Red Hair and Vodka

I am the exact image of my mother.  Everyone says so.  This worries me. 

“The resemblance is uncanny,” says my parole officer, taking the bent photo out of my hands and tracing the red hair my mother and I share, as if she could feel the heat radiating.  “It’s almost like you’re twins.” 

Fact:  My mother is a devout Mormon

Secret:  I am not

Fact:  My mother helps everyone

Secret:  I avoid everyone

Fact:  When I got out of jail, she stopped speaking to me   

You’d think she would’ve stopped speaking to me when I went to jail, not when I got out.  You’d think she might’ve lied to people for me, told them I was studying abroad or pregnant.  No.    

It reflected negatively on her when I was arrested, that’s the part she couldn’t move past.  That and the alcohol.  In the Mormon religion, anything fun is banned.  Coffee will send you straight to hell, so don’t even consider that third shot of vodka.  And if you drop out of Church because their rules are too restrictive, make sure you don’t hang out with “hoodlums who drink and drive.”  And if you choose to “ignore your entire upbringing” and drink and drive anyway, try not to hit a parked police car and then flee the scene. 

 **   

She came to visit me once a week for two years, every time finishing with the haunting words, “I’ll pray for you.” 

I don’t need your damn prayers, I thought, I need a better lawyer. 

The day I was released, she was visiting friends in Missouri.  “I’m getting out Tuesday,” I told her over the phone, “can’t you fly back sooner?” 

“Why would I do that?” she asked.  “Christina, I pray for you, I have prayed for you, but I have my limits.  When you get out, you’re on your own.” 

I was 20. 

Six months after I got out, my step-father called to tell me she died.  She was hit by a drunk driver.    

*****************************

Recovery

There were tears in her eyes when she awakened. He wiped them away and said, “The surgery went fine. We will be fine.” She closed her eyes as he wiped away more tears.

by: Lindsey T.

Chocolate Lovers

Sally slid onto the bench, near a man eating chocolate pudding. The DVD, “White Noise” exited her bag. “Good taste,” he said. “Likewise with you,” she replied. “Would you care to join me?”

by: E. Clough

Mariah Carey was Right (Love Takes Time)

Friend of my guy, we bickered. Guy was my ex, he comforted. Interest piqued, but dating her. Years wasted, dead ends and denial, now perfectly clear. Timed impeccably, at last we are us.

by: geekiestgirl

Love story by Sheri

The baby died. He spoke the words again, and again, so she didn't have to. He kept them from her mouth and filled it instead with ice cream. He held her and wept.

Love story by Mindy

Marble-heavy legs in stirrups, and a mirror to the left. Lights
dimmed, a hand on my shoulder as masked strangers hover. Another
push. A head is reflected. It waits while I weep.

Love Story by Jen

The pain reaches a peak never retreating, my mountains have become plateaus.

I sweat, yell and push.

Placed in my arms, I look into her eyes and know that I am hers forever.

Love story by Amelia

I think he’s gay.

He’s not gay.

I couldn’t get more obvious, he’s barely said a word.

That’s his version of flirting!

Apparently I'm going to have to step this up a notch.

Sway by b303tilly

They always love me more in the beginning than I want them to. Uncomfortable, I push them away, feeling as if my skin has shrunk and I no longer fit. “Don’t touch me!” bounds from my mouth. I watch their eyes flinch, just a little, around the edges. I hurt them, I can’t stop myself. I let them close, and then flit away. I need to know that they will take all of the abuse I heap upon them in order to let down my guard. They want me more, they take everything on. I'm a challenge. They’ve seen the worst and stayed, so now I can love them. I ignore one too many wounded looks, I don't notice them pulling away. I finally let go, let them in, commit to love, and the very moment I need it, I lose whatever sway I had. Shit.

Mindy

1. What is your name (real or otherwise)?
Mindy, as in Mork and Mindy. Real talk.

2. Describe your writing style in three words.
What writing style?

3. How long have you been writing online? 

Does Facebook count? 'Cause that would make it four years.

4. Which, if any, other writing challenges do you participate in? 

Zip.

5. Describe one way in which you could improve your writing.
Try.

6. What is the best writing advice you’ve ever been given?
Keep it simple, stupid.

7. Who is your favorite author? 

Flannery O'Connor

8. How do you make time to write?
I don't.

9. Give us one word we should consider using as a prompt.
magazine

10. Direct us to one blog post of yours that we shouldn't miss reading.
Ain't got one.

The Ms. Shirley Stare by Mindy

Underneath the table upon which are scattered various elementary projects —maps, bead frames, timelines—Rayven is kicking Bryce.  In a shocking display of maturity, he ignores it, keeps working.  I stand a few feet away, coffee in hand.  It’s what I’m trained to do.  Blend in to the environment.  Allow the children a chance to work things out for themselves.  On the wall is the worst picture of Dr. Montessori ever taken.  A 16x20 sepia print shows her frowning, chin in hand, eyes cast down.  It’s terrifying.  When I look it, I feel like I did as a child during mass when I’d look up at the crucifix and feel small and shamed.  I imagine the words “you suck” floating through the air in a direct path from the picture to my ears.  

