A Place Unlike Home

Author’s Note: What happens to the witch Elphaba when she flees Oz in the musical Wicked? This story developed from a prompt to find a different look at a fairytale story.

Elphaba walked on the dusty road for miles with only tumbleweeds crossing her path.

The dense monochromatic atmosphere made even her verdant skin look gray and lifeless, merging with her surroundings. After leaving Oz under the calculated cloak of her assumed demise, she a Fiyero were separated by a whirling dust storm, leaving her alone glaring into the desolate horizon. 

Opposed to the vibrant kaleidoscope vision of the technicolor land of Oz, the landscape was bleak and colorless, filling her with uncertainty and fear of a force that swept them away to this land.

Restless to find Fiyero and concerned for his welfare, she pulled out her spellbook, still hidden in her witch’s cloak.

“I have to find him right away. He could be hurt,” she said hurriedly flipping through the pages. “I’ll try a simple locator incantation. 123. Let me see, find the one who is most special to me.”

Nothing happened.

“What’s going on?” she said nervously, thumbing through the text for a stronger spell.

“I’ll use a lost love spell, it’s more powerful. My eyes are dark. I cannot see, by the powers I wield, reveal my love to me,” she chanted.

Still nothing happened, sending Elphaba into a panic.

“Is it the incantation or me? I do feel drained. What if my powers don’t work here? I know, I’ll do my first spell. If it doesn’t work, I’ll know something’s wrong.”

She quickly turned to the first page of her spellbook and read it in the origin text, to be sure it would work.

“Abracadabra and alacazam.” She yelled, raising her arms in the air. But again nothing happened.

Elphaba fell to ground and hung her head. “I’m powerless. This place has not only sucked the life out of itself, it’s rendered me useless. Without my magic, how am I going to find Fiyero? How am I gonna do anything?”

Lifting her head, she saw an old farmhouse in the distance. It was so pale it blended in with the cloudless vanilla sky, making it seem more like a painting than reality.

“Maybe none of this is reality. Maybe this is a punishment for falling in love with the wrong man or for just being different. This is my own personal hell and that’s why Fiyero‘s not here with me.”

She got up and walked toward the farmhouse. On the mailbox was one word… “Gale.”

“That sounds so familiar to me, but I can’t put my finger on it,” she said and took a deep breath and approached the front door.

Next to the porch, she saw three farmhands in the nearby pigsty feeding the pigs. She watched them cautiously, hiding behind the corner of the house, careful not to startle them with her appearance. All her life, people were frightened by her mere presence.

“Hey there, young girl, you lost?” one of the farm hands said.

Elphaba curiously looked around and realized he was speaking to her. No one ever called her a young girl before. Astonished by their calm reaction, she looked down at her hands again; they were nearly camouflaged by the opaque setting.

Maybe here I’m not scary, she thought to herself and moved toward the men.

 “Yes, I am,” she said politely. “If you please, could you tell me where we are.”

“You’re in Kansas young girl,” the farmhand said proudly with his hands on his suspenders.

“The greatest place on the plains,” the other echoed, puffing his chest out like a peacock.

Elphaba glanced around her sphere. Suddenly made sense. Plain is the best description for this area, she thought.


“What are you looking for?” the third one asked, throwing feed to the pigs.

She paused and thought to herself. What was she looking for? Other than Fiyero, she didn’t have an answer.

“I’m looking for my boyfriend. He’s a scarecrow,” she blurted out and the three men laughed heartily, taking her off guard.

“That’s a good one right there,” the man said with his hands on his suspenders again.

She looked at them puzzled. Why was that funny? He could badly hurt. What kind of sadistic people are these? she thought. She summoned her courage and asked.

“Don’t you have scarecrows here?”

“Sure we do,” chuckled the chest puffing farmhand as he pointed to the field.

Elphaba gasped at first from surprise and then took a second look and signed in relief. It wasn’t Fiyero.

Stuck to the top of a pole covered in black crows was a puppet stuffed with hay. Suddenly she realized that their scarecrow wasn’t real. Confused, she shook her head slightly, trying to make sense of everything.

This place is so foreign. Everything was opposite from Oz, she thought.

The kindly farmhand came up and put his arm around her with one hand still on his suspenders.

