Prompt: Not My Type | Word Count: 1200 Words Exactly | Genre: SciFi Romance
Due Date: 12/4/19
Warning: Some swear words
Star Light, Star Bright by Peggy Rockey
“Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight; I wish I may, I wish I might, have this wish I wish tonight.” She holds her breath, unifying mind and heart as she fixes her eyes upon the twinkling star. She speaks the words into the fading light: “I wish to find true love at first sight.”
An image of the girl freezes on the screen. The star she has wished upon is actually a satellite. Her wish has been captured, recorded, and cataloged.
“Did you get that, Thomas? You’re up on rotation. Consider this your next assignment.”
But Thomas is already smitten with the impish, wistful girl displayed on his monitor, her expression shining with hope and loneliness. She looks to be in her early twenties, maybe two or three years younger than Thomas himself. He can almost feel the soft spring in her thick, luxurious curls; can feel himself drawn to her expressive eyes, hypnotized by the golden flecks within. By the freckles across her pert little nose, just begging to be peppered with soft kisses. He would trail them down to her full lips and…
“Thomas!” Commander Drake calls sharply to the young agent, bringing his thoughts back to his post and reluctantly away from his fantasy.
"Yes sir," Thomas replies, pushing his glasses more firmly into place, pulling his shoulders back and sitting up straight in a posture of strength and command. "I'm on it, sir."
~_~
The doors close with a whoosh, the train pulling away just as I arrive at the platform. I’m breathing heavily from my mad dash across the station to reach the last train of the night before it departed.
I can feel the wind of its passage as it gathers speed down the tracks and disappears into the tunnel, tail lights winking at me in mockery as it goes.
“Damn it.” I run my hand through my hair, pulling on it slightly in agitation, trying not to panic as I find myself alone at midnight, with no other way to get home.
I see with some apprehension that I am not alone on the platform after all. There’s a guy standing a few paces away, looking at me with an expression of expectation and familiarity. As if he expects me to recognize and greet him like a long lost lover.
My breath catches and my heart skips a beat as I realize, belatedly, that I do recognize him.
"Thomas?" I haven’t seen him since high school, four years ago.
"You remember me? I was hoping you would."
As if I would ever forget the boy I’d met when I was a shy, seven year old introvert who liked only to read and play with stuffed animals. He'd been ten, out walking that wretched mutt of his who chased my kitten up a tree. He’d sprained his wrist in attempted rescue, and I’d fallen instantly in love with his bashful, stuttering heroics. Even though he forever after remained oblivious to my charm, until eventually my childhood crush faded away, along with my baby fat and my tendency to blush.
"What are you doing here?" I smooth and tuck my wayward curls behind my ears, while my eyes lock on to his too-wide grin that looks ready to burst into full-on laughter.
"I'm here to grant your wish," he replies, with an air of mystery and importance.
My heart lurches, remembering the childish wish I’d made at twilight. "What wish is that?"
“True love,” he answers softly. Sincerely. His right hand unconsciously lifts to rest over his heart.
“What?!? With you?” I scoff, hoping to hide the fact that my heart has begun beating erratically at his declaration. My face warms and I can feel the flush creep over my cheeks. “You’re not even my type!”
“Oh, that’s right!” Says the boy who’d ignored me all through childhood. “I remember your high school preference for blond haired, broad shouldered jerks, er, jocks. How’d that work out for you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Not so well, I’m thinking,” he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. “And why’re you wishing for love, anyway? Do you think you need someone to take care of you? The girl I remember was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.”
“What are you talking about? You don't know anything about me. You ignored me all through our school years, as if you didn’t even know I existed.”
“That’s because you made it perfectly clear I wasn’t your type. You didn’t seem interested in skinny, four-eyed geeks and I wasn’t about to find out otherwise. Jeez, Miranda, you could have asked for anything. Self-sufficiency, unlimited wealth. World peace for Christ sake! Why didn’t you wish for what you really need: a job and a place to live, now that your roommate is getting married and asked you to move out?”
“Oh my god!” I gasp, “How do you know these things? Have you been checking up on me?”
He pulls a smartphone from his pocket. “You wished upon my star. I made it my business to know.”
“What does that mean?” I’m confused, and somewhat nervous as he holds up the screen for me to see.
“Star light, star bright…” It’s my voice. My face I see displayed in a video on his phone, making that silly wish at twilight.
