Well, I have to admit something…I’m behind. So that means that there will be one more week of the short story madness! Wah Hoo! 

However, for now, we’re going to start the vote for the following stories…

Implosion — Inspired by Karen Schravemade

Prank — Inspired by Nickole Huffman

Blood Out — Inspired by Adam Meyer

Leaving — Inspired by Heather Hammond

Please, read through these stories and let me know which you thought was the best. You can leave a comment on this post.

**Now for the announcements**

For the months of October and November I will be using as many of my writing brain cells as possible to complete my novel “Paint Chips”. That means that I am looking for guest posts! I’ll accept Creative Non-Fiction, Short Fiction, Poetry, Song Lyrics, Photography, Photos of Fine Art (anybody get some good ones of Art Prize in Grand Rapids?)…I want these two months to be kind of our own little Art Prize. At the end of each month there will be a winner (chosen by vote). The winner will receive a beautiful journal from Love Calcutta Arts – a company in India that prevents human trafficking by offering a safe, clean and profitable job! (Better Way Imports has a lot of cool items for sale…all purchases help women to live in freedom).

All entries are subject to light editing and any over 1500 words might be put into 2 parts (posted on 2 different days). Email submissions to susiefink[at]gmail[dot]com (replace with @ and . ). In the body of your email, please provide a short bio and links to any blogs you’d like to promote (your own, of course).

ALSO! We’ll be doing the “Story Idea Challenge” in January! So, start thinking! I’ll start accepting ideas at the end of December.

Thanks for your support, Friends! You’re all my favorites!

~Susie

Make sure  you catch the other stories from this week! Implosion, Prank and Blood Out. 

This story idea comes from the lovely Heather Hammond. I met Heather at a baby shower and we made fast friends. She’s a wife, mother, writer, advocate for healthy living and a theater lover (I hear that she played a killer Eliza Doolittle in “My Fair Lady” when in high school). You can find her blogging about food and health here. Here’s her idea…

“Newly married, young Irish woman. 1960’s on a boat dock in Belfast, Northern Ireland. They’re moving to America. She doesn’t want to go.”

Leaving

Dancing, waving, rolling water crashed against the dock, teasing and threatening to reach up and touch Maura’s feet. She sat on a trunk, back toward the water, face toward the land. It was the only land she had known. Her Ireland. Her Belfast. Her beloved, broken, raw and raging city. Fighting and guns and bombs over religion had turned her Belfast into a war zone. It only promised to become more dreadful.

And yet, she loved it still. She hated to leave it behind for an America full of strangers and change.

“Are you ready?” Terrance asked. “It’s sure to be a long trip.”

“I don’t want to go,” Maura said, not turning toward him. “I want to stay here.”

“But we can’t, Maura. We already bought the tickets. My aunt and uncle will be waitin’ for us. They got a room set aside for us to sleep in until we get a place of our own.”

“It don’t mean I want to go.”

She nibbled on a ragged fingernail. Terrance sighed heavily, she knew he wanted her to turn around, to look at him. They’d been married such a short time. Two months since the wedding. And she was still learning him. She figured that would be a lifelong lesson.

“Well, what do  you mean to do, then? Stay here? With the Troubles going on, this ain’t safe for us.” He walked near, lowered himself to her side. “Maura, Ireland is being destroyed by this war.”

“And we should let them scare us off? Fear is no reason to run away.”

“It’s too late. We’re goin’.”

“You’re givin’ the fighters more credence than they deserve, Terry.” She stood. “What’s so great about America, anyway?”

He walked to the edge of the dock. “The boat is takin’ off in an hour. We’ll be on it, like it or not.”

“Will I then? Or will I stay with my parents?”

“Maura, Love,” Terrance said, his voice softening. “It’s our only option. If we stay here, well, there isn’t anything here but fighting. Catholics and protestants, shootin’ holes in each other to see who’ll be around at the end. It’s no way to live.”

“And so we run?”

“Yes. We run. So that we can have a family. So they can have a childhood.”

Terrance had tears, just waiting to spill over. She realized that he was in agony, too.

“Our childhoods weren’t so bad here.”

“No. But the fightin’ wasn’t so hard either. I don’t want any kid of mine to be trapped inside to keep safe. Don’t you want our kids to be safe and happy?”

She thought of her childhood. Playing in the streets with her friends. The gentle, lilting songs her mother would sing, the way the bright green of hills and deep blue of the sea would fill her eyes with beauty beyond art.

They’d been poor. Barely had anything extra. But that hadn’t seemed to matter. Maura’s parents were in love and that love overflowed and poured out on their children. Her father would play his fiddle. Sometimes mournfully, with a shuddering depth of emotion that set deeply into his face as he ran the bow over the strings. Other times he would play with glee. Bouncing, sunshine of music that sent Maura and her sisters to dance and giggle.

All she’d ever known would stay on that island. And she would ride away from it to such a far away, unknown place. She would be alone. All she would have was Terrance. No fiddle in the night. No hills of green beckoning for her to leap through the grass. No Ireland. No Belfast.

Just America. With its promise of dreams fulfilled and money made. A promise of uncertainty and the chance to fail. And the chance to sleep through the night without a battle outside. And to start from scratch and make something wonderful out of life. The good and bad warred in Maura’s mind.

“Maura, darlin’, we must board the ship.” Terrance held the trunk. “Are you comin’?”

New memories would be made. She would sing and dance with her own children one day. They would hear tales of their homeland and ache to smell the salt water mingled with green land. In her trunk were pictures of her family. She would hang them in frames all over her rooms and pray for the people the portrayed.

And she would come back. Yes, one day, she would return with Terrance and the children.

“Yes, Love,” she answered, unable to speak another word.

She stepped up and into the ship, sneaking a glance back at her home.

Blood Out

You’ve heard of “blood in, blood out”. Spill the blood of somebody else to join a gang. And gotta do it to get out, too. I made my father bleed. He beat my mother. Pimped her out. Killed her when she got in too much trouble. I found her, hole in her head. I knowed it was him. So his life paid for my entry into the “Family”.