She shirked a little, then realized his genuine kindness was completely devoid of terror. No one except Glinda and Fiyero ever showed her any friendship. People either used her for her magic or reviled her appearance and feared her power.

This was different. This man didn’t know her, and yet he instantly gave her the consideration she never experienced before.

“Don’t fret, honey. We’ll help you in any way that we can. Why don’t you come inside and have some pie; that’ll brighten up your day. Then we can figure out what to do next.”

As they walked into the house, she looked around again and thought to herself. This land is strange and lackluster in its surroundings but its people are warm and kind. Oz was beautiful and vibrant, but its people were vile and judgmental. Maybe a bland world could be our salvation. If I can only find Fiyero, maybe we could be happy here in a place unlike home, she wondered.

(c) Copyright 2023 Suzanne Rudd Hamilton

Darkness Within

The dark sky loomed, relentlessly following every step, blocking every turn. I never thought I could feel so powerless. 

How could the world twist so out of control that it would target my child?

I’ve always trailed my own unconventional path, but I can’t imagine what it feels like to be trapped in your own shell. 

To wear an assumed societal mask in a false existence must wrench the spirit in a quagmire wrapped in chains. 

Even creating a safe and loving environment couldn’t stop the waves of darkness and confusion within that tormented each moment. 

Finally, a glimmer of light came from a new group of peers filled with acceptance and understanding. For the first time I saw my child burst out of a secret closet and embrace life. It was an emancipation of our souls. We could both breathe and fly free.

Then a tsunami drenched wall of stupidity and vitriol from the outside seeped in and threatened our ascension to the sun. And just like that, our wings were clipped and we fell into the darkness, deeper than before, forced into a chasm of hate. 

My heart bleeds but, at the same time, it burns with the fury of a thousand flames for those who dare to judge, leaving me helpless, paralyzed by the world’s soiciopathy. 

The venom which spews madness in every word fills me with doubt, losing faith in everyone around me. 

Difference should be celebrated not demonized. An exceptional gleam can’t shine if filtered in the dusky gloom of shallow predetermined niches. 

What happened to turn the other cheek? Do onto others? I’m left feeling those words spoken in praise are an empty idol of a golden rule only for those who righteously deem themselves holier than thou. 

If the crime is difference, shackle me. But the burden can’t transfer. Like others who came before and to be, my child must walk a fearful lonely road in the shadow of intolerance and contempt. My only hope is someday they can bathe in the warmth of humane compassion and not succumb to a hellish evil, swallowed in the abyss of perpetual gloom.

Unhappily Ever After

You may be familiar with my story. I was a poor orphan forced into servitude, and then, with a twist of fate, fell in love with a prince to live happily ever after. That was the real story. The authors embellished it with fanciful inventions of fairy godmothers and pumpkins turning into carriages. That was all for show. I mean really, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo? The fairytale sounded pretty good, but I’ve found life after happily ever after is a whole different story.

After the wedding, life in the castle was instantly foreign to me. I went from scrubbing floors to watching others like me scamper around, ensuring that my glass slippers never touched dirt. It was unnerving. I’ll never get used to having servants. Anytime I try to pick up a dish or even make something in the castle kitchen, I’m scoffed and rebuffed by my new family and the servants I’ve tried to befriend.

And my Prince Charming wasn’t much help. At first we were like a normal honeymoon couple enamored with each other’s constant attention. We walked through the palace gardens and spent hours of alone time wrapped in each other’s arms.

But that only lasted a few months, then he was often attending to affairs of state his father delegated in his preparation to become king someday.

The queen was kind and tried to acclimate me with how to lessons on becoming a queen. I l listened carefully to learn to perform my duties. But it was all so meaningless. This fork can only be placed here and that dish must be exclusively used for this… and not that. Despite its tedious drivel, I attentively studied it like a craft, but it left me feeling empty and shallow.

Clad and jewels and beautiful sweeping gowns, I was excited to attend court dinner parties and dances to mingle with the court aristocracy.

But the parties were full of needless intrigue and strife. It quickly revealed to be a chess game of calculated moves for people in the court to attempt to gain favor with the royal family with the goal of gaining power, money and lands. Most of them were fairly obvious and none were accepting of a poor orphan who hopscotched her way over their heads to a queen-in-waiting position.

