SUZANNE RUDD HAMILTON

A Good Deed

It was a cold and icy winter day. There was no snow on the ground, but the temperatures plummeted below zero for the prior week. A perfect recipe for ground ice.

17-year-old Greg woke early at 7am on Saturday morning and groggily bundled up to go to swimming practice.

Mr. Herbert, Greg’s swim coach, insisted they practice every single day after school and two hours first thing Saturday morning to maintain their level of competition. The previous year, the team missed winning the state championship by only a few points and Mr. Herbert vowed that would never happen again.

The light was just coming up over the horizon, but it was still very dark out, which made it difficult to see any black ice on the road.

When he turned onto a road, Greg hit a small patch of ice and began to skid. His first instinct was turn the wheel, but he remembered his father told him not to fight ice, so he loosened his grip on the wheel and let the car skid a bit. In a minute, he took a deep sigh of relief, the car was back on track. He got through it.

Although, up ahead he saw someone else was not so fortunate. In the deep gully next to the road the car in front of him careened off leaving the car teetering in the ditch.

Greg was sympathetic to the driver and as a good Eagle Scout wanted to offer his assistance. He had a rope in the back of his Jeep SUV and a trailer hitch, so he thought he could pull the car out of the gully.

He gently depressed the brake to stop and hit a large piece of black ice. His car suddenly spun around and around like a top without control. A wild ride he didn’t care to be on.

Remembering what his father told him again he loosened up a little on the wheel and took his foot off the brake, hoping the car would once again recover. But this time, Greg wouldn’t get that lucky. The spin thrust the car into the ditch and flipped it over.

Shaken and somewhat terrified, Greg took a deep breath and took account of himself.

He didn’t see any blood or feel any broken bones and the airbags didn’t deploy. He was physically fine, but mentally apprehensive from the accident. But the biggest problem… he was upside down.

Since the car seemed level, he figured the best course was to get out of the car. Greg tried to unbuckle his seatbelt, but the force of gravity locked the seatbelt in a tight position and he couldn’t remove it. No matter how many times he pulled and clicked, it wouldn’t come undone. He was left hanging there.

His cell phone was in his bag on the passenger seat, but when he reached for it, he found it gone, probably flung somewhere in the other parts of the car. He was stranded with nowhere to go. It seemed like his good deed would not go unpunished.

But then, there was a rap on the window. Greg looked up and saw an older gentleman staring at him.

“Are you Ok?” He said.

Greg nodded.

“I called a tow truck a few minutes ago to pull my car out of the ditch. Maybe they can help you too. Did you want to use my phone to call anyone?”

Greg nodded in appreciation, but when he tried to lower the window, it was stuck. The flipped vehicle probably bent the door frame, pinning the window. So he took off his gloves and wrote his home phone number in the foggy mist on the window.

The man put the number in his phone and called.

“Hello?” Said Greg‘s half asleep mother.

“Hi my name is Martin. I’m on Bruce Road and your son is here. There’s been an accident. He’s fine but looks a bit scared. He hit some black ice and he’s upside diwnin the ditch. I called for a tow truck.”

Greg’s mother Shelia gasped. “Oh my goodness, I’ll be right there.”

Still in her pajamas, Sheila ran downstairs put on her coat, boots, gloves, and a hat, racing out the door as fast as she could.

A few minutes later, she arrived on the scene to find a fire truck and tow truck. The firefighters were using a crowbar to open the door and release Greg.

Sheila ran up to the car yelling Greg‘s name.

After the firefighters cut his seatbelt, Greg was finally free. As soon as he saw her, Greg burst into tears and ran to her.

“Mom, mom!”

He held onto her crying, his body shaking from fear and fright.

She comforted her son and a few minutes later they both stood there, looking at the car.

“I’m really sorry mom. I tried to stop to help this man whose car went off the road and then I hit the black ice,” Greg explained, wiping away his tears.

She lovingly gazed at her son and kissed him on the forehead.

“Don’t worry about the car. I’m just glad you’re OK. It’s really kind of a miracle. You know they say no good deed goes unpunished. Maybe next time, just call for help. But I’m proud of you for thinking of others in need.”

As they hugged, the tow truck driver approached them, shaking his head.

“The car is probably totaled ma’am. I can get it out of the ditch and flip it over, but where would you like me to tow it?”

“We live about a mile away. I guess tow it back to our house,” Shelia said.

Then the older man extended his hand to Greg.

“Young man, I hear you got into this pickle because you tried to help me.”

He turned to Shelia.

“You’ve got a good one here.” Then he walked back to his car being pulled from the ditch.

Shelia hugged Greg again.

“There. Maybe that is reward for your good deed after all. You’re safe. That’s enough.”

Note: This was a prompt from my writing group to write about sayings. And, yes, this is a true story of one of my children.

Grand Gemstone Hunt

Martha and her family were all gathered in the library of Grand Manor to read the will of their dear departed Uncle Frederick, who died just short of his 99th birthday.

In attendance were her brother Freddie, her young cousin Tiffany, Tiffany’s much older half-sister Agatha, and Uncle Fredrick’s not so grieving window Twinkie, the latest in a series of strippers the old man married.