I stare at Rayven’s narrow eyes.  She stares back.  What’s supposed to happen next is that she look away and get back to work.  I call it the Ms. Shirley Stare, the single most valuable disciplinary tool offered when she trained me years ago.  No shouting, no distraction, no embarrassment—just a look, for as long as it takes.  “The drift will be caught, my girl,” she said to me.  

Three minutes have passed.  Still staring, I raise my eyebrows.  Rayven raises hers.  I tilt my head to the right.  So does she.  I walk toward her.  She stands up.  When I lean my head in a little, she slowly crouches to the ground.  I follow her.  There on the linoleum we are huddled in this ridiculous contest. Four more painful minutes pass. Suddenly the door opens to reveal the school secretary giving a tour to an interested family.  The blast of cold air and the shard of sunlight on her face rattle her.  She loses her balance and falls back.  I walk away while my hand races to cover my smile with my coffee mug.  I think to myself, The Ms. Shirley Stare will always have sway, my girl. 

Sway by Amelia

Her facebook status says; “Day one of being a full vegan.  Wish me luck!” and I feel violent. 

I realize what a hypocrite I’m being.  That my number one pet peeve is adults who don’t take responsibility for their own actions. 

But when my 95 pound steak, cheese and chocolate loving sister announces her veganism I find it very hard to stomach that it is her decision.  That her roommate/boss who controls the check book and who is perpetually trying to lose weight had nothing to do with it.  You know, the one she had to convince that despite it being easier for his self control, they were going to have to have some full fat foods in the house so she didn’t disappear off the face of the earth due to her continued weight loss.  There are plenty of ways to eat healthy, yes as a vegan, that won’t make you lose weight, but she wasn’t getting proper nutrition when meat and dairy was an option, and now she’s limited even more?!   She’s spent the few visits we’ve had eating as much as she can in attempt to put on a few pounds while the food is available. 

I’m all for veganism, vegetarianism, carnivorism, whatever your “ism” is DO IT.  By all means.  But when others use their advantage to sway what you choose to eat in the favor of their beliefs, no matter what may be the healthiest choice, and when the person being swayed is my younger 5‘ 4” sister, it does not set well with me.

In fact, it causes me to marvel on the fact that I can loathe a person I have never met.  That I, one of the most non confrontational, non violent, we’re all adults, type of person, want to windmill kick someone right in the head, that I’ve only seen a picture of is shocking, to say the least. 

My sweet sister.  Good luck doesn’t even begin to touch what I wish for you.

Girl From The Bay: Weep

She sat, slumped like a ragdoll against the base of a tall tree in the snowy Spring forest. Her wavy brown hair hung in long, damp clumps from under her beige stocking hat with the big tassle on top. It was a gift her Mother had knitted and given her for Christmas along with the matching gloves that now were also getting damp as her hands laid on the melting snow, palms up. Row upon row of trees were silent, each studiously holding a silver bucket that hung under a tap.

There was not a sound in the clear early morning air. The birds were waking, sleepily shaking melting frost off their feathers, preening and preparing to take flight and make song for the day. As the sunlight began to filter through the treetops, shining down on the girl in long golden beams, one thing became clear. There was no light in her staring eyes. A final vacant look of desperation and disbelief were frozen on her face for all eternity. In the distance a bloodhound began to bark excitedly – it had found her trail. Now in the silver buckets, the sound of sparkling droplets of sap hitting bottom could be heard. The trees had begun to weep.

Westmeath Haiku by Lara Hill

The hawthorn's hands weep
Wood under Westmeath water
How wet the thaw's breath

Mizen to Malin
Rising slowly knots, degrees
Temperatures sure

We live mid-island
But across the emerald

Spring's voice whispers green

Cutting by Lara Hill

Pippa sounded mature when she declared that she would welcome
constructive criticism. In fact, like many people, the only criticism
she truly welcomed was so constructive as to be indistinguishable from
a compliment. In fairness to her, she had worked long and late,
burning the midnight oil, both ends of the candle and the tips of
uncounted, thin, sustaining rollies.

At the end of the five day Art Fair she was flat out. She fought back
tears at a feed back session on the last day. Later, she tried to
explain to her recently neglected husband how insensitive the
printmakers had been. If only people could couch their quick criticism
in gentler terms.

Her husband had studied at Saint Martin's. He remembered the cutting
remarks as his fellow artists appraised his work and spoke sticks and
stones. Criticism was a knife and the scars were slow to heal. A
couple of words downgraded your canvas to a big, fat, epic fail.

In an act of solidarity with all who were more constructive than
critical he opened a cool bottle of Chablis. Pippa watched the wine
yellow her glass and realised that despite her exposure to London's
top prints all week, this tableau was by far the most delectable .