Number 1
{I rarely ever write in first person, this was an exercise to get out of my comfort zone. I believe it was the first thing I wrote in first person.}Summary: A defeated woman learns how to accept the grieving process.
The sensual caress of his voice enthralls me. I feel his words form a warm cocoon around my body. No other man could possibly touch my soul in such an intimate manner. No, the only man who will ever hold my heart is Elvis Presley. I let my eyes close as I lose myself in the velvety crooning of a mostly forgotten hero.
When I reopen my eyes I face a stranger. The face is vaguely familiar, as if we had once met many years ago, but the painted face and wig were entirely foreign.
“Anything to get rid of the resemblance to her,” I say to no one but my own reflection. I tried to remember why I hated the woman so; usually I was successful at repressing the memories, but now they all flooded back to me. Many times over the years I’ve wondered to myself if maybe in my adolescence I overreacted. I always reach the same conclusion:
“She ruined my life.” Again, I’m speaking to only myself. There is no denying that I have grown accustomed to living alone; many nights I will have entire conversations with myself without ever thinking that someone might hear me.
The stench of freshly applied mascara makes me feel almost nauseous; it’s a smell like no other, a mixture of petroleum and ink that reminds me of inhaling paint thinner. I don’t understand how anyone can enjoy applying make-up.
I drown myself in perfume, as if the flowery cloud could somehow fog my mind to the point of numbness; it doesn’t. The memories of why I hate her have only opened new wounds. Of course, those are metaphorical wounds. The intricate lacework that I so painstakingly created on my forearms remains closed.
As it always will. I affirm to myself. Old habits die hard, but, with persistence they can die.
The phone rings: an obnoxiously shrill tone that someone else had undoubtedly programmed into the cell for me eons ago. I debate answering for a moment, but eventually I accept my fate and press the green answer button.
“Are you ready?” My brother’s deep voice betrays his child-like innocence and feminine compassion.
“Yeah,” I pause for a moment, wondering if I should tell him that I don’t want to accompany him. He reads me like a book.
“Yes you have to come with me. Hurry up. I bought flowers.”
“Why did you do a stupid thing like that?” He never answered me. I assume he thought the question was rhetorical; it wasn’t. The line goes dead and I grab my keys.
I descend the countless stairs to the courtyard in front of my apartment building only to reach the refreshing chill of the night air. It was uncharacteristically dry for this time of year, but the night was beautiful. It was unfortunate that it had to be this night.
Carefully, I climb into my brother’s pathetic excuse for a vehicle and he drives off. On the ride he tries to make small talk, but I find his incessant chatter irksome. He mentions a new position at work, something about a new boyfriend, and complains about the price of gas and everything else these days. I try to make my inattention unnoticeable.
He parks in front of the gate of the cemetery and we begin our trek to the grave.
“Here,” he holds the bouquet of daisies out for me to take. They are no doubt store bought, but they have a hand-picked look to them that only my brother would choose. I push his hand away.
“ I want no part of your ridiculous grieving process.”
“Come on, Sara, it’s time to let go. It’s been ten years; she was our mother,” his last plea attempt only frustrates me more. We have this argument every year. I snatch the flowers from him, throw them on the grave and storm off towards his car.
I know he won’t follow me. He will sit there and talk to her for another hour, apologize for me, and try somehow to find some inner peace.
It has been ten years to the day since she has died and there has not been one moment I have felt sadness for the occasion. But tonight, for the first time in a decade, I weep.
Number 2
{Further exercises into first person. Also slightly risque.}Summary: A lady of the night reflects on the one that got away.
He smelled of brandy and peppermint. I don’t think that is why I loved him, but it was something I loved about him. Every time I think of it my whole body tingles. He was the best lover I ever had. It isn’t normal for someone to get hot off of eggnog and candy canes but I can’t help it. There is no way to fight the body’s reaction to memories like that.