Agatha was a spinster school teacher with a somewhat unfavorable disposition. She was affectionately known as Miss Grouch by her many students.

Her half-sister, Tiffany, a mere 30 years younger, resembled her mother’s beauty and free will spirit from head to toe. Tiffany was a budding artist with Bohemian proclivities and a kind and wholesome heart.

Growing up on the farm portion of the estate, Martha and Freddie were as different as siblings could be. Freddie was immensely spoiled by their parents, living the life of a Playboy off his allowance.

Martha on the other hand was the true salt of the Earth. At 18 she pledged to the convent. But years later, after her parents passed, she returned to the small farm, cultivating it into a proper business.

Only Uncle Fredrick lived in the house for decades, as no one could stand the deplorable site of this vagrant voyeur who cycled through a different stripper each year, just so he could have personal lap dances. After he got tired with them, he would buy them off and divorce them.

Although Martha did look in on him and stop by for visits, when he was between wives, no one was really close to Uncle Fredrick.

Old Frederick outlived his parents and siblings, leaving only a rag tag band of relatives who barely knew uncle Frederick.

The Grand family was old money crafted from the robber barons of the earliest part of the 20th century. In accordance with the will of the head of the Grand family, the Colonel, each heir would be provided a living sum each year, but the eldest male would inherit the bulk of the fortune and manage the estate.

Naturally, Martha’s brother Freddie thought this privilege would go to him as the only male heir. Her parents even made him Uncle Frederick’s namesake in an attempt to influence the will, just in case.

Uncle Frederick was by all means, unconventional in every manner of his life and the will of several generations before with The Colonel would not guarantee his wishes were granted.

The five sat in the library, staring at each other, wondering who Uncle Frederick favored with his fortune.

Holding their breath in anticipation, they waited in silence as the attorney read the will.

“I, Frederick Grand, being of sound mind, most of the time, do hereby bequeath my inherited estate as follows:

To my latest wife Twinkie I offer you a lump sum of $250,000 and wish you well on your way. You may keep all personal possessions and gifts I bestowed on you during our relationship, but you are given 30 days to move out of the mansion.

Each of my four remaining nieces and nephew will inherit equal portions of the estate in the amount of $2.5 million each. The farm and all its lands and appurtenances is hereby willed to Martha Grand, provided she continue to farm it for a period of no less than 10 years.

As to the ancestral Grand Manor, and the balance of the $10 million fortune, that will go to one of the four of you exclusively the winner of the grand gemstone hunt.

There are 50 raw gemstones of varying types, sizes, and weights with differing values hidden in the mansion. Whoever finds gemstones of the most value will exclusively win the mansion and the balance of my wealth.”

Twinkie giggled at the rest of them and left the room quickly. “Good luck y’all.”

Still in shock, the four glared at each other trying to comprehend what they heard.

“I protest. According to the Colonel‘s will, I am to inherit everything,” Freddie boasted.

The attorney sook his head in disagreement.

“Freddie, it was up to your uncle Frederick to decide how to distribute his own wealth, regardless of the Colonel’s will,” the attorney corrected him.

Agatha‘s face turned an eggplant shade of purple as she tussled herself into a frenzy.

“Am I to understand that I must compete in some type of winner takes all game of chance?”

“Well, yes Miss Agatha however, you do keep any gemstones you find, whether or not you win the grand prize,” the attorney explained.

She huffed with displeasure and they all glared at each other, suspiciously wondering who had the advantage for victory.

The attorney glanced at his watch and raised his hand.

“You have 5 hours at which point we will reconvene here with a gemologist. You may begin now!”

He lowered his hand and they immediately staggered out of the room, scrambling in different directions.

Agatha took a methodical approach, entering each room to scout where the gems could be hidden to create a plan of attack.

Freddie stomped like a child into the drawing room, whining at the unfairness and poured himself a drink while dragging his feet around the room touching books and opening cabinets.

Tiffany pranced around the upstairs bedrooms singing and laughing as she gleefully searched.

But Martha sat in the library still as a glass pond.

The attorney gathered his papers and noticed she hadn’t moved.

“Sister, you understand you have only five hours.”

Martha grinned and nodded without moving, as the attorney shook his head and left the room.

Hours ticked away and clatter from each end of the house roared, as each room was upended. Yet Martha remained silent and still.

With only one hour remaining, Martha heard the grandfather clock in the foyer chime the fifth hour, but she did not rise. Finally with 30 minutes left, the attorney returned to the library with a befuddled look of shock on his face and the gemologist in tow.

“Sister, don’t you want to look for the gems? The others are tearing the place apart. But it’s strange, this room is untouched.”

Martha arose and steadily walked over to library shelf and removed a volume of Benjamin Franklin’s Poor Richard’s Almanac and took her seat, placing the book on her lap.

“Fifteen minutes left,” the attorney yelled to the others and shot a confused look at Martha.

In the next minutes, the other three raced into the library, panting in exhaustion.

Agatha put a box on the desk with 20 gems. Freddie emptied his pockets to count 15 gems and Tiffany dug into her sack purse of to reveal the 10 gems she found.

As the gemologist examined the stones, the trio wriggled on the edge of their seats waiting for the verdict. Again, Martha sat steadfast on her chair.

