Cheryl?" He takes a sip of coffee, long and over-loud.

"I hate the way you slurp your coffee. Where is your dignity?" Cheryl says. "Where is your refinement?"

Frank sets down his mug. "If I recall, dear, beneath that fancy dress, your under-drawers aren't all that refined."

Read more »