They were cordial, of course, but as soon as the king, queen and prince were out of earshot or sightline, I felt their daggered eyes peering holes in my head.

Terribly lonely, I sought adulation beyond the palace walls. My fairytale story was the envy of all in the village and gave hope to the people that anyone could vault beyond their birth position to fortune and love. To the people, I was a hero. From the moment I waved out of my wedding carriage to our post-nuptial balcony appearance, I felt their warm admiration of my fairytale dream.

Yet when I tried to venture out into the village, it was a nightmare. Just walking through the market, I was mobbed. People pushed and shoved to get my autograph and pulled at my clothing to touch me or speak to me. It was horrifying, and soon again I was left in rags, forced to retreat to the safety of the palace. I could only look upon the villagers, who were once my peers, from the balcony or windows of my beautiful solitary prison.

Soon the prince’s duties frequently took him away from me and I began to withdraw and resent him. And I recently found out that the prince has been placing other women’s feet in glass slippers, if you know what I mean.

I’m trapped. My life is meaningless, my husband has been alienated and I’m filled with depression, self-doubt and loathing.

When I first met the prince, I dreamed up a fantasy that had nowhere to go but down. I jumped too quickly, not thinking about life after happily ever after.

And that brings me to you, doctor. I hope you can help me make sense of this. I’m miserable. What do I do now?

(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023

Failure to Communicate

A few hours into her rem cycle, Norah tossed and turned in her dream. It started with she and her husband sitting across the dinner table.

“Carol told me we can get together sometime next week. Can you talk to Bob and make arrangements when you golf today?” Norah asked.

He responded in a mumble which seemed affirmative.

Then she’s whisked to an old vaudeville stage. The placard on the easel said “Mumble and Co.” and she and her husband are dressed in matching suits with bowler hats.

“Did you talk to Bob?” she said.

“About what?” he said.

“Going out?” she said.

“Where?” he said.

“You were supposed to make the arrangements?” she said.

“With who?” he said.

“With Bob,” she said.

“For What?” he said.

She released a heavy sigh as the audience responded with booming laughter and applause at the absurdity.

Then Norah is taken to a new scene, her living room, as she and her husband watch a TV crime drama.

“Who do you think did it?” Norah asked.

Silence.

“I’m betting on the husband. He seems guilty,” Norah responded to herself.

Silence.

“That actor seems familiar, doesn’t she?”

Silence.

“I’ll look her up on IMDB,” Norah said.

Silence.

Then the scene changed and she saw a operating room and noted herself in surgical garb with her husband on the table.

“What’s going on here?” she asked, concerned.

“We’re giving him a brain transplant,” the surgeon explained. “He’s lost his attention and memory.”

And as soon as she understood what was going on, she was shown another familiar scene, when she and her husband were driving in their car the day before.

“I need to go to that place,” he said.

“What place?” Norah asked.

“You know, the place with the things,” he strongly asserted.

“What things?” Norah asked shaking her head.

“You know,” he shouted.

Then before she knew it, she was in a prison yard. She was the guard and her husband was in shackles. The warden wacked him with a nightstick.

“Do you understand the words that are coming from my mouth,” the warden said in a sadistic southern drawl.

Her husband was silent.

“If you don’t respond to me, how do I know you heard or understood me,” the warden shouted and knocked him to his knees.

Her husband mumbled.

“I can’t understand what you said. Use words,” the warden screamed and knocked him on the head with the nightstick.

“What words?”

“Now, I don’t appreciate your tone, funny man. That’s gonna cost you.” He slapped his back with the nightstick pushing her husband’s body to the ground.

 “You see here. What we have here is a failure to communicate. Some men you just can’t reach.”

Norah woke up abruptly sitting straight up. Wiping her eyes, she shook herself awake.

“That was a weird dream,” she said, answered by her husband’s indiscernible mumbles. 

“A likely response,” she smiled sarcastically.

“This is my life,” she sighed.

As she couldn’t get back to sleep, she picked up her book on the nightstand. “Men are from Venus and Women are from Mars,” Chapter 5, Translations.