I never felt so safe in all my life. I wasn’t never safe, no matter what, before I wore them colors. Green and yellow. For the first time, I had somebody watchin’ my back. Makin’ sure I ate, got a place to sleep that was warm, that nobody was after me.

Here’s the messed up part. You feel safe, but you ain’t. Not even close. There’s somebody wantin’ to take you out around every corner. Sell a dime bag on the wrong turf, mess with some guy’s girl, wear your greens and yellows in a red block. It’s dangerous out here. And if things get too tough, you gotta take out a brother to save your own skin.

It’s like the jungle. Something bigger’s always ready to make your their prey. And, believe me, there are plenty big predators out there.

The only place I could go to rest was church. It used to be a doughnut shop. But some kids came in and made it a church. Bunch of hipsters wantin’ to make a difference. At first I went in to hustle them. You know, get some money for us to “protect” them.

“Sorry, man, we don’t have any money,” the hipster told me. “All we got are cookies and coffee. We could pay you that way.”

Them cookies was warm. With big chocolate chunks. One of the girls would make them every night at 10. You gotta know that was good payment for protection.

But they got to me. At first I thought them cookies was laced with somethin’. Some kind of Jesus drug. Cause whenever I went in there I ended up feelin’ safe. Started talkin’ about my childhood. Told them about my street life. Somethin’ in me started to feel calmer, smoother. They never told me I had to go to church. They never made me feel bad about who I was. They just let me talk.

And they’d hug me. Not the quick, bump hug I’d have with my brothers in the “Family”. No, these hugs were tight. Some kind of meaning in them hugs. Not even my mother hugged me like that. Really, I don’t think she never put her arms around me. Them arms of hers with tattoos and pinholes from shooting up. Her smellin’ like bud and booze.

“You gotta tell me somethin’,”  I said one day.

“Yeah? What you wanna know?” The kid, Brad, was pouring soy milk into his coffee.

“What’s so different about you? Why do  you think comin’ here in the hood and bakin’ cookies is a good idea? What makes you do that?”

“Well, it’s because I’m tryin’ to be like Jesus.”

And that was all he had to say.  I went on the streets that night. Phoenix heat is dry. It hangs over you like a weight that you can’t push off. I strutted, puttin’ on my tough face, darin’ anybody to mess with me.

I seen a bum, curled up and sleepin’ in this doorway of a abandoned building. I didn’t know much about Jesus. But I did know that Jesus would want to help that man. All that was in my pocket was a pack of cigarettes, a gun and one of them cookies a kid wrapped up for me.

“Hey, man,” I said, squattin’ down. “You hungry?”

He looked at me, afraid. His eyes were stuck on my green and yellow hat. I took it off.

“Don’t be scared, man,” I said. “All I got is this cookie. You want it?”

“I guess so,” he said. “Why you doin’ this?”

“I’m just tryin’ somethin’ new.” I put the cookie into his hand.

“Thanks.”

It felt good. Helpin’ somebody out. The rest of that night, I kept findin’ people to be like Jesus with. It made me want to stop bein’ part of the “Family”. It made me want to be around the kids at the church.

“I wanna get out,” I told Brad the next morning.

“Get out?” he asked.

“Yeah. Out of the gang.” I looked at the kid. “I gotta try and be like Jesus. Like you guys.”

“Wow. That’s awesome.”

“Problem is, I gotta blood out. I gotta kill somebody to get out.”

Brad sat down and crossed his legs. “I’m going to need some coffee.”

We walked to a diner down the street. Brad liked it because they served organic, free-range, fair trade…whatever. Hipster food. The waitress’ eyes got big when she seen me, though. I smiled at her. It didn’t make her trust me. She just pointed to a table and we sat down.

“So, why do you have to do that to get out?” Brad asked, sipping his coffee.

“It’s either somebody else or me. And it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Somebody’s blood is the price?”

“Yup.” I shoved a forkful of eggs into my mouth. “Man, these eggs are good.”

“So, is the problem that you don’t want to kill anybody?”

“Yeah. I done enough of that.”

“How many?”

“No clue. Too many.”

“And none of those would count?”

“Nope. Them was for the gang.”

“Man, I’m really praying for wisdom here. I have no idea what you should do.”

“Well, I guess I just find the baddest guy on the street. You know, somebody doin’ real bad stuff. Then it’s kinda like I’m doin’ somethin’ good.”

“No. You can’t do that.” He closed his eyes.

“Are you prayin’ right now?”

“Yeah. I just don’t understand the whole payment in blood thing.”

“Some kind of atonement. That’s what one of the guys says. Whatever that word means.”

“It’s a Christian thing. Atonement for sins. Somebody else pays for your sins and makes you clean. That someone else just happens to be Jesus.”

“I remember that from church. I went a couple times when I was a kid.”

“He died, spilled His blood, to cover our sins.” He opened his eyes. “He already died in your place.”

“He’s like my blood out.”

“Yup. Kind of like that.”

“But that ain’t gonna cut it.”

I left that breakfast. I was gonna find somebody to use for my blood out. One of my brothers would have to be there to watch it. I never felt so sick in all my life. But all I could think of was Jesus. Tryin’ to be like Him. Tryin’ to let Him be my blood out.

I wasn’t gonna work.

My only option was to kill or be killed. In my pocket was a gun. It had been my weapon of choice for years.

Kill or be killed. Or be killed by me. It was a option. But it wasn’t the right option.

There wasn’t a good choice for me.

Run away and get chased down by a “brother”. Keep livin’ in the gang and never be safe again. Turn myself in. Snitch on all my “Family” and get taken out in jail.

Kill or be killed. I couldn’t think no more.

The only thing that made sense was to get rid of that gun. Bury it in the desert. Along with the green and yellow. I drove in my car till I couldn’t see no more buildings, no more people.

I dug a hole. As deep as I could. Didn’t need no sand shifting and uncoverin’ the gun for some kid to find. I took it apart. Buried it in pieces. I put murder in the ground. Hustlin’. Pimpin’. Cheatin’, lyin’, hate. All in the ground. Covered by sand and dirt and my own tears. It surprised me to know that I was cryin’.

“Jesus, I need help.” I didn’t know what else to pray. Never done it in my life.

He was gonna be my blood out.