“Miss Agatha had a fine collection. Many stones but nothing superlative. I estimate the total value at $50,000,” the gemologist determined.

“Mr. Freddie’s modest lot had several outstanding stones. I would value his collection at $65,000,” he said.

“And Miss Tiffany’s grouping had one superlative gem and several other unremarkable stones. The value of hers is $45,000.”

Freddie jumped out of his chair in delight.

“I win I win.” He said.

Martha rose and walked to the desk with her book.

“Just a minute Freddie, I found one stone.”

The other scoffed at her for thinking one stone could make a difference. But Martha carefully opened the book to expose a false section cut out with a very large sky blue stone concealed within.

Everyone gasped as they saw the beautiful stone sparkling in the light as Martha held it up.

The gemologist’s eyes nearly popped out of his sockets as he smiled and gently took the stone from her hand.

“Now this is something. I’ve never seen such a perfect specimen of a blue diamond.”

He took out his jeweler’s loop and thoroughly examined the gem with a big grin on his face.

“This is truly superlative. I would value this gem at $1 million dollars.”

The others sat plastered like statues in momentary shock, until Freddie spoke up.

“I don’t understand. How did you know about this?”

Martha smiled with a Cheshire grin.

“I knew it because Uncle Frederick told me his favorite book was Poor Richard’s Almanac. He said it contained a valuable truth and knowledge beyond fortune. I knew that’s where he would hide a priceless gemstone.”

Freddie sunk and his chair defeat as Agatha huffed and stuck her head up in the air, and Tiffany squeaked a soft sigh.

“You are all welcome to live in the manor as long as you’d like,” Martha announced as the three gleeful faces lit up in excitement.

“Of course you’d have to share it with the orphans and the other sisters. I intend to turn the manor into an orphanage to house abandoned children and teach them how to farm and other useful lessons. The other sisters from my convent will help me.”

Suddenly, the others’ joy turned into disappointment as one by one they lowered their heads and left the library in defeat.

The attorney chuckled after they left the room.

“I don’t understand these people. They were all granted plenty of money to live on and you even offered to let them stay in the house for free. Yet they walk out as if they were given nothing.”

Martha smiled.

“In this book, Benjamin Franklin wrote, ‘Get what you can, and what you get hold; ‘Tis the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.’ I’m afraid these three never learned the true value of gold, so it will always be lead to them.”

Labor Day

Every Labor Day, I can’t help thinking of the best and worst 24 hours of my life. The day my sweet angel was born and the worst pain I’ve ever experienced.

My baby was scheduled to be born August 1, but the baby didn’t get the memo. Every week in August, I went to the doctor hoping she’d say it’s time and leaving disappointed when she said… not yet.

I felt like a beached whale. There was no comfortable position I could sit or sleep in and walking was like lugging the weight of a car on my back. I never wanted to move.

By the end of August, the doctor was concerned the baby was growing too big for me to deliver naturally so she set up an appointment for me to be induced on Labor Day.

The night before I couldn’t sleep. I was a ball of nerves with my mind racing, imagining the unexpected.

I was really afraid it was gonna be very painful. But in the many minutes of my sleepless hours, as my husband sawed logs next to me, I rationalized that many women do this and do it more than once so it couldn’t be that bad right?

At 5am the next morning the doctor broke my water and shot my arm with an IV full of miracle drugs to induce labor and make my baby pop out like a turkey thermometer on Thanksgiving day.

For about an hour I was lulled into a false sense of security. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. Wrong! What they don’t tell me is the the drugs make contractions 110 times worse. And no stupid Lamaze breathing could ever prepare me for the pain.

I felt like I was being cut in half, like a balloon that kept inflating and never popped.

This went on repeat hour after hour. For some reason this baby did not want to come out. I’d have ten minutes of intense pain followed by fifty minutes of absolute boredom, fear and anticipation of what was coming next.

My husband plastered himself to the television in the room. When I asked for more ice chips, he actually asked me to wait for a commercial. Can you believe that I’m going through all this to give him a child and he can’t even give me some frozen water?

After the first nurse shift change, I was getting anxious and hungry. You’re not allowed to eat for eight hours before you go in. And you’re not allowed to eat until you give birth.

When she came to introduce herself, I asked for something to eat.

“Sorry, I can only give you clear liquids,” she said with a practiced sympathetic expression.

When she left, my husband turned to me and asked.

“I’m kinda hungry too. Do you mind if I go to McDonald’s?”

I secretly wished he would suffer along with me, but simply nodded to be nice.

The nurse returned with a tray of chicken broth, a glob of no sugar gelatin and a dusty can of Shasta soda without sugar that they must have retrieved from the basement, it looked so old.

“Wow, I didn’t think they sold Shasta anymore,” I kidded and she shot me an obligatory smile, probably missing my joke.

I slurped down the clear tasteless liquid meal when my husband comes back sporting the mouth-watering aroma of a Big Mac and fries.

I was appalled. “Are you going to eat that in front of me?”

He shrugged innocently. “Well, I don’t want to miss anything.”

By the next nurse shift change, with now 16 hours of labor under my belt, I was getting worried.

When they broke my water, they said I had to deliver within 24 hours or they’d have to do a C section. I was on a clock and it kept ticking away like a haunting reminder of a schedule I had no control over.