“Holy shit! How…” I choke back the words, incredulous and unbelieving.
“I told you,” Thomas says, his too-wide smile growing ever wider. “You wished upon my star.”
~_~
Commander Drake observes his newest agent settling into her workstation. Miranda is star-struck as all newbies are, overwhelmed with the technology and the resources available at her fingertips. She'll go through a six month training period, during which she’ll work alongside seasoned agents, like Thomas, learning the rules and the tricks to fulfill the wishes captured by the wish star.
“Welcome back, Thomas,” the Commander greets his young protégé warmly, “I trust your honeymoon was as spectacular as your wedding?”
“Yes sir!” Thomas replies, his face flushing bright red in memory of erotic and private moments. “Mauritius was wonderful, full of unexpected delights and small surprises. Miranda and I enjoyed our time immensely.”
“Good deal. I’m glad to hear it. Miranda seems to be settling into her new position. Are there any questions she has that I might answer for her?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. She still doesn’t understand why some wishes are granted while others are ignored. I’ve shown her all the satellites and the orbit each one takes, how they’re programmed to pick up wishes made at the precise time when the satellite might be seen as the first “star” in the night sky. It’s such a short window of time”
Commander Drake nods, “You explained that the wish has to be spoken loud enough to be recorded, and clear enough to be cataloged?”
“I did. And that the wish has to be technically or physically possible. But, she still wants to know why it’s only those wishes at twilight that are granted?
“It’s just the way it is, Thomas. ‘Star Light, Star Bright; First Star I see tonight.’ I didn’t write the rules, I just follow them!”
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Echoes of Memories
Prompt: All We Need | Word Count: 500 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: None
Due: November 6, 2019
Cold seeps under the space below the door, through the double-paned windows and into the house. It seeps into my bones. Settles in my heart and takes root.
The house is empty. No furniture graces the rooms. No artwork on the walls. No throw rugs on the hardwood floors or fire in the hearth. Nothing to call this house a home. All trace of our life together is gone. Packed up and taken away by the two grown daughters of my now deceased love.
God, how I loved Bobby. We were lovers for more than twenty years and though we never married, we lived together as man and wife for the last thirteen.
It was difficult in the beginning, when the girls were resentful teenagers, angry and rebellious and hurtful, as teenaged girls can be. But over the years they had grown up and matured. They had married and had children of their own. Children who called me Nana, even though I wasn’t able to have children of my own. I thought I had become an integral part of this family. Together, we had all we needed.
At least, that’s what I thought, up until I learned that he'd never bothered to add me to his will. When he died the house and all its belongings had gone to his daughters. He had left me nothing. And the girls, whom I thought had come to love me, had wasted no time in selling the house and everything inside.
They hadn't even given me an opportunity to buy it from them, nor any of our shared possessions. Instead, they’d encouraged me to go away to grieve. Take all the time you need, Maggie, they’d said, all solicitude and compassion. And while I was gone they’d come in and stolen away my life.
It’s sad, but fortunate that I always suspected this day would come. I kept the house I’d had when we first met, currently rented, but soon to be vacant and available to me again. Bobby may not have provided directly for me, but he did teach me how to invest wisely, and my savings have grown exponentially over the years. Last year I even bought an art studio near my old place, and moved my supplies and most of my favorite possessions there. I’ve even begun teaching and renting space to other artists, and I have a circle of friends that meet regularly.
Bobby's house now echoes with twenty years of memories, but I will take those memories with me. The life I had here is gone; the love I shared with this family now scattered in Bobby's ashes around the trees of his property. The only thing left for me here is the cold that has seeped into my bones and into my heart.
But as I step outside and close the door behind me, the day is warm and the sun is shining. I am three years shy of sixty, and there is a whole world awaiting me.
Warning: None
Due: November 6, 2019
Cold seeps under the space below the door, through the double-paned windows and into the house. It seeps into my bones. Settles in my heart and takes root.
The house is empty. No furniture graces the rooms. No artwork on the walls. No throw rugs on the hardwood floors or fire in the hearth. Nothing to call this house a home. All trace of our life together is gone. Packed up and taken away by the two grown daughters of my now deceased love.
God, how I loved Bobby. We were lovers for more than twenty years and though we never married, we lived together as man and wife for the last thirteen.