I knew what I had to do. I called the sheriff. Told him where to find me. Sat on my car hood and waited.

Five cop cars come to get me. They patted me down. Cuffed me. Pushed my head down when I got into the back of the squad car.

“I’ll tell you everythin’. You just gotta keep me safe.”

“We’ll take care of you.” The cop drove me back to the city.

Atonement. Blood out. The swap wasn’t fair. Jesus’ goodness for my bad. But after the blood there was life. Somehow there was life. And there would be life for me, too.

We’ve had the craziest month, right? So crazy that I actually misplaced this story idea! How is this even possible? Because I’m Susie. So, in short, I’m a little off schedule. But you’ll forgive me, right? Thank you.

This idea comes from Nickole Huffman. Nicki is a Freedom Fighter with Better Way Imports, a wife, mom, runner and all around beautiful person. She has inspired me with her humor, wisdom and compassionate nature. She is one of those people who is ALWAYS doing something for someone else. She understands mercy. Nicki is a very special person to me.

Here is her idea (I’m so glad I found it. It’s a silly one.)…

“Sally Vanhandel is fun, energetic and from Asia. Enjoys playing pranks on people. Present time in Las Vegas. Conflict: tries to play a trick on a stranger who happens to be a world famous millionaire and gets caught.”

“I’m getting that guy,” Sally said, reapplying bright red lipstick. “He looks like he’d be good.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Rita giggled, hiding behind a plastic ficus tree in a casino. “I bet he’s real smart.”

“Come on, Rita. I’ll totally get him.”

“What’s your angle? This is a serious thing.”

“Pranks aren’t serious.”

“Well, you know what I mean. So, what are you going to do?”

“No idea. I’ll get him to buy me dinner, though.”

Sally swayed her hips as she walked toward the man. They weren’t narrow hips. Nothing less than plump. Those hips were wide from the birth of several children. And they were soft from the love of all things chocolate. But she certainly knew how to use the movement of those hips.

She stood near the man. But not too close. And she pretended that she was far too fabulous to be bothered with his loud talking into a cell phone.

“Nah, I don’t want to go to the casino. What, like I need to win more money?” He looked at Sally. “Yeah, don’t want to go to the bar either.”

Sally turned toward him, but didn’t look at his face. Her eyes looked at the carpet right in front of his very shiny, very expensive looking shoe. It was a trick she’d learned in a course on flirtation and dating the year after her husband died.

“Listen, I have to go,” the man said into the phone. “Hi, there.”

“Oh, me?” she asked, forgetting to be smooth. “Hi. I like your shoes.”

She made a mental note to kick herself when the prank was over. This would the her initiation into the Vegas Pranksters. It was a group of women over the age of 50 that lived to play tricks on people. Just this one prank and she would be an official member.

Sally just hadn’t figured out what gag she was pulling.

“Thank you. I had these shoes made specifically for me. I have my own cobbler.”

“You have a cobbler? I’ve never met anyone who had their own cobbler before.”

He moved closer to her. “You’ve never met me before.”

“You’re right.” She became flustered. Her husband had been gone for three years and since then, no man had looked at her like that. “I’m Sally.”

“Hello, Sally. I’m Robbie.”

“People call you Robbie? But you must be 60 years old.”

“Try 70. And people call me whatever I tell them to.”

“I see. That’s interesting.”

Sally stole a look a look at Rita. That lady was still behind the ficus, messing around with her telephone.

“Sally, such a beautiful name.”

“It is? I always thought it was kind of cutsie.”

“Sally. Oh, it just rolls off the tongue.”

She was unnerved by the man. Robbie. He had her blushing. She wondered how she would be able to pull a prank on him.

“I think I’ve seen you before somewhere. And that’s not a pick up line. I’m serious. You seem very familiar for some reason.” She said.

“Well, it sure is a disappointment to me that you weren’t delivering a pick up line.”

“Ha!” she said, much louder than she needed to. She’d hoped to get the attention of Rita. “You’re a funny man.”

“Come eat dinner with me.”

“Only if you’re buying.”

“Of course I am.”

Well, even if the prank wasn’t going to work out, at least she was getting a free dinner.

—

He took her into one of the most elite restaurants in Vegas.

“Two for nonsmoking, please,” Sally said to the lady at the door. “If you have anything by a window, that would be nice.”

“Actually, Sally, they know me here.” He put a hand on Sally’s shoulder and led her to a table in a private room.

 “Wow. This sure is a fancy place. I’ve lived in Las Vegas for six years and never knew this place was here.”

“How about you tell me a little about yourself.”

“Oh, not one for small talk, are you?”

“Where are you from? I want to know everything.”

“I was born in the Philippines.”

“You don’t look Asian.”

“Oh, I know. My parents were on vacation. Mother didn’t know she was expecting until, well, there I was.”

“Vacation? In the Philippines? I wasn’t aware that people went there for vacation in the 1970’s.”

“Two things. You are a gem of a man for saying that I was born in the 70’s. Second. You’re in more disbelief that my folks were on vacation than that I was a total and complete surprise?”

“No, I’m just disappointed that I missed a prime opportunity for a resort investment. That’s all. Tell me more.”

Sally told him about her childhood. Most of it consisted of lies and half truths. She was spinning some kind of badly constructed web. But he seemed to believe every word she said. Even the part about being cousins with the person who photographed the Loch Ness Monster.  She was becoming more and more worried the less and less she was able to control her words. She even stopped listening to herself. Finally, she said something that made his eyebrows join and his lips pout.

“What did I just say?”

“That in ten days you’re going to have your head removed and frozen in a cryogenic freezer.”

“Yup. That’s right.” Sally panicked, trying to figure out what would have made her say that. “So, I’m living it up here in Vegas for my last hurrah.”

“That is, until they defrost your head in the future.”

“Right. Me and Walt Disney.”

“You’ll need someone to take care of things for you. Your estate. Paying the lab to hold your head.”

“I would have to pay storage space for my head? That’s ridiculous.”

“I know, darling,” Robbie reached across the table and held her hand. “But I can afford it.”

“You would pay for my head storage?” Sally asked, almost forgetting that she was not, indeed, going to have her head frozen. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I love you. I’ve loved you from the very moment I saw you.”