“Hi I’m Sandy. How are we doing?” The new nurse grinned while adding her name to the whiteboard in my room.

I smiled back but what I really wanted to say was We are not doing anything?

With nine hours to go, the contractions were harder but still only every hour on the hour, like the chime of a grandfather clock counting down the hours to the knife.

Sympathetic, Sandy offered to talk to the doctor.

She came back quickly and adjusted the iv.

“Doctor said we can turn up the medicine to hopefully move things along. But the contractions may be a little stronger,” she warned in an optimistic Mary Poppins tone.

But all I heard was the word stronger, like it was covered in bright lights on a billboard.

And she wasn’t kidding; stronger was an understatement. I went from intense pain every hour to now longer and more intense pain every half hour to the point where I was screaming in pain.

“Screaming won’t do any good. You have to focus your energy,” Sandy advised.

But I really wanted to scream. It was my only outlet so it did do something for me.

Unfortunately the pain ratcheted up, accompanied by backaches, neck aches and new pains every time.

Not knowing what to do, my concerned husband talked to Sandy. “Isn’t there anything you can give her for the pain?”

Sandy left again and came back with another addition to the IV.

“This should help take the edge off,” she smiled.

I don’t know what it was, but I have a low tolerance for pain and a high tolerance for pain medication. A little does nothing.

But around midnight, I can still remember jumping on the bed screaming “Get out. Get out.” Was it a drug induced hallucination or real? I’ll never know, but the clock was ticking down and I was running out of time.

A c section was surgery. A longer recovery and then any children after would result in the same surgery. I wasn’t a fan.

When the doctor came to check again at 2am, I was still only up to 5 centimeters. 20 hours and only halfway to our goal. We were at our wits end.

“She can’t go on like this,” my husband told the doctor.

“OK, I’ll come back in an hour, if she’s not ready, we will do a c section,” the doctor agreed.

Well, the baby must have heard that. Within a half hour I was at 10 centimeters and by 3am with one push my angel arrived and I realized why so many women do this multiple times. You may not forget the pain, but the reward is well worth it.

Song Sung Blue

Brandy was enthused at her first visit to the renaissance fair with her longtime boyfriend Dale.

She embraced the merriment by meticulously making period wench and farmer costumes for them. But Brandy was especially excited for another reason. After 10 years together she wondered if Dale was ready to take their relationship to the next level.

For the past few weeks, she noticed him leaving little hints that he was going to propose. She noticed he bought flowers without occasion and a friend said they saw him coming out from a jewelry store. He also suggested they go to the Renaissance Fair, the most romantic place to propose.

Before they left, he gave her the flowers to make a wreath for her hair. She was appreciative, but slightly confused as she thought this would be part of the proposal.

Then as they were watching a minstrel show she heard the ABBA song Say I do… I do, I do, I do played beautifully on the violin. She held her breath and closed her eyes, waiting for her special moment. After a minute, she exhaled and opened her eyes to find another man on his knee’s proposing to another girl.

Glancing to her left she found her boyfriend grimacing at him. “Yikes. He’s screwed.” He said laughing.

Her heart sunk to the ground and the next 10 years flashed like a movie playing in her head. Everything was the same.

The rest of the day all she heard was that I do song on replay, taunting her with each step.

Inside she wrestled with her feelings, debating whether she could wait for him. Or if he loved her. Or even if she could overcome his obvious distaste for commitment.

As they got in the car, he rattled a new keychain in her face. “I forgot to show you. Do you like my new keychain. It has my name. I got it at a jewelry store.”

Exasperated, she fiddled with the radio trying to drown out the sore feelings and the brain worm song that got into her head. Then she heard the soulful song by Bonnie Raitt. I can’t make you love me if you don’t, you cant make your heart feel something it won’t.

Listening to the lyrics, it felt like the soundtrack to her own life. But she wasn’t ready to hear it, so she shook her head side to side and quickly changed the channel.

But the next choice by Toni Braxton wasn’t any better. Unbreak my heart, say you’ll love me again.

“Oh my God. Not again. There’s gotta be something else out there.” She thought and pressed the Sirius radio scrolling for anything else. “Here is an oldies station this should be fine.”

But then she heard Neil Sedaka singing They say that Breaking up is hard to do.

“No!” She looked over at Dale. He was completely unaffected. She wondered if he heard this string of songs almost like the universe was telling her what to do?

“Maybe he even didn’t care enough to know what was going on,” she said to herself.

Scrolling again, she selected a love songs station to try and get her out of the funk and into the right mood.

She listened for a moment in anticipation and heard Lewis Capaldi. I was getting kinda used to being someone you loved.

Frustrated, she scrolled some more and found a pop station. “Here this will be good upbeat song will make me feel better.” She thought, but heard the announcer say… “Tune in for the Taylor swift marathon.”

“Oh no!” she thought. “That’s the last straw. All she sings about is love loss and breaking up. This has to be a sign there’s no other way to think of it. OK, if the next song is about love lost or break ups, I’m definitely breaking up with him. If not, I’ll stay.” She thought to herself.

She closed her eyes and scrolled, picking any station at random and heard The Temptations croon a familiar tune. It was just my imagination, running away with me. That was it. She unceremoniously turned off the radio and looked at Dale.

