Warning- Detour Ahead- Proceed with Caution

I am taking creative license to the max for this week's writing prompt for TRDC. The prompt was about a time when you took a detour. Where had you intended to go and where did you end up?

Actually I had an extremely hard time with this prompt. It wasn't that I have never taken a detour. It was that I have taken so many detours even my detours have detours. How was I going to pick just one? They were all jumping up and down shouting "Pick me! Ohh ohh pick me! No not her, pick me!" While I almost took one or two detours as inspiration, at the last moment I would swerve back onto the highway. Just trudging forward in search of inspiration. I still had a few miles left according to the flashing lights so I was in no hurry to pick one just yet. However, as with most trips I started feeling a bit bored and hungry so I started flipping through some blogs clicking on links and that is how I found this. The mother of all detours.

(source The New Chef's Journal please check out this blog)

After seeing that I no longer could concentrate on writing. All I could think about was that ooey gooey yummy mother of all chocolate cakes and omg why haven't they invented scrach n lick computer monitors yet?!

Ahem! Where was I? Oh yes, the writing prompt. So while I had hoped to have a wonderful beautifully written story for you instead I took a detour and have brought you this yummy chocolate cake. I hope you forgive me for my lack of inspiration, but after witnessing this gorgeous specimen, my brain refused to come out of its Homer Simpson chaaawk-lit coma. Hopefully I will be more inspired for the next prompt and if not there is always chocolate and chocolate with coconut and chocolate with peanut butter in the middle. I have to go now I just gained 10 lbs from reading his blog.

*I really did stumble across this blog while I was searching for inspiration procrastinating. All of his recipes look as yummy as this. So if you're looking for some great new recipes I suggest you check out The New Chef's Journal. I am sure you will become addicted just like I did.

Beauty is in the Eye of the Beholder

This is "my spin" on the writing prompt from TRDC. The prompt was to take something ugly and find the beauty in it. I decided to choose something that is more "socially ugly" than "physically ugly", and I only exceeded the word limit by 15 25 words this time which is an improvement over last time. Oh, and if you can, when you're reading this, imagine it being read by someone with a strong southern accent. It's hard to write  a southern draw.Those aren't spelling mistakes just in case it wasn't obvious.

Growing up living in my grandparents house, we didn't have much. There was no indoor plumbing. Instead you just picked an unused spot outback in the weeds. If you had to go at night, there was an old tin can at the end of the front porch. It was too dangerous at night to use the weeds. A snake might crawl up your pant’s legs and try to take a bite outta ya. At least that is what Pa use to say.

 I wasn’t allowed to use the weeds at night.

Our water came from a well outback. In the winter it would have to be heated on the stove. Then Ma would quickly fill the bathroom sink so I could take a bath.

It was fun when Ma helped me wash my hair.

We didn’t have a normal washing machine. Instead we had one of those old timey ringer washing machines. My arm got caught in that thing more times than I can remember trying to get the sheets through the ringer. We also didn’t have a dryer so clothes had to be hung out on the line.

 Sheets take a long time to dry in the winter.

You also had to be careful where you walked. Some of the floor boards weren’t too sturdy and you could fall through. Like the time my uncle forgot and stepped on the wrong one and fell through the attic. I never laughed so hard in all of my life. Me standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up at his legs dangling through the ceiling. Him yelling at me to get Pa. Me doubled over, tears streaming down my red face, trying my best to suck air back into my lungs. I thought I was gonna suffocate right there.  Finally, air seeping into my lungs just as Pa came to see what all the ruckus was about.

Times were tough. Dinner sometimes was just cornbread and buttermilk. I liked those nights the best. Filling my glass up with ice cold buttermilk. Then crumbling the freshly baked cornbread into it. After each spoonful, taking a bite out of a crisp green onion that I had just picked from the garden. Much better than the nights when we had poan bread and salmon patties. 

I didn’t like poan bread. I tolerated the salmon patties.

Saturdays were the best. Pa and I would go to visit Pa’s sister, Aunt Giddie. Her house smelt like dog piss, but she made the best turnip greens and macaroni salad I had ever eaten in my whole life. As soon as she would hear our car pull in the driveway, she would start fixing my plate. By the time I walked in the door, she would be saying, “There’s a plate on the table fer yee. Help yurself. The rest is on the stove”.