“That was an hour ago.”

“But it’s been the best hour of my life.” Robbie moved his chair closer to Sally. “Dear Sally, I’ve been trying to buy happiness for most of my life. I’ve never found it like this. Please, please, don’t reject me.”

“This is really weird, Robbie.”

“Love is weird.”

“But, I don’t think you totally understand what’s going on. Are you missing some marbles?”

“Only for the love of you.” He lowered himself to one knee. “If you only knew how painful this is for me right now, you would never be able to say ‘no’.”

“Painful?”

“Arthritis.”

“Well, then get up.”

“Sally Lawrencetta Divinia VanHandle…”

“What kind of name is that?”

“That’s what you said your name was. That is your name, right?”

“Right. Right. Sorry.”

“Anyway, Sally, would you marry me?” Robbie pulled out a velvet box with a huge diamond ring inside.

“You just carry that thing around with you?”

“I knew that my Princess would come along someday!”

“Well, I’m not so sure. Maybe you should just let me explain…”

Sally tried to tell him about the prank. The nonexistent prank, that is. But Robbie would hear nothing of it. Before she knew it, they were in a wedding chapel. Elvis stood before them. Rita, somehow, had joined her.

“You look so beautiful, Sally.” Rita fluffed her friend’s hair. “I’m just so happy for you.”

“But, isn’t this supposed to be my prank on this man?”

“And you found the man of your dreams!”

“No! Rita! This isn’t supposed to be happening!”

“Shush, Sally. You’re just nervous. I mean, who doesn’t get a little weird when they’re days from having their heads frozen.”

“No. I don’t what do have my head frozen.”

“But that’s what Robbie’s already arranging for.”

“They don’t actually do that kind of thing, do they?”

“When you’re as rich as Robbie, they’ll do anything. Now cut it out. Elvis is about to start your wedding.”

“Dearly beloved…”

Sally swooned, but didn’t quite faint. Rita held her up. Just when it seemed that her marriage would be announced by The King, Robbie stopped him.

“Hold on, Elvis. I’d like to talk to my bride for a moment.”

“No problem.”

“Sally, I think that you should know something about me before we proceed.”

“Yes?”

“I belong to a secret society. Not many understand it. Most resent it. But I’m hoping that  you’ll understand.”

“I need to tell you something, too…”

“Now, hush, darling. Me first.” He held her hands. “I am a member of the Vegas Prank-Stars.”

“Prank-Stars?”

“Yes. The male wing of the Pranksters. This was my initiation.”

“No…it was mine.”

“Well, I got you first!” He let go of her hands. “You’ve been Prank-Starred.”

Rita laughed. Elvis laughed. Robbie laughed.

Sally sobbed and sobbed. Tears of relief.  Her head felt warmer than it had for hours.

Make sure you vote for last week\’s stories. 

This story idea comes from Karen Schravemade. Karen is from Australia (yup, I have 2 Aussie friends). I met her through the Novel Matters blog. She is beyond sweet, intelligent, genuine and an up and coming novelist. She’s just recently made her first trip to the good ol’ US of A to attend a writer’s conference. And she is inches from a book deal. I’m looking forward to reading her novel one of these days!

Here’s Karen’s idea (that she meant to be a joke, but I thought could make a great story)…

“Frazzled mother of small children has a brain implosion while attempting to be creative. She is admitted to the hospital. As she’s wheeled into the operating room for an emergency surgery she is overheard muttering about a hair lipped barmaid and a one legged war veteran and a small child who will not stop screaming. Surgeons determine that she has lost all grip with reality and warn her friends that nothing she says should be expected to make the slightest sense.”

“Hey, seriously, could you please just watch TV for another few minutes?” Kelly scooted her three kids back to the living room. “Just one more show. Please.”

She got them sitting comfortably on the couch with a bag of chips and loud, colorful, stimulating children’s programming on the screen. Trying to convince herself that she wasn’t a terrible mom, that she wasn’t neglecting them, that they would be fine, she hopped over the baby gate and into the kitchen.

Her laptop was waiting. Novel pulled up on the screen. In the middle of an intense scene. The protagonist was nearly destroyed by the dragon antagonist. There was blood. Flames. Swords.

And a terrible pain in her head. Sharp pain. Behind her eye.

She shook her head. No time for a headache. She needed to finish this.

“Mommy, we want juice,” the smallest said.

“Huh?” she asked. “No, sorry, buddy. I need to get this done. Mommy has a deadline.”

“What’s a deadline?”

“It’s a due date. When I have to turn this book in. And if I don’t, then it won’t get published. And if I don’t get this book published we won’t get money. And then I’ll have to get a real job and you’ll have to go to daycare.”

Her stomach contracted with anxiety. That burning again. She didn’t need another ulcer. But she was nauseous. And that stabbing in her brain. Her eyesight went dull, then sharp again. Dizzy, disoriented, sick.

“Mommy? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel very well.”

The kids managed to call for help. Ran and got a neighbor. An ambulance came. The neighbor stayed with the kids. Her husband rushed from work to the hospital.

—

Doctors and nurses moved her quickly through the hospital corridors. The CT scan showed a rupture, an aneurysm. They feared the damage done to her brain. They would need to operate right away.

Kelly’s husband sat, head in hands, in the waiting room. Her mother stood, straight as a pole, in the corner. This was serious. She’d come close to death. They might have lost her. Might still. And yet, they were unable to talk. Incapable of comforting one another.

When a doctor entered, removed his green cap, they knew that something hadn’t gone well.

—

Nurses wheeled Kelly into the ICU. They watched her. Checked her oxygen intake. Heart monitors, catheters, IVs with water and food and pain killers.

They kept her asleep, hoping that the rest would heal her brain. But she would mutter in her slumber. Words the doctors and nurses had overheard as she drifted off before surgery.

“Her lip. It’s split. Like a cat’s. But without the whiskers. And how it would feel as she kissed me goodnight. The split lip on my forehead. The smell of beer on her clothes. But never on her breath.”

Her husband wondered at her musings. Kelly’s ramblings were nearly constant and hardly sensible.