He wasn’t a handsome man. He was actually rather short and pudgy, he had these small squinty eyes that always looked suspicious, but maybe that’s what happens after so many years in the business world. His hands were always so soft, his fingernails freshly manicured, and there was a cleanliness about his whole persona that I had never experienced with any other man.
He was twenty-three years my senior, but I didn’t mind. We spent many nights up late talking about his life, his work, hobbies, children, everything. We never talked about my life. He had no interest in what I had to offer, but I was entirely captivated by him.
One day he showed me pictures of his children. We had been together for almost two years. Sometimes I wouldn’t hear from him for months at a time, but he always came back. Two boys and a girl; John, 17, Tristan, 14, and Alyssa, 20. Neither of us mentioned that I was only five years older than his daughter. It never mattered.
The man was always so together, his life was in order. I never understood why he needed me. At one point I had figured he didn’t need me any more: he hadn’t called me in six months.
But then, one night, very late, I received a call. He needed to see me, he said. His wife had left him after almost thirty years of marriage. He was going to lose everything, he said. All of his money, his house, his kids, he had nothing left to live for, he cried. We had never been more passionate in our love-making as we were that night. He had never been so vulnerable or loving. I always knew he loved me, but that night was different. The love that night wasn’t about champagne or diamonds, it was about two people meeting in a special time in their lives.
After that night, everything was different. He wanted me to drop my other clients and become exclusive with him. For once, I was more than just the mistress. We had never even mentioned my other clients, but he assumed they existed and I complied with his wishes. There had never been two people more in love since Romeo and Juliet. For the first time, he was interested in my life and hearing more about my past. I thought my life was perfect.
Then I found out I was pregnant. At first, I was terrified. This was always my worst fear. Later I reconsidered, I knew he loved me and we had been practically living together for a year. After five years, I thought, maybe he would commit to me the way I had him. I did something that I had only been permitted to do in the recent months: I called him and told him I had some good news to share with him. He told me he couldn’t wait because he had some good news, too. He was going to take me to the best restaurant in town and we would share our news. I thought maybe he was going to propose before I even told him.
That night we ate dinner in silence. I think we were both too nervous to say anything. Finally, he started. He told me that he and his ex had been talking and they were going to get back together. He was so excited I couldn’t stand it. His entire face was lit up with joy and I feigned happiness for him. I had faked it many times in my career, but never like this. He asked what my news was and I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I made up an easy lie about getting new carpeting for my apartment. He wouldn’t have heard me if I said I was having gender reassignment. He told me that this time around he was going to really stick it out with his wife. No more girls on the side, no more late nights “at the office”, he was going to stick to the straight path this time.
A week later we had each gotten all of our belongings out of each other’s homes and we never spoke again. I never told him about the baby. My old agency re-hired me after my body recovered. I learned my lesson; I am good at what I do, but I will never try to be anything more than the hooker ever again. I know one day Patrick will have questions about his father, but we will tackle that hurdle when we reach it.
Number 3
{Trying to work on imagery and metaphors...}Summary: Rain.
Newly born water droplets crawled along the sidewalks and spoke for the first time in the drip onto the pavement. Older, wiser beads led the way for the younger ones, traveling a well worn path to the gutters and streams. Lonely globules were almost certainly met with lovers and quickly formed larger bits until they could no longer contain their passion and would burst forth to join in with their family in the steady stream downhill.
The clouds spoke words of encouragement as thunder rumbled throughout the land. When a particle lost its way in a dark corner, the ever helpful lightning would show the path soon followed by the resounding message to never fear.
And it listened. The rain continued on relentlessly, moistening the parched soil, reviving the chapped and sore foliage and glistening like sparkling diamonds when the moon peeked through the curtain.
Lightly it patted on the windowpanes. It clung to the skin as a newborn clings to its mother's breast. Never had there been a more beautiful sight than this gentle January rain. Swiftly, it cleansed the area of the winter dust. It cleared the air of the stale stench of a forgotten season. But most notably, the shower revived the spirit of the community.
A young boy watched the beads of hope make their descent to the Earth with wonderment from within his home.