 Aunt Giddie didn’t get any visitors except on Saturdays when Pa and I went there. I didn’t really like Aunt Giddie, but if I went there, then she would always let me take an extra piece of chocolate pie home with me for later. Along with a big bowl of macaroni salad.

 I loved macaroni salad.

Some people called us poor. Others called us “white trash”. I didn’t mind because on Sundays I got to go exploring in the woods or fishing with Ma, and when we would get back, there was Aunt Giddie’s extra piece of chocolate pie waiting on me, and sometimes Ma would even make her homemade banana pudding.

Homemade banana pudding is my favorite. It's the only dish Ma knew how to make.

Wanted: Used Car

This is for the writing prompt from TRDC "RemembeRed". The prompt this week was to Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you're from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self. "

“Where is he?,” I wonder aloud.  Teeth chattering between syllables. “He was suppose to be here five minutes ago. “

Headlights appear out of the darkness. I jump up from the park bench and strain my eyes to see if it’s him. “Finally,” I mutter.

Leb parks the car a few spaces down, jumps out. He has a friend with him. “Sorry for being late,” he says. “This is my friend, Joe. He drove me here,”

Joe extends his hand and says, “Hi.”

I quickly look from Leb to Joe, and stammer, “Sorry I don’t shake hands with men. It’s a religious thing.”

“Oh”, Joe says looking a bit embarrassed. “That’s right. Leb told me but I just forgot.”

“No problem,” I say. “I am use to it. Happens all the time.”

For a few seconds we all stand there in silence. Each waiting for the other to break the ice. Finally unable to bear the winter’s chill any longer I hand the keys to Leb. He was buying my mom’s old clunker . She had been trying to sell it for years.  I had managed to get her to come down a couple hundred on the price because it needed quite  bit of work done to it. However, it was well worth the $300.00 he was paying for it.  

“I can’t thank you enough for doing this,” Leb says. “Forget it,” I say. “It’s what we do for each other, right?”

“Does your mom know you’re the one who paid for the car?” he asks.

“No, she thinks the money came from you. It’s better this way. You can just pay me a $5 or $10 a month until you get it paid off. The title is already signed over to you though. This way you can get everything sorted out without any problems.”

“Thanks again,” Leb says. “I guess you will need a ride back to your place. You drove the car here right?”

“Yeah, but I will just get a cab or walk back or something,” I reply. I didn’t want to trouble him with having to drive me the 3 blocks back to my apartment, but a part of me secretly hoped he would insist, and he did.

Joe no longer being needed had already jumped back in his car and left. Leb got behind the driver’s wheel and I got in the back seat. This way there could be no confusion as to what would happen once we reached my place. An unspoken language that we both were fluent in.  Leb instantly understanding and not crossing the boundaries I had set.

When we reached my apartment, I got out. The night was dark. The security light had been broken by a couple of the neighbors kids. Unspoken understanding, Leb got out and walked me to the door. While I wasn’t his sister by blood, I was by faith. He waited till I was safely inside and the door locked. Then slowly he made his way back to his newly purchased clunker.

As I closed the door, I wondered if he would really repay all of the money. Little did I know I wouldn’t have to wonder for long. A few weeks later I would end up moving to another state. I would release him from our agreement.

“Consider it a gift,” I would explain by email. “Take care and be safe”, was his only reply. Nothing more was needed.  Even though we were basically strangers, we both understood the unspoken language that passed between us.

 “If not brothers by blood, then by faith. If not by faith, then by humanity”. This was the foundation of my faith.  I had based all of my life's decisions upon this one simple rule. It was etched across me like a tattoo. While I had kept much of who I was hidden from others, this one truth was written upon my soul and body for all to see.

Water the Giver of Life-TRDC

This is for a writing prompt from TRDC. The prompt was to write a short piece-fiction or non fiction- inspired by one or both of the following statements. Water gives life. It also takes it away. This is my spin on the prompt. Some parts are true and some are made up. I will leave it up to you to decide which is which. Constructive criticism welcomed!!

