The Lovers

Who does she think she is? Who does she think he is? He’s posted at the window, waiting, watching, listening.

At her invitation, he’d moved in 5 glorious years ago, but even before the move, it had been mutual love at first sight. She had given him nicknames: Mr. Moon beam, Pootie-Poot, but the best one was My Significant Other.

This is the second weekend this month that she has not come home. Three weeks ago, she’d brought a foreign smell with her, like sweet rotting flowers and sweat. That night, he’d left 3 disgusting puddles of mucosa and undigested food and waited for her to make her way, feet bare, for her morning pee. Oh, sweet revenge!

This cheating. He won’t stand for it. But he has a plan. He will fix her and fix her good.

What is that?

His right ear moves like a satellite dish. She’s at the end of the block. Time to get into position. He leaves the window and lies on his side on the bed. Tail and paws straight out. Tip of tongue lolling sideways on the comforter. Weeks of practice, with a best time of 1.5 minutes. He can barely wait.

Footsteps. Key in lock. He inhales and traps his breath deep inside.

“Hi, Pumpkin! How’s my Pootie-Poot. Did you miss me, Mister Moonbeam?” she calls in passing.

How much time does he have left anyway? 30 seconds? Okay, then he will have to set a new time for himself.

“Sweet cakes?” A bit of anxiety now. He’s loving it. Now she’s shaking the bed. “Are…you…okay?”

A beat.

“Why aren’t you moving? OMG! Oh no!”

The thud is her knees hitting the floor. He winces for her, but, oh, this is good. Payback’s a beautiful thing, though he’s starting to feel a dizzy, unfocused, light-headed and light-bodied, unanchored, really.

Rising…rising. Where is he? Drifting higher, he sees what looks like a far-off bridge. And a rainbow. Rainbow Bridge! What the…? Was he…? Had he…? Damn it. What an idiot he was!

He looks down in time to see her swoop his magnificent by limp body into her arms. Jet black and whiskers brighter than moonbeams. Damn, he wasn’t even finished with that body yet.

She places him gently on the bed, crying, stroking him, and now wailing. “Why? Why?”

Okay, enough, he thinks as he tries to get back by breast-stroking in space, in place. But there is no getting back, is there? It’s over. He has fucked up.

Now something pierce his heart. His spirit heart, that is. It’s warm and nearly tickles. His attention turns back, or down, to her and his former self. A shimmering violet light that connects their two hearts. It’s growing brighter, pulsating, and before he can think another thought…

Ugh! Umph!

He’s back. Yes! Watching her watch his beautiful whiskers quiver. She scoops him up again and presses him against her neck.

“You bad, bad boy. You were just messing with my head, weren’t you.” She’s nearly smothering him with hugs and kisses, and he has to admit that he’s relieved that he’s caused her such grief. That’ll teach her. He gives her a feeble, trembling meow. “But don’t you ever…”

Before she gets out “do that again” he reaches up and gives her an unsheathed swipe across the cheek. Shut your mouth and get me a treat, he thinks, as he cleans her dried tears from his claws.
Oh how the heart forgets!

Weekly Writing Challenge: He-djfoi icki foilium nuk nuk?

Weekly Writing Challenge: 1,000 Words, Take Two
Your challenge this week is to write a post based on this picture: We see lots of possibilities in this photo:

Who are these people? What’s their relationship? Where are they? Are they saying hello or goodbye? Or something else altogether? Are they just clinging to one another to keep from sliding down the steep cobblestones? Who’s coming/going, and why? Where are they coming from/going to? Are the people behind them waiting for them? Are they happy for the couple, or irritated?

SHE-NON

Yes, let us continue to hold together. Yes, like this.

HE-NON

It is silly, yes?

SHE-NON

Yes, but it is their way. It will give us more credibility.

HE-NON

How do the legs feel? These are still cold.