It was difficult in the beginning, when the girls were resentful teenagers, angry and rebellious and hurtful, as teenaged girls can be. But over the years they had grown up and matured. They had married and had children of their own. Children who called me Nana, even though I wasn’t able to have children of my own. I thought I had become an integral part of this family. Together, we had all we needed.
At least, that’s what I thought, up until I learned that he'd never bothered to add me to his will. When he died the house and all its belongings had gone to his daughters. He had left me nothing. And the girls, whom I thought had come to love me, had wasted no time in selling the house and everything inside.
They hadn't even given me an opportunity to buy it from them, nor any of our shared possessions. Instead, they’d encouraged me to go away to grieve. Take all the time you need, Maggie, they’d said, all solicitude and compassion. And while I was gone they’d come in and stolen away my life.
It’s sad, but fortunate that I always suspected this day would come. I kept the house I’d had when we first met, currently rented, but soon to be vacant and available to me again. Bobby may not have provided directly for me, but he did teach me how to invest wisely, and my savings have grown exponentially over the years. Last year I even bought an art studio near my old place, and moved my supplies and most of my favorite possessions there. I’ve even begun teaching and renting space to other artists, and I have a circle of friends that meet regularly.
Bobby's house now echoes with twenty years of memories, but I will take those memories with me. The life I had here is gone; the love I shared with this family now scattered in Bobby's ashes around the trees of his property. The only thing left for me here is the cold that has seeped into my bones and into my heart.
But as I step outside and close the door behind me, the day is warm and the sun is shining. I am three years shy of sixty, and there is a whole world awaiting me.
Two Wizards in a Bar
Prompt: The Signature | Word Count: 1000 Words Exactly | Genre: Comedic Fantasy
Warning: None
Due: October 9, 2019
Two Wizards in a Bar by Peggy Rockey
“Must we have this conversation again, Jarvin? Can we not just admit that we both miscalculated and stop trying to assign blame for our predicament?”
“Absolutely not! I’ll not let you off so easily. You will recall, Niall, it was not I who cast the containment spell, but...”
“Yes, Yes! I fully admit my mishap. But. If you hadn’t deflected my spell it would have contained our enemy, rather than ourselves. Why must we go over this every time we awaken? Could we not rather discourse on methods to win free of this ensnarement? Would that not be a more productive use of our time?”
“Very well. As long as you acknowledge it was your spell that trapped us here in the first place.”
“Argh! You are the most pig headed wizard I have ever had the misfortune of acquainting myself with. How I have endured the last millennia with you in such close quarters is quite beyond me.”
“There is rather a deplorable lack of distance separating us, I accede. Very well. What spells did you have in mind that we haven’t already tried that could free us from our entrapment? We’ve already tried spells of enlargement and spells of shrinkage; spells of disintegration and of redirection, all with no effect.”
“The sending spell did little to help either, sending us only to opposite sides of the tree. Banishment and teleportation spells had similar effect. It seems we are well and truly trapped.”
“We could try a plane shift, and attempt to transport ourselves elsewhere.”
“That works only with physical contact, with the linking of hands. Impossible in our current incorporeal state.”
“We could try a binding spell.”
“Do you not recall that butcher we attracted with our first binding?”
“He was not a butcher; he was a woodsman.”
“Woodsman, butcher. Whatever. He chopped our tree down.”
“Well, yes. But it should have succeeded in releasing us. How was I to know it would simply reduce the space in which we are trapped?”
“Quite right. And lying there on that forest floor for all those decades, I fully expected natural decay to have eroded away our prison.”
“It may well have done, had we not tried the binding spell again, and bound that carpenter to us.”
“The table he constructed is exquisite, though, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It is indeed, although I believe one would call this a bar, rather than a table. Perhaps he intended it to go to a public house.”
“It’s far too small for a pub. I can’t imagine more than three or four people leaning upon it. Shhh! Jarvin. What noise do I hear?”
A knock sounded from across the dimly lit room. Heavy footsteps passed nearby, the creaking of a door and the jangling of bells, followed by daintily clicking heals.
“Ah, Miss Dupree! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I’ve come to ask about your matching bar and mirror. I’ve admired them through your window for quite some time. Are they made of the same wood? The color and sheen is exquisite, the burl quite unique.”
“Indeed. Can you imagine the agitation that must’ve gone on inside this tree to have produced such burl? It truly is amazing furniture. You’ve a fine eye, Miss Dupree."
