Shoes

The window in his third-floor office provided a clean, safe perch from which to eye the workers below. He ran the factory as he ran his life, with incredible precision and without waiver. People would always need shoes, and he made them. He made them well and beautiful and with that dinosaur of a machine that made the pundits cry "sweatshop" and the fashionistas cry with delight. And so he kept making shoes, because he knew nothing else, though they all thought he did. High in his impeccable red-lined box, he choked back his $200 cognac while the grimy masses below toiled endlessly for their daily bread.

Witness

"And by the way, a plane hit the World Trade Center."

"Whatever, mom, call me back in ten minutes. I was at work too late last night."

Her head plopped back to her pillow. The last sentence sticking in her sleepy brain, she pictured a cartoonish plane flying into one of her beloved buildings, kind of bouncing off, and then falling straight to the ground. Really, now, what could her mother possibly be talking abo....

Holy shit, a plane hit the World Trade Center! She bolted upright and called her mother back.

"Turn on the TV. NBC. See that?"

"Must be one of those small planes, I don't see anything but some smoke. What is that? Holy shit, anothe...."

The phone went dead. She raced outside to see it with her own eyes. One flight for each building.

Chaos.

Fear.

Smoke.

What?

What is that?

Oh. My. God.

Love Is Not A Choice

She arrived at the party dressed in a miniskirt that had been approved by her 85 year-old widowed neighbor and her 20-something smart-ass doorman. Having a crush on the party's host, she was ever more anxious to impress with her new, hard-won figure. She had been to the same party, thrown in the same place, by the same man for every Independence Day that she could remember. Everyone always congregated at Mitch's to have a sky-high front row view of the fireworks, along with the rare opportunity for real suburban barbeque in the middle of the City.

Mitch greeted her with uncharacteristic compliments. She basked in the attention she had tried hard to win, but there was no sign that he had changed his mind. He walked her out to the balcony and introduced her to two men. There was something absolutely immediate about one of them, an inexplicable wave of emotion swelled for this new soul. Her brain lit up with fireworks before the show even began. She cast Mitch aside to learn why this stranger had such a pull on her.

As more people rolled into the party, her attention was pulled in a dozen directions. Fate tossed her about the apartment like a pinball, and soon he was lost to her. But as people rearranged to see the fireworks, he had moved to a prime location overlooking one of the barges floating directly beneath their twentieth floor view. She walked over and coolly asked "is this space taken?"

With the warmest smile she had ever seen, his eyes alight, he said "yes, I have been saving it for you." They stood side by side watching the brilliant display. She, standing on one ankle so her six inch platforms would not make her taller than him. He, unable to figure out what to do next.

On July 4th, she turned to him and quite seriously said "I'm cold." He placed his arm around her. The rest, as they say, is history.

Note: I would like to dedicate this to the real Mitch, who passed just over three years ago of pancreatic cancer in his mid-40s. My husband, my son, and I owe him everything. We miss him dearly.

The Trifecta

She was not new to the back of an ambulance, nor to the ER, the process now as common as grabbing a cup of coffee. Her fiancé joined her in short order, easily able to skirt the guards assigned to keep people alone with their pain.

"You know, my boss thought I was lying when I told him I was leaving for this," he said, with what had become an escalating tinge of annoyance.

"It's not like it was my fault." She had always been a passenger. Well, except that once. But that wasn't her fault either. The internal investigation said so! The appearance of a round man in her curtained prison snapped her from an ugly flashback and into the present.

"Hello, I am Doctor Barrow. What brings you . . . wow, look at that! It's massive! How long has it been there?"

She was sad to have to disappoint him. "It's not the leg. I was just now in a car accident."

The gruesome man had stopped listening, asking question after question about her leg. Yes, it was a different accident. I was walking. I know, I'm in a lot of accidents. I have kept score. It's the fifth in the back seat of a car. Not. My. Fault. Flashing back again, smothered by fear and desperation, the only word she could manage was "Stop!"

Her frustration obvious, her fiancé stepped in to speak with the doctor. The questions blissfully ended. After a perfunctory examination and a feeble offer of duplicative pills, the couple headed home.

"I know it's not your fault," he whispered, his tone markedly reversed from his earlier harshness. "I love you, we are getting married! What will we do if you're run over by another bus? Be careful!"

His playfulness was returning, much to her relief. A broad smile passed over his lips along with that twinkle in his eyes, and she knew. She knew he was The One, and that he would love her forever, no matter what.

Exactly 333 words fulfilling, in my mind, all three challenges. Ms. Unlucky's adventures may be found sprinkled among my posts, both past and future.

Forbidden Second

Innocent virgin meets rich and powerful.
Not how she imagined.
Yet attempt she did.
His dysfunction was her ambrosia.

Elevators, cars, boathouses.
Whenever, wherever he demanded.
Her resistance was unconvincing.
Even to her.

With all apologies for a second entry and for a second entry utilizing the crappiest book ever. I actually think my summary is an improvement. With all the Shades Of Blue thrown around during the week, I had Grey unbearably on the brain. Be happy you only have to read 33 words!

For Tara

As Atlanta burned, she was torn between her one true love and the man who loved her. Only one could save her family home. Wrapped in green curtains, she did what was necessary.

This week's challenge: retell your favorite book in 33 words. Enjoy!

Am I Blue?

In the Jewish tradition, we named our son after relatives who had left this world for other things. His first name a forgone conclusion, having been born so close to my grandmother's passing. His middle name, however, awaited his father's choice of an honoree.

After much deliberation, he settled on a favorite aunt who, although married, had led a childless life. She had no one to continue her name. But the good heart of my husband extended back two generations to ensure her remembrance.

Over our years together, he had told many fantastic stories of his Aunt Betty. Her boat, her exotic homes, her private plane. Oh yes, Aunt Betty must have been a grand great aunt. I was already sad to have never had the chance to know her.

We thus set out to find a name that began with the letter B, a modern Americanization of the ancient tradition. We poured through all manner of advice. One day, I hit the jackpot. Recalling my fondness for a certain strain of girls' names - those involving colors - I proposed "Blue" to my darling, traditionally minded husband. Much to my surprise and delight, he loved it. Our baby had a name!

Hunter Blue and I were watching TV one day, and the bunny on his show was becoming very sad because his day was not going as planned. The sadder he became, the more his color changed from a brilliant yellow to a deep, deep blue. Hunter, being only three years old, was perplexed.

"Mama, why is that bunny blue? I am Blue, not the bunny."

My heart sank all the way to the center of the earth. In our exuberance, we never considered that Blue was anything but a beloved color that would well represent Aunt Betty. I think I cried, I cannot recall. How did I tell my only child that his name stood for sadness?