(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton 2023

Compromise

Sarah and her friend Lauren sat in the backseat giggling while showing each other funny memes and fashion dos and don’ts on their phones. Sarah’s, brother Lucas sat next to them with his earbuds tuned to his favorite music, trying to avoid boredom on this long ride. Their moms, Chloe and Elise were perched in the front discussing the latest PTA meeting, a movie they saw and everything else to pass the time as the BMW SUV ticked down mile markers heading south on the highway.
Ironically, none of them wanted to be on this trip. Elise wanted her daughter Sarah to go to college closer to home. Sarah desperately wanted to break out of her family nest and go away to school, but she preferred an art school two states away.
Lauren didn’t even want to go to college. With dreams of becoming an actress, she wanted to move to New York and try her luck on the great white way. Chloe amplified Elise’s fear of losing her daughter to adulthood. As a young single parent, she and Lauren grew up together as a duo. Now she would be left alone. For the last 17 years living her life for her daughter and had no idea what her life would be solo.
And poor Lucas was stuck in the backseat, a reluctant hostage forced to accompany them. As a freshman, he barely tried on high school and college seemed miles away from him.
For quintet of passengers, Southern State University was a compromise none wanted to make.
In the hour and a half drive, the car traversed the suburban landscapes of shopping stop malls and chain theme restaurants with manicured intersections to the never-ending farm fields. But no one looked out the window to notice. This was not a pleasure cruise, but a destination.
The University campus was a modern oasis amid the vast plains of the area. The shining glass dormitory buildings stood tall amongst the variety of other buildings, academic buildings, and stadiums, at odd with their surroundings, just as the bland Dorothy did in the quirky and the colorful land of Oz.

The group arrive just in time to check in and begin the tour. The guides were two students and a university public relations person. The all-to-chipper trio instantly annoyed the frowned sullen faces of the compromising BMW passengers. They strode the halls of one pristine, modern building after another with arms crossed, barely acknowledging much, but each noticing one thing to fuel the conversation during their lunch break at the student union.
At their scheduled lunch, Elise broke the tension with her discovery.

“I liked the dormitories. They were larger than I thought.”

Chloe nodded in agreement.

“The campus is beautiful with all the trees,” Sarah said.

And the benign compromising conversation went on for a few minutes, until with his earbuds still in Lucas shouted,

“The stadium was off the hook.”

The moms turned to him glaring at his loud outburst, as Lauren cracked laugh at the absurdity, and the others joined. It was a relief valve that allowed them to enjoy their lunch.

“Mom, there’s an ice cream machine over there. Can I go get some?” Lucas asked and Elise gladly agreed.

Shortly after he left, the four heard a loud crash muffled in the distance. Everyone in the room was quiet, looking at each other puzzled.

A few students rush to the sound by the glass union doors and an enormous thud reverberated throughout the room, startling everyone to concern. Immediately afterward a man ran into the room and stood in the middle of the student union.

“I need everyone to remain calm. We’ve had a disturbance in the courtyard between two student groups, but the campus security is dispersing everyone. Please stay seated until we can rectify the problem. Thank you.”

A look of concern fired in Elise’s eyes. “Where is Lucas?”

“I think I see him over at those ice cream machines I’ll go get him,” Sarah said in the annoyed big sister voice she donned anytime she had to corral her little chick.

The trio sat in complete stillness, actively listening to the growing conflict well up outside, increasing the volume of the crowd, noise, police whistles and shouting. Everyone in their sphere of sight looked on in fear.

“Where did those kids go?” Elise tapped her fingernails on the table nervously. “I have to go find them.”

When Elise left, Chloe and Lauren looked at each other telepathically communicating their alarm as the outside noise rose to sound-breaking proportions.

As a student ran by their table, Chloe grabbed her arm.

“What’s going on?” Chloe asked.

“There were some students demonstrating over at the liberal arts building about the supreme court, affirmative, action case. I guess it got out of hand,” the student said and moved to the glass doors.


The duo glanced at each other in terror.

“We have to go after them,” Lauren said. “They could get hurt.”

“What can we do?” Chloe warned. “Best to hear and let the police handle it.”

“Mom,” Lauren whispered with urgency, “if this turns into a race riot. They’re in trouble. We need to help.”

Chloe looked at her daughter knowing she was right, admiring her bravery but grabbed her hand to hold her when she began to rise from the table and shook her head side to side.