“He’d fought so hard. Never gave up. But then he started to hop. Hop, hop, hop. One leg. That was all he had. His one leg. Her split lip. And the small child screaming, screaming, screaming. Just so happy, scared, sad. Screaming as they hopped and kissed and screamed.”

He wrote many of her words. A puzzle to contemplate. Pieces shifted in his head. Was this a novel she was constructing? A movie she’d seen? A memory she’d stuffed so deeply that a bleed in her brain was what it took to bring it out?

—

“How is Kelly today?” her mother asked, standing over her daughter. “Any better?”

“I don’t know,” her husband said. “She’s just talking so much. It’s all nonsense. The doctor worries that there is some damage. They want to keep her under longer to see if she can heal a little more.”

“Well, I can’t understand a word she’s saying. It sounds more like mumbling to me. How can they think it means anything?”

“Maybe you should read some of what she says. You might be able to make something of it.”

Kelly’s mother sat in a chair by her daughter’s head. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

As she read about the split lip, her hand went to her own mouth, touching her upper lip with fingertips.

“You okay?”

“This is about us,” she said. “This is her childhood. It’s me and him. And her. It’s so strange.”

“What do you mean?”

“The split lip. It’s me. I had a hair-lip. It was repaired when she was 10 years old. She always asked me if I was a cat.”

“She never said anything…”

“Kelly always knew how embarrassed I was. And the beer smell, I was a bar tender when she was little. But I never drank. I can’t believe she would remember that.” She read a little more. “Her father, he was in the war. Viet Nam. They had to amputate his leg. The only way she knew him was without. He would hop along side her when he’d take his leg off. You know, the fake leg.”

“What ever happened to him?”

She was quiet.

“The little girl screamed and screamed and screamed,” Kelly said in her sleep. “She was happy and sad. And she was so very scared. He hopped and hopped. And then one day he stopped. And it was all over forever then.”

“What happened to Kelly’s father? Why hasn’t she ever talked about him?”

“It was bad. Terrible.”

—

Kelly’s mind flashed memories around. Disconnected, strange, swirling memories. Her mother’s deformed face. Her father’s leg, missing below the knee. They hopped. Him on one foot. Her on two. They were racing. To what? How far were they going to hop? The mind cut off that detail.

She screamed, the little girl Kelly did. Screamed because she was thrilled, happy, excited to play with her daddy.

“Be careful,” her mother called, hand over her mouth to mask her lips. “Watch out for cars.”

But they were too busy. They were enjoying life. Kelly hadn’t seen the truck. It was speeding, going far too fast toward her.

“Kelly!” her mother screamed.

This was the  point where her brain always slowed down. The memory passed one click at a time. And her little body seemed stuck, helpless, in front of the truck. It came. She stayed. Motionless.

Until her father pushed her. One hard, effective shove. She fell on the grass. Looked back. Her father on the ground. The truck stopped feet beyond his body. He hadn’t been able to move out of the way. He’d given himself up for her.

She screamed and screamed and screamed.

—

A month after the aneurysm, Kelly was taken home. The children clung to her. Looked into her pale face. Asked her questions about bandages and identification bracelets.

She touched the children. Their soft hair. Smooth hands. Inspected boo-boos obtained in her absence. Listened to stories of zoo trips with aunts and uncles. Looked at the pictures they’d drawn for her.

The world had caved in on her. Imploded for the second time in her life. This time she still had everyone near. All were whole.

Her laptop still sat waiting. Her novel pulled up. A dragon still to be defeated.

 

 

This week we’ve had an eclectic collection of stories. Take a little break, drink some coffee and vote for the best idea of the week!

 

The Removed — Inspired by Megan Sayer

Runaway — Inspired by Mandy Rose

Broken and Empty — Inspired by Kristi West

Zernogin and the End of the World — Inspired by Brian Carter

The Bearded Lady — Inspired by Betsy Carter

Shunned — Inspired by Trevor James O\’Brien

 

 

You can vote by commenting on this post. Poles will remain open until Monday, September 26 at midnight (Michigan time).

And…just because I haven’t given you enough to read…feel free to check out the other winners from weeks 1, 2 and 3.

Starting Over — Inspired by Julie Weber, Playing Debussy — Inspired by Holly Becker and Killing Urges — Inspired by Amy Sue Williams.

Happy Reading and Voting!

~Susie

Make sure you check out the other stories from this week…The Removed, Runaway, Broken and Empty, Zernogin and the End of the World and The Bearded Lady.

This story is inspired by my friend Trevor O’Brien. Trevor is a fellow writer and member of the Kava Writer’s Collective (the best critique group in all the world). He is a poet. And I don’t use that word loosely. He is gifted. I truly hope that one of these days you’ll be able to experience his poetry.

Okay…here’s Trevor’s idea…

“Character: A quiet, reserved woman from a small town. The kind that would never cause a fuss and hates being the center of attention.

Setting: A large, Manhattan office.

Conflict: Everyone in the office finds out that she has been having an affair with the Department Manager, who is a married man.”

I got married last week. No one from our families were there. The pastor ran the ceremony in his very small church and our witnesses were the secretary and janitor. I wore my outfit from work. He wore his dress shirt, sleeves rolled up, and slacks. We ate dinner in my small apartment. Just some food we picked up from the Thai restaurant across the street.

I didn’t know what to say to him. He expected us to be intimate. After all, it was only fair. I’d told him that I wouldn’t do that unless we were married. So, he arranged for it. But as I sat across the table from him, I realized that I barely knew him. And that, for some reason, it all seemed very, very wrong.

He insisted. Said that if we didn’t consummate the  marriage that he would be forced to find another woman to take my place for the night. I knew that what he said was cruel. That it wasn’t right of him to say that or even to think it. But I was also afraid. I didn’t want to have him leave me the very night we married.

I obeyed. He left quickly afterward.

“See you at the office tomorrow,” he’d said. “And don’t forget, this is just between us. No one else needs to know.”

I stayed in the bed. Dressed under the covers. Turned on the television and watched the glow, not understanding what the people said or what the shapes made on the screen. My eyes closed against the brightness of the television. But I didn’t sleep. Just tried to forget that I’d just given myself to that man. And that he left like he did.