The sound of the rain hitting the tin roof of the trailer brought me out of my sleep. Slowly I sat up on the bed and looked out the window. What had been a light mist when I fell asleep was now a thunderous downpour. Lightning flashed across the moonless night sky. Chilled I pulled the soft cotton blanket close around my body. I leaned my head against the windowpane. The coolness of its touch brought a quiet relief to the pounding in my brain.

I could hear the shouting coming from down the hall. “Not again,” I sighed. I tried to silence the voices, but my ears refused to obey. Every Friday night was the same. A vicious cycle of parties, drinking, and then the fighting. How I hated when it started. Sometimes it would end quickly, but tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

When I heard the crash of yet another dish breaking against the wall, it was more than I could stand. I got up and pulled my jacket on. It wouldn’t do much against this downpour, but I was on auto pilot. Just going through the motions. I had to get away. Away from the noise.

I slowly crept down the hall. Not that they noticed. They were too busy yelling at each other. Too wrapped up in the endless insanity of their never ending battle. I eased the back door open and stepped out into the night. Under the protection of the porch roof, the rain didn’t pummel me, but I could still hear the noise.

Then before realization and sanity could kick in, I ran. Through the night, through the darkness, through the wet. I didn’t go far. Not that there was far to go. I stopped at the edge of the woods near the pond. It was my spot. It was where quiet lived. It was where I was a princess in a far away land. A land where I could be rescued by a knight in shining armor. A land where peace and silence reigned.

The rain was falling faster now. My clothes were starting to sag from the heaviness of the rain that seeped into them. I closed my eyes and lifted my head. Letting the rain fall down upon my face. Cleansing me. Healing me. Then slowly I lowered my head and tried to open my eyes. Drops of rain falling from my lashes.

Without wanting, I turned to make my way back to the house. Back to the noise. Pausing for only a moment as my hand reached for the doorknob. Silence permeating the air. It had ended. Gently I eased the door open. Careful not to awaken its monstrous wrath from slumber.

In the warmth of my room I changed my clothes. Put the soaked ones in the tub to dry out a little before putting them in the hamper. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Drops of water still clung to my lashes. I had been cleansed by the rain. Its wetness stealing a part of me but replacing it with another. Exhaustion consumed me. I made my way back to the bed and crawled beneath my soft cotton blanket. Wrapping its protectiveness tightly around me. Relishing in my newfound birth and mourning what was left behind.

Coffee

This is post is written for the Red Dress Club Memoir Link up You can read about the prompt here

I have very few memories from my childhood.  Maybe it’s because I truly don’t remember, but mostly because I don’t want to remember. I listen to others tell of their birthday parties, Halloween costumes, and I wonder what was I for Halloween? Did I even go trick or treating? What kind of cake did I have for my party? Did I even have a party? For all of the things I don’t remember, there is one memory I treasure the most. That memory is of my grandmother.

She was my hope. She made me laugh. She made me feel. Loved.

I didn’t get to see her very much. She worked second shift  at a factory so was often gone when I returned home from school. As soon as I would get home, I would walk into her room. I could still smell the lingering scent of her lotion and hairspray. I would sit on the bed and think of her. My love of reading and writing comes from her. She always had a book with her. Was always reading something. Our house was filled with books. Many a summer’s day she and I sat in the backyard, stretched lazily in lawn chairs, reading.

I would often sneak out at night and lie in those lawn chairs. Looking up at the stars and waiting for her to come home from work. Just lying there, remembering a joke we had shared or a story she had told me. Feeling close to her. I could never tell her what she meant to me. How she made me feel, but she knew. I can still hear her voice, “Wake up. It’s time to go inside”. She never yelled at me for being outside, alone, at 2 o’clock in the morning.   I would rub my eyes, yawn and stretch. I would sit there for a moment. Blinking. Then slowly I would get up and we would go inside together. My grandfather had not bothered to check if I was in my room or not and would often lock the door when he went to bed. So most nights I would be locked out until she got home to let me back in, but I didn’t mind. I enjoyed the cool breeze. The world was different at night. I was different at night.

I would make her a cup of coffee and we would sit at the kitchen table. She would slowly sip her coffee and  tell me about her day at work.  I would sit there just soaking in her every word. Then no longer being able to keep my eyes open, I would go to bed. She would sit there for a while longer. Drinking coffee. Reading a book. She would turn the light off in the living room where I slept when she went to sleep. So strange. I could sleep outside, in the dark alone, but I could never fall asleep in that house unless she was there. She made the house a home.  