“Please. Call me Carol Lynne. I’d like to buy these for my home. What’s the asking price?”
“Hmm, I don’t exactly recall. I have them on consignment, you see. If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I’ll just go and have a look.”
Booted footsteps receded across the room.
The woman approached the bar, laying a cool hand upon it’s surface.
Niall began the binding spell without hesitation. “Carolin Dupree, we call you by name. In the calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
Jarvin continued. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Niall said, “Do it now, Carolin Dupree. Raise your hand and summon us to thee.”
Nothing happened. The woman neither twitched nor responded in any way.
“Drat! We must not have her true name, Jarvin. Did we not hear it correctly?”
“I’m sure she said Carolin.”
The other man returned, a book in one hand, pen in the other. The wizards listened with interest as the man and woman negotiated the price of the furniture; he reiterating its fine qualities, she pointing out non-existent flaws in the design.
Eventually they agreed on a price, to be collected upon delivery to her home. The man set his notebook upon the bar and scratched out a receipt, querying the woman for the address. He turned the paper towards the woman, handing her the pen.
“If you will just sign here…”
Both wizards held their breath, poised with anticipation as she signed her name in large, cursive letters.
Carol Lynne Dupree
With high hopes, and a patience born of long ages, the wizards watched the woman depart.
After a short interval involving a rather jarring transportation, the be-spelled furniture now stood within a spacious room in Carol Lynne’s home. The bar in one corner, free standing mirror in the opposite.
Jarvin began the binding as soon as the woman was alone in the room. “Carol Lynne Dupree, we call you by name. In this calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
She twitched visibly.
Niall said. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Her hand rose involuntarily, green eyes widening, pupils constricting and dilating wildly.
“Do it now, Carol Lynne Dupree,” Jarvin completed the spell. “Summon us now that we may stand and gaze upon thee.”
A whirlwind swept the wizards up in a crazy, chaotic dance and they chortled in gleeful anticipation. When the spinning stopped, they were indeed free of the bar, standing and gazing upon the woman as the binding commanded. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing right through them as if they weren’t there at all.
“Jarvin, you idiot!” Niall despaired. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
Warning: None
Due: October 9, 2019
Two Wizards in a Bar by Peggy Rockey
“Must we have this conversation again, Jarvin? Can we not just admit that we both miscalculated and stop trying to assign blame for our predicament?”
“Absolutely not! I’ll not let you off so easily. You will recall, Niall, it was not I who cast the containment spell, but...”
“Yes, Yes! I fully admit my mishap. But. If you hadn’t deflected my spell it would have contained our enemy, rather than ourselves. Why must we go over this every time we awaken? Could we not rather discourse on methods to win free of this ensnarement? Would that not be a more productive use of our time?”
“Very well. As long as you acknowledge it was your spell that trapped us here in the first place.”
“Argh! You are the most pig headed wizard I have ever had the misfortune of acquainting myself with. How I have endured the last millennia with you in such close quarters is quite beyond me.”
“There is rather a deplorable lack of distance separating us, I accede. Very well. What spells did you have in mind that we haven’t already tried that could free us from our entrapment? We’ve already tried spells of enlargement and spells of shrinkage; spells of disintegration and of redirection, all with no effect.”
“The sending spell did little to help either, sending us only to opposite sides of the tree. Banishment and teleportation spells had similar effect. It seems we are well and truly trapped.”
“We could try a plane shift, and attempt to transport ourselves elsewhere.”
“That works only with physical contact, with the linking of hands. Impossible in our current incorporeal state.”
“We could try a binding spell.”
“Do you not recall that butcher we attracted with our first binding?”
“He was not a butcher; he was a woodsman.”
“Woodsman, butcher. Whatever. He chopped our tree down.”
“Well, yes. But it should have succeeded in releasing us. How was I to know it would simply reduce the space in which we are trapped?”
“Quite right. And lying there on that forest floor for all those decades, I fully expected natural decay to have eroded away our prison.”
“It may well have done, had we not tried the binding spell again, and bound that carpenter to us.”
“The table he constructed is exquisite, though, wouldn’t you agree?”
“It is indeed, although I believe one would call this a bar, rather than a table. Perhaps he intended it to go to a public house.”
“It’s far too small for a pub. I can’t imagine more than three or four people leaning upon it. Shhh! Jarvin. What noise do I hear?”