Frustrated, Lauren desperately looked around, toggling her head back-and-forth, trying to find her friends.

Most of the students were standing inside the glass doors and windows, peering out the escalating unrest, trying to see what’s going on and shouting what they saw.

“The two groups are fighting.”

“They’re arresting some of the students.”

“Hey, they’re releasing teargas.”

Chloe closed her eyes touching her daughter’s hand, desperate to stay glued to their chairs when a girl thrust through the doors screaming.

“They’re beating a young kid.”

With that, Lauren struggled out of her mother’s grip and ran out the doors.

Chloe could no longer hope the incident away and ran after Lauren.

She stood outside, blinded by the billowing black smoke, waving her way in a masked premature night to see anything or anyone, terrified at the cries, screams, and shouts she heard in the blankness. She was helpless.

In the darkened path, she floundered through the crowd, frantic to find her friends in the chaotic revelry, but only saw shades of police with shields, trying to hold back students and police with nightsticks separating students clashing with each other. The sound was deafening and the screams and shouts indiscernible.

And then a loud metal clang clearly filled her ears like a Carillon and she heard a waning melody. “We shall overcome, we shall overcome.” As her legs fell under her, she crashed to the ground screaming “Why” into the abyss. Then everything went black.

(c) Copyright Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023

Part II coming soon!

NEW RELEASE: Summer of Love – A Timeless American Historical Romance Book 3

DISCOUNTED PREORDER PRICING EXTENDED UNTIL JULY 31ST!

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FIRST REVIEWS!!

5 STARS!! I thoroughly enjoyed this book. As a baby boomer who came of age in the 60s, this journey by the main character, Peggy McIntyre, brought back many memories for me. Besides Peggy McIntyre, almost all of the characters in the story, reminded me of people I knew in my past, or read about in my in my reading. So I have to complement the author for really doing a fantastic job with character construction. Also, the pacing of the story was terrific. It was easy to follow, and also very hard to put down. Again, kudos to the author. Overall, this is a spectacular book and one I think many people will enjoy, especially the baby boomers generation. 4.5 STARS!! A very evocative period, really got into it. A great read

Author Note: This American Historical Romance Series has allowed me to explore eras I’ve always enjoyed, like the turn of the century gilded age, 1940s and 1960s. Historical Romance is often in the regency periods in England or the old west in the US. It’s been fun bringing these times to life in the sphere of the relationships of the family members. And especially for this book, I was able to interview many people who lived in the times and told me their stories. The book is fiction, but I’d like to think there’s a lot of truth in many of the events. And for anyone who wants to subscribe to the blog or newsletter with their email, I will send you the two reader magnets that delve into characters the books could not address. But for right now, this is a small taste of one of the chapters which has the main characters Peggy and Liam in the middle of Woodstock in 1969. This is a brief synopsis of what they saw…

As the yellow sun ebbed into the horizon on the vast empty fields, 400,000 sets of eyes stared at the empty stage breathlessly waiting for something to wonderful happen. Richie Havens donned the stage with a lone guitar and a stool. Without hesitation, everyone stood up. It was a magical moment and they were willing to be part of every second.

It was the summer of 1969 and the largest and most anticipated event in music history was delayed. Besieged by overcrowding, record rainfall and every other problem after another, it was finally happening. Artist after artist played music for the wanting crowd. Rain or shine, no one moved and they kept playing music, never faltering.

As the rain ceased, the blue hue of the Smokey lights shone as the heavens’ few twinkling stars blanketed the sky above while the ascending glow spotlighted the singer’s sweet tones washing over them like a lullaby, rocking them all to sleep.

In the daylight it was as if hundreds of thousands of strangers were instantly one family. Food, jugs of wine and water seamlessly passed from person to person along with quilts, dry clothes, and some drugs. Selfless sharing became the order of the day.

Some roaming around in various stages of dress, blanketed in smoke, while others walked into the farm fields together in the practice of free love, coming out arm in arm with smiles on their faces.

Standing and sitting shoulder to shoulder, parents cradled and fed their children, suckling milk as other children sucked their thumbs and ran around, gleefully playing. A unique peaceful and harmonious vibe reverberated all around.