 

Tattered Sweatshirt

This week's TRDC prompt: 600 word limit - about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet. Let us know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character. 

" Finally, she was finished. She stood slowly, surveying her work. The boxes she would donate were sitting beside the door. The guy from the Charity Foundation said someone would be by at 7 to pick up the things. She glanced at the clock. It was a quarter til seven now.

She was startled by the soft rumbling of her stomach. Suddenly she realized she hadn’t eaten since the service that morning. She told herself she would fix a sandwich after the Charity Foundation had come and collected the boxes. Although it was warm outside, she felt a sudden chill. Not from the air but from within. Less than 72 hours ago she had laid his body in the cold ground. That is what was making her feel chill. Her sister offered to go through his things for her, but she had refused the help. The movers were coming tomorrow and she wanted to be sure that everything was packed. Ready to go. She couldn’t stand the thought of strangers touching their things. His things.

The doorbell rang. The Charity Foundation workers were there. Five minutes later she was locking the door. At least that was over. She decided the sandwich could wait. Instead she opted for a nice long soak in the tub. She went to the closet to get a fresh change of clothes. That is when she saw it. Didn’t she pack it with the Charity Foundation items? She was certain she had, but there it was hanging right before her eyes. Slowly she reached out to touch it. She could feel the tattered worn cotton beneath her fingers. She pulled it off the hanger and slipped it on. It was 3 sizes too big, but she didn’t care. It smelled of sweat and medicine. His sweat. She sank into the bed, pulling the covers over her head and began to cry. How she had hated that old gray sweatshirt. Threatened him a million times that she was going to burn it, but now it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It was all that remained.

“Just going for my morning run. Be back soon.”, she could hear him saying. Only he didn’t come back and all she was left with was that old tattered sweatshirt. She closed her eyes and breathed in his scent. Then she slept. For the first time in days, she was finally able to sleep."

The Last Time

Daylight was fading as we pulled into town. I looked at you. You were fast asleep. I glanced in the rear view mirror just to confirm what I already knew that she was fast asleep too. If she had been awake, then she would have been talking. She was always talking.  Even if there was no one around she would talk to the wind. Although some days I believed it answered her back. I pulled the car into the hotel. Something cheap. It was just for a few hours. Just to get a quick rest then back on the road again. This would be the last time we would be together. The last time I would look upon your angelic face.   I knew this but you didn’t. You were young and filled with hope. Untainted by the world. Still innocent, but I knew. I felt it deep inside of me.

I knew he would be waiting for us. I had already spoken to him on the phone. I slowly searched for his car. Making these last few moments last just a bit longer. You opened your beautiful brown eyes.  A smile slowly spreads across your face. “Are we here?” you ask. Yes I said.

I parked the car. As we got out I could see him, impatient as always. I held you so close to me. Pulling your body close to mine. Breathing in the salty fragrance of sweat as it rolled down your face. Sweet innocent eyes looking back into mine. A smile that was so wonderful that I was certain time had begun to stand still.

His voice calling you, “Hurry up”. I kissed you good bye. Knowing it was the last good bye. The last time my eyes would see you. The last time my arms would hold you. The last time you would ever say those words to me, but you didn’t know. You wiped my tears. Told me to not cry that you would see me soon and went on your way.

I don’t know how long I stood there. Watching as you drove away. Taking in every moment. Burning every inch of you into my memory. How my heart ached.  I didn’t know it was possible to hurt that much and survive, but I wouldn’t consider my life after that day as surviving. More like merely existing. From that moment on, I was a zombie. A walking corpse. I was real but not real.

On the outside I looked the same as everyone else, but on the inside I was reliving that moment. Watching you waving good bye from the back seat. Your beautiful innocent smile. Then you slowly turning around sitting down. That was the last time I saw you.

 

This post is linked up with the Red Dress Club’s memoir prompt, which asked: “imagine that after you have died and your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see? Tell us about them in the finest detail.” It's my first time so if it isn't right, let me know so I know what to do next time.