“I’m sorry, but I have to break up with you. You’re never gonna wanna move past this point and I can’t wait any longer.”

He turned to her, confused. What brought this on all of a sudden?

She turned off the radio. “Let’s call it a brain worm.”

Rewrite

It was a dark and stormy night…

No that’s stupid. Every damn dumb novel starts that way. It’s gotta be better than that.

Suddenly, the lights went out.

Great, now I’m starting in the middle of the action. There’s no backstory. It makes no sense. The reader can’t follow it.

The opening line is the most important thing. Everything flows from that.

I know I’ll look it up. Opening lines… opening lines for stories. Here it is. 150 opening lines for stories.

Let’s see. Nah. Too cliche. Trite. Duh? None of these work!

Rrr. Why can’t I do this anymore? I know it’s been a while, but my books have been very successful. I think lost my mojo. Or maybe I’ve been lying to myself the whole time. Maybe before, I just got lucky. Think harder!

It was a terrible day…

And thus starts the beginning of a terrible story.

Cursed computers! At least when I could wad up a piece of paper and throw it on the ground, it was cathartic. Now all I do is gently push the backspace button.

But then again, at least that’s better than using a gallon of Liquid Paper.

OK, resolved, computers are better. Now back to the story. No distractions. Here we go. Nothing.

I know, I’ll skip ahead to the end and come back to the rest.

How many murders will there be? Six? No, too many. Three? I’ll figure that out later too. Maybe skip to the end.

They just stood there, staring at each other.

No! I need something before that. Think! I know.

They were trapped. Stuck in the house with windows that don’t open and doors that lead back to the same room. Terrified, they stood there frozen, staring at each other, wondering who would be the next victim or worse, which one of them was the killer.

Yeah….that’s good. OK, I’m on a roll.

Blake picked up the murder weapon… a dagger… No… a revolver… No… a candlestick.

Yikes, what am I doing, playing Clue?

Enraged, Blake picked up the dagger, still dripping with the maid’s blood, raised it above his head and charged at his wife’s liver…. Oops typo, lover, screaming…

“You’ll never touch her again.”

Note to self, remember to write love scene where Hernando, the sexy Latin gardener and Blake’s wife Chloe, the rich and flirtatious seductress have sex.

Now, what to do Blake? Aha!

In a moment of sheer devotion, Chloe threw herself in front of Hernando and the dagger pierced her heart…

No, she can’t die now. I need her later. Ummm…

The dagger pierced her arm. The rest of the guests glared at Blake as if he was insane.

Holding Chloe in his strong muscular arms, Hernando gave Blake a steely gaze.

“You never loved her! She is a beautiful women who craves tenderness! How could you hurt her again?”

Realizing what he’d done, Blake dropped the dagger and cried out.

“You’re right. I’m a monster.”

And he ran through the Tiffany plate glass window, falling three stories to his death.

The remaining guests rushed to the window to find Blake’s mangled body strewn over his prized classic Doosenberg, while being pelted with raindrops.

Chloe sighed and cracked a satisfied grin.

“Well at least his car will go out with him. He loved it more than me anyway.”

But when they turned around, the image of Blake was right behind them.

Sister Agatha screamed and Chloe fainted at the site of her seemingly resurrected husband.

No! Duh? Sister Agatha is killed off first.

Chloe fainted and Daphne screamed.

Yes. That will work.

“But Blake, you’re dead!”

Seen by the glimmer of light in the cracks of lightening, the image brandished the revolver that was left in the dining room after Sister Agatha was shot.

Holding Chloe with one arm, Hernando pointed his other hand and stared petrified, as if he saw a ghost.

“How did you get that gun! We threw it out the window.”

Thunder rumbled louder and louder as he drew nearer to them, terrorized with fear.

“I’ve been watching you the whole time through the labyrinth of secret passageways in this house. Blake and I wanted revenge against everyone who wronged us over the years. He chickened out, so I’ll finish it.”

Trembling, James the Butler yelled with rancor in his voice.

“Who are you?”

With a menacing maniacal laugh, he opened fire, mowing them down one by one until they all lay dead on the ground.

“I’m Burton, Blake’s twin brother. And now my job is done.”

He drops the gun on the floor and exits, a shadow into the dark and stormy night.

Wait… the gun would have his fingerprints. Twins don’t have the same fingerprints. I need to add gloves.

Dark and stormy night? Should I use it front and back like bookends? Well, why not, now it’s symmetry.

It was a dark and stormy night.

Oh well, good enough. The next sentence will be better.

Ooo. I need a title… umm. That’s going to require candy. I will definitely need candy to finish this.

Sweet Little Lies

“Mirror mirror on the wall… who doesn’t want to look in this mirror at all,” Grace said as she looked at herself in the dressing room mirror, disgusted.

“Come on, Mom. How long does it take to try on a bathing suit. Let’s see,” her daughter Ashley yelled from outside the dressing room.

Grace froze at the idea of going out where people could see all the bits she hides from even herself.

There she was in a cute one piece suit that exposed too much of her back, thighs and cleavage, along with everything else she wanted to conceal.