A knock sounded from across the dimly lit room. Heavy footsteps passed nearby, the creaking of a door and the jangling of bells, followed by daintily clicking heals.
“Ah, Miss Dupree! To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
“I’ve come to ask about your matching bar and mirror. I’ve admired them through your window for quite some time. Are they made of the same wood? The color and sheen is exquisite, the burl quite unique.”
“Indeed. Can you imagine the agitation that must’ve gone on inside this tree to have produced such burl? It truly is amazing furniture. You’ve a fine eye, Miss Dupree."
“Please. Call me Carol Lynne. I’d like to buy these for my home. What’s the asking price?”
“Hmm, I don’t exactly recall. I have them on consignment, you see. If you’ll excuse me for one moment, I’ll just go and have a look.”
Booted footsteps receded across the room.
The woman approached the bar, laying a cool hand upon it’s surface.
Niall began the binding spell without hesitation. “Carolin Dupree, we call you by name. In the calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
Jarvin continued. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Niall said, “Do it now, Carolin Dupree. Raise your hand and summon us to thee.”
Nothing happened. The woman neither twitched nor responded in any way.
“Drat! We must not have her true name, Jarvin. Did we not hear it correctly?”
“I’m sure she said Carolin.”
The other man returned, a book in one hand, pen in the other. The wizards listened with interest as the man and woman negotiated the price of the furniture; he reiterating its fine qualities, she pointing out non-existent flaws in the design.
Eventually they agreed on a price, to be collected upon delivery to her home. The man set his notebook upon the bar and scratched out a receipt, querying the woman for the address. He turned the paper towards the woman, handing her the pen.
“If you will just sign here…”
Both wizards held their breath, poised with anticipation as she signed her name in large, cursive letters.
Carol Lynne Dupree
With high hopes, and a patience born of long ages, the wizards watched the woman depart.
After a short interval involving a rather jarring transportation, the be-spelled furniture now stood within a spacious room in Carol Lynne’s home. The bar in one corner, free standing mirror in the opposite.
Jarvin began the binding as soon as the woman was alone in the room. “Carol Lynne Dupree, we call you by name. In this calling we bind ourselves to thee.”
She twitched visibly.
Niall said. “With this binding, we empower you to raise your hand in summons.”
Her hand rose involuntarily, green eyes widening, pupils constricting and dilating wildly.
“Do it now, Carol Lynne Dupree,” Jarvin completed the spell. “Summon us now that we may stand and gaze upon thee.”
A whirlwind swept the wizards up in a crazy, chaotic dance and they chortled in gleeful anticipation. When the spinning stopped, they were indeed free of the bar, standing and gazing upon the woman as the binding commanded. She frowned at her reflection in the mirror, seeing right through them as if they weren’t there at all.
“Jarvin, you idiot!” Niall despaired. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
The Hero
Prompt: For the Glory | Word Count: 1250 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: None
Due: September 11, 2019
The Hero by Peggy Rockey
Dugal lay propped on blue silken sheets, his pale face in stark contrast with dark, curly hair. There was something soft and kind about the man in repose that was rarely seen when awake. His lips were formed in a crooked smile, but Patrick found it difficult to define the expression on his face: part mystery, part expectation, part fear.
“What’s wrong with Daddy,” asked the little boy who came to stand beside Patrick. He kept pulling at the bow tie around his neck, obviously uncomfortable in the little black suit and shiny black shoes. “Why doesn’t he wake up?” Donal’s face was as pale as his father’s, his expression just as mixed.
Patrick cursed the boy’s grandparents under his breath. Four year old lads should not be subjected to open casket viewings. It messed with their minds, as he well knew. He took the boy’s hand in his own calloused one; squeezed it firmly, affectionately. “Daddy’s gone off to be with your mother, lad. He’ll not be waking again.”
He refused to tell the boy his dad was in heaven. Not much chance of that, Patrick thought; not with the lifestyle he'd led. It could just as easily been he in that casket. He'd been the one supposed to deliver the drugs to the gang leader, not Dugal; but his cousin had insisted, said it was better for Patrick to stay home with his newborn babe, help out his wife and all that.
Only two weeks before, Dugal had come to the hospital while Patrick’s son was being born, and Patrick had asked what it was like being a father.