"Mom," he cried, "it's raining!"
A woman hastened her way to the window to see for herself, "Oh, thank God."
Number 4
{WIP... I should really continue this when I remember what the hell it was about.}Summary: A busy-body home-maker can't resist getting involved when her neighbor's landscape remains unkempt.
The trees were on fire. No, not literally; it was that time of year when Mother Nature pulls out her paintbrush and gets to work. The leaves were brilliant shades of orange, red, and amber. Blistered hands became the norm as residents of this sleepy little town raced to keep up with the raking that had to be done. Thanksgiving was right around the corner, as was winter. Most people were struggling to get the best deals on Christmas presents and make sure their homes would meet the approval of relatives that would no doubt gossip about them after the holiday season.
Every lawn on Magnolia Blossom Trail was immaculately groomed and cleared of any debris, all except number 416. At 416 MBT lived a middle-aged woman named Mrs. Kruft. Every year it was the same: all the neighbors would eventually get together and ask Mrs. Kruft if they would like for them to rake the lawn for her. She would inevitably deny and accuse them of trespassing. She wasn't an old woman, she was perfectly physically able to care for her lawn herself, but she refused. Most people could ignore her stubbornness and move on with their lives, but the community organizer could not.
The Jones family lived at 417 Magnolia Blossom Trail. Mrs. Jones was a homemaker obsessed with social gatherings and making them perfect. Mr. Jones worked as an accountant and was rarely home except for the weekends. They had three children together, the oldest was already off to college, the middle child was a sophomore in high school, and the youngest was merely nine years old, his name was David, but most people called him Davie.
Davie didn't understand why Mrs. Kruft wouldn't just agree with his mom and rake her yard. His mom was completely obsessed with perfection, something Davie had grown used to, but the fact that she couldn't control this was driving her insane.
Diane Jones was a perfectly coiffed, 30-something, stay-at-home-mom who didn't take no for an answer. That, is why she was, once again, knocking on the door of 416.
"Mrs. Kruft? Mrs. Kruft!" Diane knocked a bit louder, "I know you're in there Mrs. Kruft, please, I need to speak with you!"
There was movement inside; a quick peek through the blinds and Diane was sure she could hear muttering from the woman inside.
Diane finally gave up, "Mrs. Kruft, I have a son, his name is Davie, he's going to come rake for you this afternoon, okay?" She started to walk away but heard the door open behind her.
"Mind your own business and stop trespassing on my property!" The door quickly slammed and Diane huffed away.
Number 5
{Another one I would continue if I could remember where it was going.}Summary: A powerful priestess has recurring dreams of her kingdom becoming a wasteland. When she realizes that no one can help her interpret these dreams she sets off on her own to find out what is happening.
1
Her people were suffering. For months the famine had spread like a plague. The Northern section was dried up like so many withered and parched desert sands and the south was flooded to the point where the borders of land and sea were no longer recognizable in their previous locales. Starvation gripped the throats of her citizens and wrung the very life from them. The young priestess didn’t have the slightest clue of how to cure the kingdom of its problems. The people were starting to lose faith in her powers. Crime was common place in the once peaceful nation. It wouldn’t be long before neighboring kingdoms took advantage of their situation. Five months ago she had been the most powerful woman in the seven kingdoms, but slowly she could feel her powers draining from her. For reasons beyond her comprehension she had become weak and now her hope was also draining from her.
She could hear footsteps coming down the hallway toward her observatory, she didn’t turn; her intuition was still intact and she knew they came for her. They had lost the faith and instilled it in a new leader. She would be disposed of quietly and respectfully, but that knowledge didn’t soothe her terror. Her entire life had been dedicated to her people and her craft and building a symbiotic relationship between the two. There was no explanation for her loss of powers, but without them she couldn’t protect herself from what was to come, and though she was frightened, she knew escape wasn’t an option. Whoever had ascended into power would want her as a sacrifice in order to cleanse the nation of what had occurred during her reign.