Day passed unceremoniously into night and the sun retreated into the clouds of darkness as the alchemy of musical genres fed the grateful crowd.

In the wee hours of the morning The Who performed their entire rock opera Tommy to anyone awake, until a frustrated Pete Townshend smashed his guitar on the stage to rouse the crowd into consciousness just in time to view the rose and purple-colored hues of the rising ball of the sun as Roger Daltrey sang “See me, feel me, touch me, heal me” as though he was beckoning and ordering the sun’s ascent.

When they finished, the glimpse of first light arose in purple blue haze shadowing the waining darkness into an amber and rust sun rising in a kaleidoscope of colors as everyone listened in awe as Jimi Hendrix stopped the world on its axis by shredding the national anthem on his guitar.

It was an experiment in the evocation of all the senses to offer peace thru music.

By dusk as the light dwindled again and every field of the 300 acres was devoid of people. Only mountains of garbage remained. Standing below a sign of the Woodstock Festival featuring a dove with a guitar neck, the promoters surveyed the landscape with the farm owner, Max Yasgur.

“Max, you’ve now proven to the world that a half million kids can get together for three days and just have fun and music and nothing else,” the promoter said.

It was the summer of peace, love and music that no one would ever forget.

The Paradox Proposal

Jean thought dating Todd required a PHD in contrarian. Despite their seven years as a couple, she still found herself constantly shaking her head like a bobble-head doll about their relationship.

He complained he missed her when she worked late, but claimed he wanted space so he could go out with friends. Weekend getaways were allowed, but weekly trips met with a disapproving nod and bug-eyed gleam, like a victim in a horror movie right before the ax.

His actions were always strange and she never knew where she stood. At first, she thought he was a commitmentphob, but then he offered to have her move into his apartment.

Then she suspected he was a male chauvinist and control freak, an uncomfortable supposition, but his verbal advocacy for women’s equality and rights felt genuine to her.

But in spite of her confusion, she loved him and enjoyed his company. No matter what he did or didn’t do, he kept her in stitches. After growing up in a strict military family that always appeared to be a constant rerun of a lifeless black and white 50’s TV show, she appreciated his refreshing offbeat sense of humor.

The first time she met him was at a Starbucks counter. With a complete deadpan robot face, he ordered the most ridiculous coffee. “I’ll have a trente espresso plain black coffee with whip and a caramel shot, but please no sugar in anything, as I’m diabetic.”

The poor confused barista looked at him like he was an alien. And when she tried to get the order straight, he kept changing it, doubling down on the absurdity and raising the ante with every outlandish contradictory request.

Jean didn’t know why he did it and felt terrible for the barista, but it made her smile and giggle on a gloomy day. From then on, no matter what nonsense he uttered, it made her laugh.

Lately though, she began to feel like the bewildered barista – she couldn’t understand what he wanted from life and from their relationship. And with the loud tick of her biological clock haunting her mind like the heartbeat in The Tell Tale Heart, she needed to know where they were going. Ultimatums, however, would be counterproductive, she thought. So she cleverly devised a rouse to reveal his real intentions.

She hosted a couple’s game night with a series of games that would give him so many obvious hints, a virtual pie would be thrown in his face. Recruiting her girlfriends in the deception, they rigged the web to catch their fly.

At Pictionary, the clues would require him to either draw or guess a ring, a bouquet and a tuxedo. A true competitor, he guessed them correctly, but didn’t remark about the connection—even though everyone’s answers were wedding or marriage related. Even the Charades prompts of wedding movies, TV shows and songs escaped his attention.

Her failure required a girlfriends’ huddle in the kitchen to engage a new battle strategy and get more wine.

“Does this guy need a building needed to fall on him,” her friend Josie said, pouring more wine in her glass.

“Even my idiot husband got the hint,” Carole laughed. “My ribs are sore from all the elbow jabs he’s giving me.”

“I don’t know what more I can do,” Jean said frustrated. “ He’s a sucker for joke set ups and this has been the motherload, but nothing. Either he’s choosing to ignore them or he’s as dense as a block of wood.”

Without a new idea amongst them, they played a little more and then decided to call it an early night.

After everyone left, Jean cleaned the kitchen while Todd picked up the living room. As she rinsed the many wine glasses, he came into the room laughing.