“Ah, it’s fantastic,” his cousin had gushed. “The lad follows me around everywhere, listens to everything I say and looks at me as if I can do no wrong. Your lad will think you’re a hero!”
It made him angry, remembering. What kind of hero OD’d on drugs? Dugal had been no hero. Neither was Patrick. He was nothing but a criminal; had been for ten years or more. Dugal had been in it for the drugs, while Patrick had just wanted to make easy money. And he had, too. He’d made a ton of money. Told himself he did it for his family, but seeing his cousin laid out in the casket before him make Patrick realize that if he continued on this path he'd be dead himself, or in jail, before his own son was four years old.
Donal’s small hand fidgeted in Patrick’s, and he was struck with the notion that little Donnie didn't want money. He wanted the same things Patrick hadn’t had when he was a young lad growing up. He just wanted to go to the park with his dad, or the beach, or even to the grocery store. He needed love and security and the knowledge that his dad was going to be there for him. To know his dad was someone he could count on. Donal was never going to have that now.
It was a life changing moment for Patrick.
He remembered when his Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. He’d been like a father to Patrick when his own parents had died, killed while driving drunk from a party. Patrick had offered to quit smoking if Uncle Joe would too. The older man had tried and failed to quit, but Patrick never smoked again. The desire to smoke had simply shut off, like a faucet. Like cupid’s arrow to his heart, his love for his uncle became that much greater than his love for cigarettes. It had had such a positive impact on Uncle Joe that he too quit smoking and lived another ten years when he might’ve died in less than three had he continued without change.
Donnie had begun to cry. Patrick picked him up, holding him close to his chest, smoothing his dark hair. He carried him over to the boy’s grandparents, who sat with Patrick’s wife and son. Love for this family struck him hard, like that familiar arrow to his heart, and he knew his life had to change.
Donnie squirmed, wiping at the tears streaking his face. He asked to go to the bathroom, and while he waited for the boy, Patrick overheard another cousin talking to some friends about an Ironman competition he was going to compete at in Barcelona next month.
Ian was an intense, wiry man whom Patrick had always admired, though they hadn’t been close as kids and had little connection as adults. As he listened to the other man talk about the upcoming event, Patrick instinctively knew he needed to surround himself with people like Ian if he was going to change. People with real, meaningful goals who weren’t simply wasting their lives in pursuit of quick riches and instant highs, like he and Dugal had done for so long.
***
Patrick made a point of becoming friends with Ian over the next few months. He went to Barcelona to watch his cousin participate in the Ironman triathlon, thrilled by the excitement and adrenalin of the event. Seeing Ian cross that finish line was the most fantastic and inspirational thing he’d ever witnessed. He didn’t know how to swim, and he didn’t own a bike, but Patrick made the decision, right then and there, to sign up for the next Ironman competition. He knew his life needed to change and he had found the way to do it.
He told himself he was doing it for his family. But really, he did it for himself.
It wasn’t easy. His old “friends” made it difficult to leave his old life behind, offering him quick riches and odd jobs. He told refused them, over and over again, but they kept coming back and started threatening him and his family. He ended up moving out to the suburbs, changing his phone number and getting a job as a photojournalist for a local newspaper. It didn’t pay well, initially, but it gave him a sense of legitimacy.
Learning to swim was harder than he thought it would be. Often his wife, Hannah, would bring Donal and their son to the pool while he trained. Shamus loved to splash and blow bubbles and Donnie floated and played while Patrick swam. He hired a coach, and eventually became comfortable in the water. He pushed himself hard, learning to tread and to float on his back, to open his eyes under water and to swim with long, powerful strokes.
He used some of his illicitly gained savings to buy a bike, and found an Ironman training plan online. He balanced his time between family, work, and training, feeling more energized and encouraged than he ever had in his life. He became high on exercise, on the dopamine that surged through his body, fueled by hours of swimming, biking and running. Amped by the positive changes he was experiencing in his life.
His family came with him to Holland for the competition. Even little Donnie and his grandparents went along to see Patrick compete. It felt amazing, standing on that canal surrounded by so many people, all trying to prove something to themselves and to each other. Patrick inhaled the cool, crisp air; filled with a deep sense of achievement. The race hadn’t even started yet, but he felt like he had already won.
He had won his life back and in his own eyes he had become a hero.