The footsteps grew louder, coming ever nearer. Any moment now the door would burst forth and she would be at their mercy. But there would be no mercy. Silent tears fell as she wept for her kingdom and its predicament and for her own situation, she was far too young to cut her life short. The door swung open, but she didn’t face it, within moments, rough hands grabbed her and began dragging her unceremoniously out of her home. She struggled, beads of perspiration beginning to form on her forehead, she tried to shout at them, but no sound would come. She felt another touch, a softer, gentler touch on her moist forehead.
“Marisa, darling, it’s alright,” the scene around her faded and she awoke to her lover’s reassuring touch. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, letting her wake fully and rid herself of the lingering emotions of such a powerful dream. His lips touched her head gently and he felt her heartbeat begin to slow.
She spoke finally, her voice shaky and unsure, “Bartholomew, what do these dreams mean?”
He shook his head in response. “I don’t think they mean anything. You were never gifted with the power of foresight, you don’t have vision of the future, they are merely bad dreams my love.”
The answer didn’t satisfy her, she had been having the dreams regularly for months now and they were weighing down on her. She climbed out of bed and went to the window, her tower was high enough to see for many miles in clear weather. All was well, everything was just as it should be, there was no famine, she could still feel her power as a dull hum coursing through her veins; the dreams were just dreams.
“If it would soothe your unease we can visit the soothsayer tomorrow, she can tell you if there is anything amiss,” Bartholomew wanted more than anything to put his fiancée at ease and to get her back into bed for the night.
Marisa nodded silently and resigned herself to crawling back under the warm blankets next to the man she so dearly loved. She pressed her body into his, and felt his arms wrap around her once more. It didn’t take long for the blissful pair to slip off into sleep once more, this time, dream-free.
2
The next morning Marisa was still having a hard time shaking the feeling that something in her life was just not right. She had been grateful for Bartholomew’s suggestion of visiting the soothsayer. It made so much sense to ask the ancient woman who knew all of the future what her dreams meant. It was unlike Marisa to stray from her routine, so it caught her advisors off-guard when she still had not emerged from her chambers hours later than usual. And while no one dared to call upon her, they were all concerned with her absence.
Marisa took her time getting dressed in her priestly garb, a long, form-fitting robe of a shimmering indigo hue, and soft embroidered gloves and slippers to cover her exposed skin. After dressing, the pain-staking process of applying her make-up began, until the transformation was complete. By midday she was no long Marisa of the Eastern town of Farluu, but Katima, or powerful daughter, of the fifth kingdom. Heavily laden with jewels and adornments she left her bedchambers and, in another break from routine, headed toward the northeastern tower to seek the soothsayer.
Before Marisa reached the old woman’s door, she heard her call her in. “Enter child,” as Marisa pushed the creaky door open she could see the veiled woman across the room through a haze of herbal smog. She closed the door quickly, suddenly wishing she wasn’t alone, but knowing what was said was for her ears alone.
The old woman’s breath came raggedly, but her voice was as smooth as a mirror’s surface. “I know why you come, and I know what lies ahead of you, but I cannot tell you. You are right in your feelings that all is not well. Things aren’t as they appear. Your destiny is hazy, waiting for you to forge your own path. What is to become of us all rests in your choices.” The wrinkled creature’s words startled Marisa. She hadn’t said anything, but the soothsayer knew why she had come, and answered her questions, but now there were so many more questions bouncing around in her mind.
“But what should I do?” Marisa questioned softly, almost startled to hear her own voice, rough and unsure in comparison to the old woman’s.
A withered hand raised to signal that Marisa was to keep quiet, “The answers you seek I cannot give. You must leave this place on your own to discover your purpose.”
Marisa bit her tongue to keep from another outburst. She didn’t even know what those words meant. How was she suppose to take solace from a riddle?
Again the soothsayer spoke: “I have no more answers for you, you must go.”
[There are more things I will add later that need some re-formatting. These were just C&Ps so everything's in one place xp Hope you enjoy biggrin ]