“Here comes the bride,” he sang and marched in, holding the paper clue slips like a bridal bouquet.  “Very sneaky, but I don’t know if Ron knew what hit him.”

Jean stopped her cleaning and stared at him in disbelief. “Ron?”

“Yeah, you were trying to get him to propose to Megan, right?” he asked smiling.

Frozen in place as though her feet were bound in ice, Jean was dumbfounded. He picked up on the theme, but mistakenly directed it toward Ron. He and Megan were only together for a year. How could he misunderstand? She suddenly heard the taunting sound of a neverending carousel and snapped.

“Not Ron…you! It was meant for you!”

Like a calculator in his head, he stood there, adding it all up.

“I’m sorry, honey. I can be dense, sometimes. I guess you called my hand and I need to pitch a no hitter or throw for the touchdown. I have to give it to you – drawing into an inside straight. Good night.” He kissed her and smiled, walking out of the room and leaving Jean puzzled. She rewound and replayed his words over and over.

“Was that his idea of a proposal? I heard a lot of sports metaphors. He said touchdown, but then he said no hitter. Both win the game, right? Then there was a poker reference, I think. Maybe he was agreeing to propose? Oh, who knows.” She threw the towel in the sink and grabbed a partially full bottle of white wine.

“Maybe it will make sense in the morning,” she raised the bottle, toasting the door. “Thanks Todd Hamlet… to marry or not to marry—that is both the question, paradox and my love life all wrapped up in one dramatic tale.”

Dear Reader: In my weekly writing group, we have prompts and writing exercises. This one was an example of use of similies and metaphors as descriptors. See if you can spot them. I went a little heavy, pretty easy.

Attention to Detail

To Carolyn, being single was both a gift and a burden. She hated sharing absolutely every space 24/7, feeling suffocated and trapped, but she liked having someone to cheer good days and help cry in her wine on bad ones.

And while she enjoyed the freedom of not having to constantly compromise, she missed someone to argue at the TV over a sports call or commiserate over a crushing loss.

It was a double edged sword that she didn’t know if she wanted to repeat.

But two years after the sudden and tragic death of her husband, she found herself thrown in the deep end of the nightmare geriatric dating pool of those over 55.

Contrary to her younger single days where she routinely met people in bars, at work or when smug couple friends fixed her up, it’s all different now. When you have few single friends, no taste for bars, and no work environment, dating was much harder.

And in today’s digital age, dating was often relegated to the faceless computer and it’s magical algorithms to design love lives. The reality of living in the millennial century.

Carolyn tried online dating, but found it difficult not to fall into the booty call hook up trap. And some benevolent friends fixed her up with their few single friends, but after several disastrous and awkward dates, it was like a Goldilocks syndrome. They were either too old, too boring, too boorish or too everything, never the right fit. She decided to let it happen naturally or not at all.

She pictured the meet cutes in old black white movies or lifetime and hallmark channel programs and clung to the belief that she would serendipitously meet someone and fall in love. But she didn’t realize that unlike a movie, when Cupid comes knocking at your door, you must pay more attention.

She was in Trader Joe’s shopping with friend. She like their wine choices and selection of breads and gourmet cheeses. And especially as a single, she loved their selection of homemade frozen meals, so she didn’t have to cook a big meal and eat it for a whole week.

While in the wine aisle, she met a man standing in front of the myriad of selections from different countries looking puzzled.

“What kind of wine do you like?” He asked.

“Oh, I’ve tried this Riesling from Germany but lately I like the Australian wines. They have a subtle sweet taste.” She said.

“I agree with you, I don’t like ones that are too sweet but then if they’re too dry, it seems like you have to swirl them around in your mouth a few times before you decide if you want to swallow them,” he joked.

Carolyn unconsciously smiled and nodded, placing a few bottles in her cart and walked away.

A few minutes later, the same man popped up in the bread aisle talking about whether or not to make his own sourdough starter.

Then she ran into him again in the frozen gourmet food section.

“Oh, I really like that one, he offered when she picked out a pho shrimp and noodle dish. “Isn’t it great that you can get single portions of gourmet foods? I really like that,” he said. 

“Yes, that’s why I come here mostly, otherwise I’d have to settle for eating what passes for a meal out of the Weight Watchers plastic tub.” She said cordially and casually wheeled her cart further down the aisle, until her friend Margaret stopped her.