Is this some kind of fun house mirror? You’d think a mirror in a dressing room would make everything look good so people would buy things, she thought.

But glaring into the mirror, she knew it was her true reflection.

Maybe it’s OK, she stared again, lying to herself.

“Come on mom,” Ashley urged in a bored tone.

“Oh well, reality bites,” Grace said, frustrated. “Here goes.”

As soon as she walked out of the dressing room, her daughters Ashley, 15 and Kaylee, 10 stared at her for a pause that seemed to last for hours, but lasted only a minute.

Sweet little liar Kaylee was first out of the gate.

“It has a pretty bow on it, Mommy.”

But from the look on Ashley’s face, Grace knew she would not be seen on the cover of Sports Illustrated.

“It’s nice mom, but I don’t think this one’s for you. Let’s try another one,” she said with a sweet little lie.

With each fitting, Grace became more and more frustrated. Nothing fit. She didn’t want to settle for a big granny bathing suit with a puffy skirt on the bottom that look like a dress. But she didn’t want to be an overexposed sausage either.

She knew she no longer had a bikini bod, but was starting to believe she no longer had a bathing suit bod.

Staring at the mirror, she lamented the past. I used to have such great legs, she thought.

“Now I have thunder thighs and my boobs sag. Ugh! Gravity bites,” she said out loud, thinking it was her internal voice.

Finally, fed up Grace put on her regular clothes and left the fitting room.

“OK, now it’s your turn, girls.”

Armed with several suits each, they went behind the curtain.

Kaylee came out a few minutes later in a cute pink polkadotted two-piece with little white bows on it. She twirled and admired herself in the dressing room. It was adorable.

Then Ashley came out out of the adjoining dressing room with a plunging two-piece neckline that barely had enough material to cover her blossoming bosum. And when she turned around, Grace saw most of her backside.

“Try again,” Grace said with a disapproving mom face. “We don’t need to show all of our goods on the beach. Leave something to the imagination.”

Ashley sighed in anger and returned to the dressing room as Kaylee happily strutted around like a runway model in another adorable two-piece that made her look like The Little Mermaid.

Grace smiled and Kaylee went in for another fitting as Ashley appeared in something a little more appropriate.

“I feel like I’m wearing a dress. Everything’s covered,” she said, rolling her eyes.

Grace smiled. “Exactly.”

This suit had a low neckline, but didn’t expose half of her breasts and the bottom just showed a hint of cheek on each side.

Admiring herself in the mirror, Ashley cracked a grin.

“But I do like the iridescent metallic material. it’s like rockstar. I guess it’s ok. But we still need something for you, Mom. You can’t sit on the beaches of Waikiki with shorts and a T-shirt.”

For a moment, shorts and a T-shirt sounded like a good idea for to Grace.

“Mommy we need to get a suit to swim with the dolphins, remember?” Kaylee protested. Grace grimaced realizing she needed a swimsuit.

Then she heard the sympathetic voice of the shop lady who was about her age, shape and size.

“Believe me, I get it. Trying on bathing suits is the worst. Every year I’d rather walk on a hot coals then try a swimming suit on. But I found this one works for me. I think it might help you.”

Reluctantly Grace went into the dressing room once more. This was an attractive two piece that completely covered what she didn’t want to see. The bottom was a skirt, so it didn’t show too much of her hips from bearing children and what she called her thunder thighs, but the skirt was fitted. And the top was light, like a shirt. It had a little plunge but helped cover her back fat and had a built-in bra.

Grace looked in mirror and found herself smiling a little bit. Suddenly the mirror didn’t seem like distorted doom and gloom. Her gaze was interrupted by her daughter’s plea.

“Come on, lets ‘s see,” Ashley said.

This time when she walked out of the dressing room, she stood up straight and felt more confident. Ashley, Kaylee, and the shop lady were all smiling and nodding their heads.

“This looks nice mommy ?Kali said nodding her head.

“Yeah. This one does work,” Ashley nodded.

Grace mouthed thank you to the shop lady and she smiled in acknowledgment.

It’s kind of like Goldilocks, Grace thought. That one didn’t work. The other one didn’t work. This one fit just right.

Accidents Happen

It was an accident. A spectacular accident, but an accident nonetheless.

I’m an artist. Graduating from a very prestigious art school, for years, I diligently worked on paintings for the important gallery opening I always saw in my future. But to pay the bills I painted commissioned art for commercial billboards to sell various products like breakfast cereal, gum, milk, and anything else someone would pay me to paint.

Until two years ago, when my boyfriend and I discovered we were pregnant with twins.

I put my career on hold so I could manage the very difficult job of feeding, clothing, cleaning up after and caring for the minute to minute needs of these two humans-in-training I brought into the world.

To be honest, it was exhausting. Everything had to be done twice. I’d diaper one, then the other. And although I tried to feed and bathe them on mass, there were still two little people that needed to be dried, dressed or cleaned up.

And after they started walking, I had to be on my toes all the time. Sometimes they would get into things together, but often they’d go in different directions for their mischief. Then I had two messes to clean up.

Finally, when they were two, I thought I achieved a rhythm that made life hum along.