SHE-NON

These have grown warm already. Don’t be concerned. The warmth will come soon. Remember, I entered the shen-non before you entered the hen-non. It takes time. What a bright idea the commander had for reformatting the mothership into a trolley…trolley…

Writing Challenge: The Devil Is in the Details: Sandra

A woman walks into a restaurant. Imagine this scene and capture every detail you can in a few paragraphs. Describe the woman: is she old, young, or in-between? What type of restaurant is it: fancy, casual, or a diner? What is she doing? Pack as much detail as you can into a few paragraphs that will help us imagine this woman clearly.

She approaches the restaurant tentatively, her gloved hand lingering on the door handle. If I could read minds, I might say that she is still debating whether she should enter or not. She is alone, and how many people like to dine alone? A few seconds have passed, and now she’s opening the door. Entering. The heels of her long leather boots click-clicking against the marble floor. Confidently, I might add. She’s the deep red-brown of a kidney bean, and the natural top-knot that she wears is lightly threaded with silver strands. The silver in her hair might lead you to conclude she’s “of a certain age,” but she’s not. The unlined, unwrinkled skin, barely touched by gravity or living, might lead you to conclude she’s young. She’s not. Small filigree silver hoops hang from her, Sandra’s, ears and catch the lights from the faux-crystal chandeliers as she slides into the booth of a diner whose décor – brocade fabric on the seats, blue-gray marble tops and counters imported from Italy, and even the tuxedos of the staff — pretends to be more than it is, but whose menu tells its truth: typical coffee shop fare.

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Picture is Worth 1,000 Words

“They say a picture is worth a thousand words, right? Prove it! This week’s challenge couldn’t be simpler: tell a story based on this picture. You can take this in whatever direction you’d like. Write some fiction. Who are these people? What’s their backstory? What’s going on in this picture? What happens next? Construct a history for us. Write from your own experience. Do one of these people remind you of someone you know, or of something that’s happened to you? Connect the dots for us. Go on a flight of fancy. Who knows what pops into your head when you take a look? Grab the first thing and go with it! We’ll tell you the truth behind the photo in next week’s challenge post, but we’re sure it won’t be nearly as interesting as what you come up with!”

Greg, Dad and Me circa 1951

Yes, that’s our dad holding our hands. My mom took this photo. I’m three. My brother’s five. Greg. I’m Anne. My neck was sweating between the coat collar and the bonnet. Itchy, really. Greg’s cap is hiding a bad, homemade haircut that my mom gave him. What? Oh no, we weren’t angry, just serious. We were a loving serious family that day about to go to church. Mom’s wearing a lovely royal blue dress with light pink trim around the collar and long cuffs, a matching trapeze coat and low black heels. She was, as my dad used to say, “a real looker.” She had to put her pocketbook down because it was making her arm shake and interfering with the photograph she was trying to take. Then she and my dad switched places, and he took one of her, me and Greg. I don’t know what happened to it. Too bad. It pains me. I ought to have both photos.

If photographs reflected reality, not just as a snapshot of a moment, but as ongoing reality, I would be the only one in the photo. An absurd take on Dorian Gray.

What happened.

What happened?

Well…

Weekly Writing Challenge: A Splash of Color

Alchemy: Postcardperfect sun and river redefining reality; on the stage of the Seventy-ninth Street boat basin nature is the everpresent performer, enchantress, and finally, trickster.

photo by Kate Benedict

Where the Hudson River was unlit, its surface receded and sank; where the sun’s light romped, shimmering runners of rainbow luminescence appeared to reverse the river’s movement from horizontal to vertical. A feral speedboat, its canvas roof carmine, the color of a movie star’s lips, its body cerulean fiberglass, fractured the illusion of optics with violent momentum and gouged a deep violet gash into the river’s fluid skin. Gulls, kamikaze in aggression and concentration, dived, skimmed river surface, and then ascended until they disappeared, sometimes with fish in their beaks, sometimes with what they merely thought were fish. When river mended itself, flowing south to north, it carried with it old Reeboks still laced and toes turned upward, spent and dulled condoms as transparent as cellophane, pastel race tipsheets with some dreamer’s circled selections, and other chronicles of contemporary human settlement.