The next morning I saw him at work. He, in his Department Manager’s office. Me, at my administrative assistant’s desk.  He wouldn’t acknowledge me. I spun the little gold ring around and around on my finger.

He came over every night that week. Smelling like sweat and beer.

“One of these days, we’ll be together all the time,” he would say before he came to my bed. “It’s just complicated with work.”

“I understand,” I’d lie. “One day it will be perfect.”

“Just be careful of those other women in the office. You can’t be friends with them. They’re vipers.”

And, so, I obeyed my husband. I made no friends. Told no one. I pretended that I understood. But I didn’t understand. Not at all.

One night, he stopped coming over. He didn’t call. Wouldn’t answer his phone. When I saw him at work he ignored me, pretended I wasn’t there. It was like nothing had happened. I was heartbroken. Work went undone. I became nauseous. Anxious. Unable to sleep.

“Abe, may I talk to you for a minute?” I asked him, stepping just inside his office.

“Oh, right, Deborah,” he said. “Come in. Go ahead and shut the door.”

I obeyed. It was all I knew how to do. That’s what I’d watched my mother do. Obey her husband. I obeyed my husband. It was what wives did.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Well, things are busy.”

“Too busy for me?”

“Listen, this thing isn’t working for me.”

I looked at him, wondering what he meant.

Someone knocked on the door. I jumped up and opened it, pushing past the woman who stood in front of me.

“Hey, Geena,” Abe said. His voice was charming, deep, attractive. Like the way he once spoke to me. “Come on in, have yourself a seat.”

He was onto someone new.

I rushed to the bathroom. I heard someone walking behind me. My only hope was that it wasn’t Abe or Geena. The stall door slammed shut behind me and I twisted the lock.

“Hey, are you okay?” Leigh asked. She worked in the office next to Abe’s.

“I’m fine,” I answered.

“You know, he does this to a lot of girls.” She sighed. “I hear everything that goes on in that office. Trust me. I know what the guy is up to.”

“I really can’t talk to  you about this.”

“Have it your way. Just know that this isn’t going to end well. It never does.”

She left me alone.

I washed my face. Patted it dry with a towel. Looked at my reflection. Nothing special. That’s what I saw. That and an incredibly stupid girl.

Walking into the office, I noticed the looks. They knew something. Or at least they thought they did. Their faces were down, but their eyes followed me. Watching. Waiting to see what I would do.

So different from when I left the bonnet and dark cotton dress and my mother and father behind. My family had turned their whole body away from me. Never to look at me again. At least that day they were honest about their dismissal of me.

No one in that office had an ounce of truth. All they wanted was to see someone else fail, fall, break. It freed them from being that person.

I barged into Abe’s office. He had his hand on Geena’s knee. He looked up and didn’t move his hand.

“Excuse me, um, Deborah, was it?” he said. “Don’t walk into my office uninvited again.”

“Was it real?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Our wedding. Our marriage. Remember? The one you insisted we consummate.” Fire burned in my gut. “Was it fake?”

“Geena,” he looked at her, pretending to be confused. “We’ll continue this discussion later. Dinner?”

Geena stood up, “I don’t think so.”

“Then close the door behind you.” He stood. “Thanks. Do you always have to ruin everything?”

“It wasn’t a real pastor, was it?”

“He was real. And he has dementia. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore. And the secretary and janitor play along so he doesn’t feel bad.”

“It wasn’t real,” I said, slumping in a chair. “I was so stupid.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself. We did have fun, right?”

“Not even for a moment. Abe. It was terrible. Why would you go to all that trouble?”

“It’s all about the chase. If you hadn’t played so hard to get it wouldn’t have gotten that far. It was just a game. Come one. You knew that all along.”

I hadn’t known that. I’d grown up watching arranged marriages between people who had never met. I watched them grow in love. That’s what I believed would happen between me and Abe. I’d been gullible, vulnerable, foolish.

“Are you married? To someone else?”

“Don’t act like you didn’t know.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Yup. I’ve got three kids. All girls. And a fat, horrible, ugly wife.”

“You are the most terrible person I’ve ever met.”

“It sure gets me what I want.”

“Do you want to be happy?”

“Sure. Doesn’t everybody?”

“Do you want to destroy your daughters’ lives?”

“I don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Do you want to be alone?”

“Seriously, Deb. This is stupid.”

“Your wife might be horrible. But I think it’s because of how nasty you are. I’m sure you treat her awfully.”

“That’s not your business.”

“And you’ll never be happy. You’ll always be looking for something better than what you’ve got. And that isn’t happiness.”

He sat at his desk.

“And, Abe, I don’t care if you’re happy. I hope you aren’t. The deepest, most angry part of me hopes that you’re never happy again. Never. But even the angry part of me wants your daughters to have good lives.”

“You don’t know them.”

“I know them better than you’d think.” I leaned forward. “Listen to me. If you don’t stop this, your daughters will end up being just like me. Used and ashamed. They will hate themselves. They’ll think they’re fat and ugly. And they will never, ever feel good enough. Never good enough to keep their father faithful. Never good enough to deserve a good man. They’ll believe that every time they are hit it is their fault. They will hate you for that. And they will bury you with that hate clouding their hearts.”

“Don’t talk to me like that…”

“Shut up. I’m not done.” I swallowed down the bile of anxiety. “You could have a different woman every week. You could be surrounded by people. You might have your wife and daughters. But, believe me, you will always be alone.”

I stood. Turned my back on him and waited. Bowing my head. I slowly opened the door and walked out.

The last thing I saw as I walked out of the office were the eyes of three women. Their look was of gratitude.

Are you as sick of this presidential race as I am? Here’s a look into the future of presidential debates. This is just for fun. No comments about any current candidates, please. Just enjoy this little play.

(Zernogin sits behind the mediator’s desk. Zombie Al, Alien Dan and Giant Spider Sally stand behind music stands on a stage.)

Zernogin: Welcome, everyone, to the 3298 Presidential Debates. (pause for applause) I’d like to set some ground rules for conduct in tonight’s debate.

Al: Let it be known that I have no intentions of eating anyone’s brains.

Dan: Oh, come on. That’s exactly what you intend to do. Eat brains, raise taxes. It’s always the same thing with you.

