Clean

A friend had brought waterless toothbrushes and body wipes. A nice offering, but the morphine and the stream of pretty, pretty flowers were a much higher priority. Forced to leave those things behind and move to the rehabilitation hospital, it had been weeks since her hair had been washed. Gross. Itchy. "You smell like a homeless person." Should a new fiancée say such things? There was a lady. If you could find her. She had a contraption to place around your neck while sitting in your wheelchair next to the sink. $15. Water. Shampoo. Invigorating doesn't nearly cover it.

Written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. Prompt: invigorating.

Haiku Road

Two souls lost too young,
walk along the dusty road.
Now are together.

What shall we do with
the fence now dividing us?
Can you climb over?

Yes, my friend will help me.

Exactly 33 words about this photo. This weekend's challenge from...

Moving On

Michelle and I were always talking about the men in (and out) of our lives. Nothing was off limits, the dirty little secret that men never believe. Our talks would make several locker rooms worth of braggarts blush. But it was fun and liberating and at some level the way we both coped with our singlehood as we each lost a steady stream of co-conspirators to marriage.

The thrill of public sex was something we shared, and shared often enough that a competition had evolved: which of us could do the most in the strangest place. Two Type A's running loose in the City looking to get their freak on. Depressingly, I could never match Michelle's best. In an alley, in a grimy-cum-trendy part of town (pun perhaps intended), up against a wall. Oh how I envied her and that story.

My envy was not for the place or the guy or even the thrill. After all, I have a husband now. And while he blushes at the idea of our competition, he is a willing participant in keeping the spirit alive. My envy was, and always has been, her lithe flexible body to my Rubenesque clunkiness that the story always brings to the fore. My husband is happy to enact our own version, but I know I could never accomplish sex standing up. No man would ever lift me by my ass, my legs wrapping around his waist, and fuck me against a wall.

It is the eve of Michelle's wedding. We haven't spoken of our competition in many years. Indeed, after I was married, she kind of stopped sharing as I was bound to by my vows. I am happy she has found someone who will love her forever and that our timelines might once again meet. We can now share stories of husbands, marriage, and eventually children. Perhaps another type of friendly competition will be on the horizon as we continue to share ourselves with each other.

Exactly 333 words this week!

In The Beginning

Every bus she saw would set awake memories that she tried mightily to put to sleep. Rather than slumber, they woke with a powerful force smacking her face, smashing to the ground, and pinning her shins to her chest. She pounded on the bus, screaming for help. The back wheels were precariously close. Not knowing if the bus would stop, she screamed ever more madly. Lying on her back in the street, she could see people start running through the intersection, scattering in all directions. Toward the bus, toward her. They heard. Someone heard! She wiggled her toes. Hope remained.

Written for Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge. Prompt: slumber

Untitled

I was startled out of my sleep by a loud sound. It was familiar, but in the dead of night I struggled to make out it's meaning. My eyes pried open and a small blonde head came into focus.

Right, my son. The nightmares. Again. OK, get it together. He is three and you are not new to this. What time is it anyway?

I wiped away his few stray tears and scooped him up into my arms, assuring him that he was safe and loved. I could feel his body relax as he fell deep into my embrace. We sat silently, rocking slowly and slightly by the light of the numbers on the clock.

If I am awake at 3am, I should be working. Comforting children is for mommies, not lawyers. What can I possibly tell him that I have not already? Why is that not enough? Surely my arguments were sound and logical. He is safe in his bed, in his room, in our house, in our neighborhood, in our town. Mommy and Daddy always come back. Yes, Mommy and Daddy always come back. Ah yes, I am Mommy now. Why is that so hard to remember?

Unbidden, he lifted his head from my shoulder. In a whisper as soft as his years-gone newborn skin he said "Mommy, I love you." A tear ran down my cheek as I pulled him back to his safe place.

Out In The Ether

My husband is not a computer or internet person. Seems hard to believe that I ended up with a sports junkie who knows nothing of this other world in which I live. Even after all these years, I am still explaining why I have never met some of my best friends and why others live half a world away, but all are as real to me as if they lived next door.

Given this, you can well imagine that the concept of a personal blog is somewhat beyond his grasp. I was quite actively blogging when we met, and in the interest of full disclosure, I told him about it and offered not to mention him if he was uncomfortable or assured an appropriate pseudonym if he gave the OK. He was fine with it, but remained perplexed about the details. He always had my URL, but never read anything I didn't actively show him. When I started up here, he was thrilled and encouraging, now knowing how therapeutic writing can be for me. But the same old questions continued to bug him. Who reads this? Why would anyone read it? How do people find it?

I really didn't have an answer for him. I know the Trifecta folks are popping by to read my entries, as I do with theirs each round. But who else? I let the word out to old blog friends. I will eventually be picked apart by Google and have all manner of strange referrers. But really, who comes through here and why do they care? I still don't know, any more than I know why I visit the blogs of total strangers.

My best guess, is that people who write honest, real, personal blogs are telling the stories of their lives, and reading them is like watching a soap opera and peeking into a forbidden diary all rolled into a single package with fancy graphics and pretty pictures. You just get hooked. You want to know if that date Friday night worked out, or if the baby is a boy or a girl, or if they really are getting a divorce. They say truth is stranger than fiction. Certainly my truth is exponentially so. Maybe this is what has us glued.

Stolen Time

It wasn't the first time.
He crafted seductively gorgeous words.
She, blissfully enraptured.

Her body silently begged.
He had his own time.
An eternity.

It was the first time.
Their kiss took her breath.
He took the rest.