About the same time, a friend of mine who worked at an art gallery called me to see if I would be interested in a commissioned work. Sometimes rich patrons and their interior designers look for a painting with a specific color scheme or subject matter to fit a design concept for their space. If they can’t find the painting, sometimes they commission an artist to paint something with exact specifications.

I hadn’t worked in two years and I wasn’t sure I could do it with the twins at home, but my friend dangled a carrot I could not resist. She said this patron was very rich and influential, and if she liked my painting, she’d spread the word and it could lead to a future gallery opening. How could I say no?

I had one month to finish the painting so every night after I put the boys to bed, by the light of the moon, I sketched and sketched for three weeks leaving a litter trail of unfinished and unworthy drawings. It started to accumulate into a mound that I called Mount Crap. In one evening of frustration I actually mounted a flag on top to commemorate my ultimate failure.

I just couldn’t get it right and quite frankly started to think I’ve lost my touch. After all, I was rusty.

One night I started drawing and it all came together. Muscles I hadn’t used in years sparked with renewed creativity. It felt wonderful. I was truly an artist once more.

With only a week to go, I started painting feverishly. My sympathetic boyfriend even took a few days off work so he could watch the boys and I could complete my work. I was riding high on fantasies that I could do it all, artist and mom. Supermom.

I was nearly done when it happened.

Stepping away for only a minute to mix a color, I came back in horror to find my two little cherubs, smearing my painting with their hands. It was ruined.

Standing there, you would think I would’ve screamed, but I didn’t. I couldn’t move. I actually felt like I was having an out of body experience, wrought with disbelief that those weeks of work were for nothing, and my golden opportunity slipped away in a moment.

When my boyfriend came into the room and saw what they were doing, he quickly grabbed the boys and pulled them away from the painting.

“No boys no!”

But the damage was done.

As he held them, they innocently looked at me with their big blue eyes, hands all soiled with mixed colors of paint.

“We paint too, mommy,” one said is they both smiled at me.

They didn’t mean to trash my painting or my hopes and dreams for a revitalize career. They were trying to be like me and didn’t know any better.

I think I scared my boyfriend standing there like a statue.

“Oh honey. I’m so sorry, they got away from me. Are you OK?”

“Yes. It was just an accident.”

As he took the boys to clean them up, I gazed at my career going down the toilet.

Again, I surprised myself by my calm. Maybe it was an accumulation of two years practice cleaning up their artistry on walls floors, and each other.

They didn’t mean anything by it. They are just kids.

But then the dread of reality crept in. What comes next? Can I get an extension on the time or will they think that unprofessional of me? My kids ruined my painting sounds kinda like the old dog ate my homework excuse.

I’m almost embarrassed to call my friend at the gallery and ask. But I have to tell her something. So I called.

“Emily. I know this is gonna sound crazy, but I was nearly done with my painting and my kids ruined it by accident. I can replicate it in a week. Any chance of getting an extension?”

The silence on the other end of the phone was endless, leaving me terrified with uncertainty.

“Well, we usually don’t do that,” she said.

“I understand,” I said, defeated.

But as I was picturing my career going down the drain, she said something surprising.

“Wait, I think the patron is out of town so I can buy you three days, that’s all.”

I thanked her profusely and hang up the phone with renewed vigor.

I’d have to work around the clock, but I thought I could get it done. Unfortunately my boyfriend had to go back to work so I called my mother and she agreed to take the boys to her house for three days. It was a huge ask, but I didn’t have many options.

Three days later, it was finished. I turned it in at the gallery, and Emily really liked the painting.

“I promise to get a lock on my studio, if you have any more work in the future,” I told her.

She smiled, but made no commitments. But ultimately, I proved to myself that I can get back in the game. It’ll take some heavy duty coordination, but it’ll be worth it. I can do both.

Buried

Staring down at the four story staircase, we slowly descended… step by step.

I didn’t think I was claustrophobic, but as we lowered further into the abyss, I stared at the walls in complete understanding of how someone could feel them closing in.

When we reached the only remaining Edinburgh catacomb, appropriately called a close, my emotion was torn. I wondered how people could live everyday all day without fresh air or sunshine. It was depressing.

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the bustle of people traveling the corridors, the marketplace and various workshops to satisfy daily needs, as the tour guide described. But when I opened my eyes, I saw only emptiness.

A few steps later was a small hovel that would house a family. There was a simulation of a small table and floor bedding to show how they lived. It was bleak. The air seemed thin. The ceiling was very low and the small area had no measure of privacy. It was like bears hibernating in a cave. I couldn’t imagine living like that, especially for years.

Remembering that during the bubonic plague, the catacombs often housed quarantined individuals, the last step on the tour was the hovel they called the chapel. As soon as I entered, I felt a cold chill of eeriness I couldn’t shake. Prominently displayed was the ragged doll of a little girl called Annie, who died in the plague. The guide told us that many feel her spirit captured there. I did.

But then he explained that some catacombs were actually preferred by poor people for the security of living below ground. Astonished, I gasped in disbelief. To me it was like being buried alive, sad, hopeless and forgotten.

Maybe I was reflecting my own bias or perhaps I channeled the echos of spirits left behind. But as we ascended the staircase, my mood lightened with each step as if I was reaching for warm sun and fresh air.