Sally: I like brains.

Dan: Too bad you don’t have any.

(Dan and Al high-five. Al’s hand falls off)

Al: Crap.

Dan: Nobody wants a one armed President. I mean, come on, folks. We’re in the middle of a nuclear crisis as it is! Do you really want this guy to be the president? His nose might fall off and push “the button” and blow up the whole world!

Sally: Sometimes, when my nose itches I can’t figure out which of my 8 hands should scratch it. Isn’t that funny?

Dan: And this one? (points to Sally) This one pushes women’s lib back 1500 years.

Zernogin: Okay, the ground rules. No eating brains…

Al: Did I not already agree to that one?

Zernogin: No webs…

Sally: (knitting) Oopsy Daisy. Sorry there, Zern. Didn’t know that one ahead of time. It’s just all you in the “men’s club” trying to trip me up because I’m female.

Zernogin: No, we just don’t want to get caught in your web.

Sally: Well, why ever not?

Zernogin: Because we don’t want  you to eat us.

Sally: Just more of that “gotcha” media.

Zernogin: No. You are crazy and you eat people/zombies/aliens.

Sally: That isn’t true! (eating something)

Dan: What are you eating right now?

Sally: An arm. It was just sitting there.

Dan: That’s Al’s arm!

Al: Really? Oh, come on, Sally.

Sally: (mouth full) Sorry.

Zernogin: Furthermore, no telepathy. Seriously, Dan. Stop it. No mind control. (flat voice, as if taken over) Never mind, I changed my mind. Telepathy is perfectly acceptable in this debate. I will now pick my nose. (picks his nose).

Al: Nice, Dan.

Zernogin: (back to normal voice) Dan, that isn’t cool. You just made me wipe a booger on my kagillion dollar suit coat.

Dan: Folks, don’t you want a Commander in Chief who can control your enemies just by using his mind?

Al: Yeah. Until somebody eats that mind.

Zernogin: Which is against the rules.

Sally: When there’s a rule I don’t like, I just bite the person and wait for his insides to turn into liquid. Then I drink his blood and organs like a smoothy.

Zernogin: You are the most disturbing group of people I’ve ever met.

Dan: How’s this for disturbing…I am an alien. I could choose to use my mind control to make you all just like me. I could repeal all kinds of legislation that allows you to be you. But do I do that? No. Because I am tolerant. I understand that some of you aren’t into that kind of lifestyle. And I respect it. I may not agree with it. But I respect that. Do you think you’ll find the same consideration from my opponents? No. I think not. Sally here just wants to turn your guts into jelly…

Sally: Sounds great.

Dan: And Al has plans to eat your brain…

Al: (throws hand up in frustration) Did I NOT just say that I wasn’t going to eat anybody’s brains? Look at this discrimination!

Dan: Have you, sir, ever eaten brains?

Al: I’m not dignifying that with an answer.

Dan: Then the American people have no other choice than to believe that you have, indeed, consumed brains.

Al: It’s really none of your business.

Dan: (with a smirk) We just want the truth. Don’t you think we deserve the truth?

Al: Hey, Zernogin. You wanna start moderating this debate at some point?

Zernogin: Well, I’d like to know the answer to Dan’s question. I’m sure Sally’s interested, too.

Sally: Nope. I’m good.

Dan: Because you don’t have a brain.

Sally: Sure I do. Somewhere around here.

Dan: You’re the best female candidate? Really. Nobody else could represent the females?

Sally: Oh, sure. But I’m the prettiest. (winks at the camera)

Zernogin: So, Al. What’s the answer?

Al: Okay. Okay. I ate brains once. In college. But, to be completely honest, I didn’t swallow them. I just chewed them. You know. To fit in.

Dan: Farewell, Zombie Al.

Zernogin: Okay, we have some questions that we have to get to. Please, keep in mind that we’re short on time due to the brain eating discussion. (clears throat and reads from a card) Here’s the first one. Will you raise taxes? Sally, we’ll start with you.

Sally: Of course we will. We always do. Or at least that’s what my publicist said. She told me that right before she prompted me to claim that we won’t raise taxes.

Dan: Where are all the smart females?

Sally: I don’t know. But I’m here! Whoo!

Zernogin: Al. Would you raise taxes?

Al: Okay. There was another time. But I didn’t know they were brains. I swear. They told me it was pudding.

Zernogin: Dan?

Dan: Now, the question isn’t really whether I’d raise taxes or not. Is it? No. It isn’t. The question is, will you all be willing to make sacrifices so that your country can rebuild after the Apocalypse we’re coming out of. And, if you ask me, that whole thing was more to sell ads on the news. Anybody with me? A lot of hype and noise and explosions. Right? Right? Anyway. I think that you’ll all come around to the idea of voluntarily handing over 80% of your paycheck to me…er…the government. (hypnotic voice) You will. Oh yes, you will.

Zernogin: Where do I send the check? (snaps out of the trance) Oh, come on, Dan. What did I say about mind control?

Dan: You said Telepathy. Not mind control.

Zernogin: You knew what I meant. Okay. Question two. And this is going to have to be our final one. A few years ago we integrated different species into the public school system. The humans were none so happy about that. To this day, there are still species tensions. What will you do to remedy that? Al?

Al: Well, you have to understand, growing up in a zombie family, there were expectations. When your grandmother slaves over a huge pot of human brain stew, you don’t say “no, I don’t eat that, it’s against my ethics”. You just sit there and eat it.

Zernogin: Al, please let it go. Um, Dan? How would you ease the tensions?

Dan: We are at a ground breaking time in history here. Our children will grow up with each other. They’ll never know a world where the zombies, aliens and giant spiders weren’t mixed together in a crucible of being. Sure, we have our differences. Humans think they own this place. Zombies are terrifying brain eaters who are technically dead and decomposing.

Al: I resent that.

Dan: No you don’t. Anyway. Giant Spiders are Giant dummies.

Sally: I’ll agree to that. (smiles charmingly)

Dan: And aliens are of high intelligence and we have brought nothing but technological advances to this planet.

Zernogin: So, how would you improve the species relations?