“Do you need something to hit you on the head? That guy was flirting with you.” Margaret said in a quiet but firm whisper.

Carolyn waved her off, dismissing her.

“I think you’re radar is rusty. Do you think it’s a coincidence that you saw him in three places in a matter of just a few minutes apart?” She questioned.

“It’s a small store, you could easily run into the same people many times,” Carolyn objected.

“Oh yeah, someone who tells you that they’re looking for a single serving and they make sourdough bread starter and talk to you about swirling wine in his mouth to taste and swallow. Duh, do you need him to leave breadcrumbs or draw a roadmap for you?” She sarcastically accused.

Carolyn went through the interactions in her head as if she was replaying a movie in her mind. Finally, she came to the same realization and rolled her eyes.

“That’s it, I forgot how to flirt. Great I’m gonna be doomed to be alone forever because I can’t pick up any signals,” Carolyn said frustrated, hitting her head with her hand.

“I’m surprised he didn’t give up after the second one. He was clearly sending them, and you were not receiving.” Margaret quipped.

“That poor guy must feel stupid or inadequate. I feel bad and to be honest. I didn’t even notice what he looked like. Oh my god, what if I no longer have any dating mojo? I can’t even tell the difference between a flirt or casual conversation.” Carolyn confessed, panicked.

Margaret chuckled in sympathy. “Look, you just have put your antenna up. They’re not gonna write you letters with sweet sonnets professing their love.”

Carolyn sighed and laughed admonishing her grave error, “From now on, I’ll pay more attention.”

Margaret put her hands on Carolyn’s shoulders and turned her to face the opposite direction.

“Well turn on radar on, I can’t believe it but he’s coming in for one more pass,” she chuckled.

Heads and Tails

Author’s Note: This is purely fictional and not about me.

Binary choices leave little room for error. So many options drill down to heads or tails, anyway. Turn left or right. Cheese or no cheese. Even a presidential vote has only two options… this one or that one.

The randomness of too many possibilities often fills me with terror. What if my chosen paths lead me in the wrong direction?

Uncertainty has plagued my existence as long as I can remember. As a tot, I battled whether or not to go in the potty or diaper until I was four. My mother was beside herself.

Riddled with indecision that one wrong step could spell ruin, I relived myself of that responsibility and adopted the coin flip initiative.

I started using the coin to determine many banal options in life. Who pays for happy hour drinks? What should I have for dinner? What t-shirt should I wear today?

It became routine. Anytime faced with a choice, I let George Washington decide. 1,864,921 times to be exact.

The twist of fate is a dubious partner, but even the start of the Super Bowl is determined by chance. And 50/50 odds are much better than you’d get from any bookmaker or lottery. It simply removes a lot of daily strife.

Then I began to rely on that divine providence to make bigger decisions. Which apartment to choose? Which job should I take? The liberation of fortune became addictive, so every outcome rode on the toss of a coin.

In my daunted defense, judgements made every day guide us through each moment of our lives. Why is this method so different?

But now a simple bet, and my life hangs in the balance. Staring at the quarter, I’m suddenly filled with overwhelming anxiety. I need to choose either Washington’s weird pony-tailed head or the majestic eagle to decide my fate. Devil or angel. Which is which?

I always pick Washington. He won a war and started the country, so he must know something, but after millions of tosses, now I’m questioning that, too. There’s too much at stake. I’m doubtful of everything.

Does the trajectory of the coin make a difference? Should I loft it up flat from my palm or flick it with my thumb to create an angle? If it travels farther with more circular motions, is that favorable or not? It’s times like this I wish I paid more attention in physics class.

Better not change things now. Oh well, stalling isn’t going to help. I flick the coin with my thumb and watch it float through the air, climbing, climbing and then slowly descending to the floor.

In a fit of panic, I close my eyes to avoid finality, but then realize prolonging destiny a few moments can only make it sting more.

I need to put on my big boy pants. It’s time.

And the coin says…. I’m getting married!

Wow, I thought I’d feel dread, but now I’m relieved. It’s decided. I’ll ask her tomorrow. Thanks, George, Washington.

© Suzanne Rudd Hamilton, 2023