As we reached the top, I thrust open the door, ready to inhale salvation, yet while I spent an hour buried beneath the streets of Edinburgh, a thick Scottish moor enveloped the entire area. We walked back to our boat shrouded and perplexed by the mystery and past of its subterranean dwellers.

Masters of The Game

Author’s Note: My creative writing group has recently been doing exercises in point of view perspective writing. This is from the second person point of view, which has very limited applications and not often used. Still, couldn’t you see this being a real TV show?

Are you ready to hear the roar of the crowd and win a valuable record contract?

This new reality show puts you on the stage. As a future rock and roll star, you can sing or play your way straight to the top in a few short weeks.

“What do you have to do?” you ask.

For eight weeks, you will live in the same house with 14 other musicians all vying to be the last one standing on stage when the crowd applauds, creating a new band called the Masters of the Game.

Each week, you will learn a new piece of music at a jam session in the home studio. Watch for tempers to flare when you and your fellow musicians eye each other up to compete for the ultimate prize and the audience’s approval.

You need to impress viewers as they rank you 1,2,3 in your category of proficiency on guitar, drums, bass, keyboard and vocals, as well as looks and personality.

You say “It’s a popularity contest? Yes, you are right.”

Everything counts and the audience is the sole judge.

But watch your back as the other musicians can torpedo your performance in the 2nd weekly do or die challenge when your fellow players choose you to sing or play out of your chosen genre without any practice or music. Hear it once and you must perform.

It’s trial by fire in this premiere contest that will tax your every nerve and ability until

your elimination at a concert in front of 1000 people where they will cut off your sound and boo you off the stage.

We’re looking for a few good players. Are you up to the challenge to be a master?

Spring Fling

It’s Spring gala season, when a young woman’s fancy turns to love. Each season young women of the New York Society elite are debuted for young men to meet, court, and marry. Each ball had a mist of romance hanging in the air.

For the Viscountess Caroline, this ball season held the spark of an exciting mystery. One that could blossom into something or remain cocooned forever.

At the last gala, she found something completely unexpected. A very dashing young man gazed at her and filled her every sense with a rush of excitement. Like a first firework blast… pop…surprising and shockingly different and very nice.

Ever since she saw him, her thoughts were consumed with anticipation.

She fantasized if he would attend the next society ball and if he would look at her that same way again.

On the carriage ride over to the next ball at the Johnson home, her heart fluttered like butterflies, remembering his relentless gaze, his slight crooked smirk and his deep sapphire eyes that said everything without speaking a word. Would he or wouldn’t he?

But what if it was just a brief moment in time? She worried.

As the viscountess entered with her vacant husband, she walked through the reception line, trying not to allow her eyes to give her away, but secretly hoping once again, their gaze would lock.

As the music began, the Viscount held out his hand for their one obligatory dance, to keep up appearances. Gliding across the floor she scanned the room, her eyes darting back-and-forth as she was spun around, concealing her real purpose while intermittently smiling at her husband.

When the music stopped, they parted to opposite sides. In the corner, she fanned herself, holding her breath, begging for a glimpse of his wavy golden locks, milky skin and sparkling eyes. But she saw nothing.

At first disappointed, she then admonished herself being such a silly twit.

“I don’t even know what I would do with this. Nothing. It’s just a simple flirtation. Or maybe even that would be too dangerous. If my husband or the society women discovered the deception, my position, my marriage, my reputation, it would all go up in flames. But it was nice to feel that way again. Like I was back in Ireland, a silly innocent girl full of wonderment about what love and romance could be. That girl is gone now,” she lamented.

Stuck like mud in the reality of a scurrilous cheating husband who snuffed the spark from my eyes years ago, she wondered what it would be like to feel that way again.

Briefly lost in the moment, she glanced up and saw him staring at her from the other side of the room.

Surprised with delight, she let out a quick gasp and then swallowed it. Her heart skipped a beat, yet she could not give any indication of what she felt inside.

Any glint, any sparkle, any smile could give her away. Although she found his boyish good looks attractive and alluring, she knew she had to internalize any thoughts and emotions. If anyone knew, it would be saucey scuttlebutt for the flapping gossip gums of the elite.

Playfully, she averted her gaze and paused then looked at him again. Overjoyed at his perpetual glance, she locked her eyes on his.

She batted her eyes, teasing a bit, holding her fan just under her lashes, revealing one part of her face at a time.

He grinned widely showing his perfect smile and shot her a casual but naughty wink.

Caroline gripped her fan and struggled for breath. Giddy as a young girl, she had to close her lips to keep from giggling. He was flirting back with her!

Her mind soared with possibilities. What if they met? What if he kissed her? Could she bear a clandestine tryst? Could she successfully deceive her husband? Even though his betrayal was obvious, could she carry a secret? Could she live two lives?

But as he ruffled his hand through his long golden curls, she forgot everything else.

How could she give up this luxurious feeling?

Closing her eyes, she reveled in thoughts of him whisking her around the dance floor, his hand on her bare back. Feeling his breath near her face and experiencing every nerve in her body tingle all at once.

But when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

With slight panic and disappointment, she quickly glanced around the room trying to find him.

Then she turned around and exhaled a startled heave. There he was right in front of her.

He bowed his head and gently took her gloved hand.

“Ma lady.”