Dan: Oh, I wouldn’t have to. We aliens are just planning total domination. And no one can stop us.

Sally: Sounds lovely. I’ll vote for you.

Dan: I know you will.

Zernogin: Sally, do  you have an answer?

Sally: Twelve.

Zernogin: Twelve? As in the number.

Sally: Sounds good to me.

Zernogin: Okay. Well, this has been the Presidential debate. I’d like to thank Sally the Giant Spider.

Sally: I’ll let her know.

Zernogin: Al the Radioactive Zombie.

Al: I really don’t want to eat your brain. I’m evolved.

Zernogin: And Dan the Alien.

Dan: I will rule over you. Yes. It will happen. (thumbs up)

Zernogin: Thank you. And good evening.

Fine.

(so…who would you vote for?)

Make sure you check out the other stories from this week! The Removed — Inspired by Megan Sayer and Runaway — Inspired by Mandy Rose.

This story was inspired by Kristi West. It is her 3rd and (sadly) last contribution to this challenge. Her other contributions inspired Good-bye, George and Being Found and have been very popular. I would steal story ideas from Kristi all day long…she’s got some really great ones!

Here’s her idea…

“Yolanda is a 40 year old, newly single mom. Lives in Suburbia. Conflict: learning to use a lawn mower for the first time.”

Yolanda stood in the middle of her front yard. The grass was so tall. It was up to the middle of her shin. In front of her was the lawn mower. She was silently cursing the manufacturer for making it so difficult to start. The most she could figure, she had to hold a bar attached to the handle, pull the string and then it would start. It failed every time she tried.

It was the first time she’d ever mowed. She knew it was time to cut the grass when neighbors started writing notes, asking her to take care of her yard.

If James dropped dead, I bet every single one of these jerks would come mow for me, she thought. But not if the idiot leaves me. Of course not. 

It wasn’t just that her husband left. It was that she’d been unfaithful.

I had to go and have the dumb luck of getting caught with the governor. I should have gone for a gas station attendant. Nobody would have cared.

And so she stood in the tall grass and tried, over and over, to start the lawn mower. Cussing and fuming. Her next door neighbor, Leenia, drove by. She didn’t look at Yolanda, didn’t wave.

“I know you saw me,” Yolanda yelled after her. “That’s right. Just drive away. I don’t need your ugly face coming over here and telling me how to conduct my business. You don’t think I’ve got enough of that going on anyway?”

Yolanda raised her hand and flipped Leenia off. But by then, Leenia was long gone. So the only one who saw Yolanda’s middle finger was the ten year old from three houses down.

“That’s not a good thing to do, Miss Yolanda,” The kid said.

Yolanda pulled her hand down. Smiled. “Well, hi, there. How’s school going this year.”

“It’s dumb.” The kid crossed her arms across herself. “I’m telling my mom that you taught me to flip people off.”

“I did not.”

“I’ll tell her that I’ve never seen anybody do it before. And then you’ll get in even more trouble.”

“How old are you? You’re some kind of evil child.”

“I’m old enough to know that you don’t need anymore people mad at you.”

Yolanda sighed. The kid had her there. “How much do you want?”

“$25. Wait. Add another $5 on there for calling me evil.”

“I’ll go get my purse.”

“I can run credit cards on my smart phone.”

“What ten year old has a smart phone.” Yolanda found just enough money in her purse and returned to the little black-mailing child. “I hope you know that this isn’t how the world works.”

“Really,” the kid said, cocking her head. “I was under the impression that it is. I just made $30 doing nothing. How does that not work?”

Yolanda wanted to kick the kid as she walked away. But she didn’t have much more cash in her purse.

She, instead, went back to the lawnmower. She wanted to have the yard looking nice. James was dropping their son off for her first visitation. She got the house. James got Mark. It didn’t seem quite right.

She tugged the ‘pull’ one more time. It didn’t come out as far as she’d planned. Something inside the mower snapped. Yolanda fell straight back. On her backside. The severed rope still in her hand.

It didn’t fly as far as she’d wanted it to. Instead it landed on her leg. She kicked at the mower, knowing that it would win. But she didn’t care. She was angry. At the stupid mower for being so hard to start. At the grass for growing. At her neighbors for hating her so much that they wouldn’t even stop to help her. For the tag of adultery that they all saw on her like it was branded across her forehead.

She was angry with James for leaving her. For not letting her explain. She hated him because he’d been so far gone for years. He wouldn’t touch her after Mark was born.

The governor, her boss, had been so understanding. So kind. So…convincing. And she hated herself for being so convinced.

She grabbed huge clumps of grass and dirt and pulled. Over and over again. On either side of her hips, big divots formed where she tore the earth. Fake nails were broken off. Skin was scratched by rocks. She was screaming and crying and kicking and stomping.

And then James pulled in the driveway.

“Marky, you stay in the car for a minute,” he said, getting out of the driver’s seat. “Yolanda?”

She threw a mass of dirt and grass at him, hitting his chest. “I need some time alone!” she screamed.

“Don’t you scream at me. You’re the one who chose this.”

“I did not! I never did.”

“Who had the affair?”

“Who stopped loving me? Who stopped talking and kissing and hugging and eating with me? Who? You.”

“Don’t you put the blame of this on me.”

“You told me that I was disgusting.”

“I never said that.”

“Not with your mouth. With your actions.”

“It doesn’t make sleeping with  your boss okay.”

Yolanda stood. Dropped the grass that was in her hands. Used a dirty hand to straighten her hair.

“It was wrong, what I did. James, I am sorry. But you aren’t about to forgive me. Because I gave you the perfect ‘out’. So, you get Mark and I get these awful neighbors in a house neither of us ever wanted.”

“Were you trying to mow the lawn?”

“Are you changing the topic?”

“I am.” He walked around the mower. “Did you put  gas in it?”

“I didn’t know I had to.”

“Well, that might be the problem. That and the broken cord.”

“How would I have known that?”

That night, after Mark’s visit was over, Yolanda sat on her couch. She turned on some mindless television show. Snuggled into her robe.

James and I never put anything into our marriage. We just kept trying to force it to work. But we were just too empty.

She tried to think of a way to fill her own soul back up.

Nothing came to mind.