Warning: None
Due: September 11, 2019
The Hero by Peggy Rockey
Dugal lay propped on blue silken sheets, his pale face in stark contrast with dark, curly hair. There was something soft and kind about the man in repose that was rarely seen when awake. His lips were formed in a crooked smile, but Patrick found it difficult to define the expression on his face: part mystery, part expectation, part fear.
“What’s wrong with Daddy,” asked the little boy who came to stand beside Patrick. He kept pulling at the bow tie around his neck, obviously uncomfortable in the little black suit and shiny black shoes. “Why doesn’t he wake up?” Donal’s face was as pale as his father’s, his expression just as mixed.
Patrick cursed the boy’s grandparents under his breath. Four year old lads should not be subjected to open casket viewings. It messed with their minds, as he well knew. He took the boy’s hand in his own calloused one; squeezed it firmly, affectionately. “Daddy’s gone off to be with your mother, lad. He’ll not be waking again.”
He refused to tell the boy his dad was in heaven. Not much chance of that, Patrick thought; not with the lifestyle he'd led. It could just as easily been he in that casket. He'd been the one supposed to deliver the drugs to the gang leader, not Dugal; but his cousin had insisted, said it was better for Patrick to stay home with his newborn babe, help out his wife and all that.
Only two weeks before, Dugal had come to the hospital while Patrick’s son was being born, and Patrick had asked what it was like being a father.
“Ah, it’s fantastic,” his cousin had gushed. “The lad follows me around everywhere, listens to everything I say and looks at me as if I can do no wrong. Your lad will think you’re a hero!”
It made him angry, remembering. What kind of hero OD’d on drugs? Dugal had been no hero. Neither was Patrick. He was nothing but a criminal; had been for ten years or more. Dugal had been in it for the drugs, while Patrick had just wanted to make easy money. And he had, too. He’d made a ton of money. Told himself he did it for his family, but seeing his cousin laid out in the casket before him make Patrick realize that if he continued on this path he'd be dead himself, or in jail, before his own son was four years old.
Donal’s small hand fidgeted in Patrick’s, and he was struck with the notion that little Donnie didn't want money. He wanted the same things Patrick hadn’t had when he was a young lad growing up. He just wanted to go to the park with his dad, or the beach, or even to the grocery store. He needed love and security and the knowledge that his dad was going to be there for him. To know his dad was someone he could count on. Donal was never going to have that now.
It was a life changing moment for Patrick.
He remembered when his Uncle Joe had been diagnosed with Emphysema after a lifetime of smoking. He’d been like a father to Patrick when his own parents had died, killed while driving drunk from a party. Patrick had offered to quit smoking if Uncle Joe would too. The older man had tried and failed to quit, but Patrick never smoked again. The desire to smoke had simply shut off, like a faucet. Like cupid’s arrow to his heart, his love for his uncle became that much greater than his love for cigarettes. It had had such a positive impact on Uncle Joe that he too quit smoking and lived another ten years when he might’ve died in less than three had he continued without change.
Donnie had begun to cry. Patrick picked him up, holding him close to his chest, smoothing his dark hair. He carried him over to the boy’s grandparents, who sat with Patrick’s wife and son. Love for this family struck him hard, like that familiar arrow to his heart, and he knew his life had to change.
Donnie squirmed, wiping at the tears streaking his face. He asked to go to the bathroom, and while he waited for the boy, Patrick overheard another cousin talking to some friends about an Ironman competition he was going to compete at in Barcelona next month.
Ian was an intense, wiry man whom Patrick had always admired, though they hadn’t been close as kids and had little connection as adults. As he listened to the other man talk about the upcoming event, Patrick instinctively knew he needed to surround himself with people like Ian if he was going to change. People with real, meaningful goals who weren’t simply wasting their lives in pursuit of quick riches and instant highs, like he and Dugal had done for so long.
***
Patrick made a point of becoming friends with Ian over the next few months. He went to Barcelona to watch his cousin participate in the Ironman triathlon, thrilled by the excitement and adrenalin of the event. Seeing Ian cross that finish line was the most fantastic and inspirational thing he’d ever witnessed. He didn’t know how to swim, and he didn’t own a bike, but Patrick made the decision, right then and there, to sign up for the next Ironman competition. He knew his life needed to change and he had found the way to do it.
He told himself he was doing it for his family. But really, he did it for himself.
It wasn’t easy. His old “friends” made it difficult to leave his old life behind, offering him quick riches and odd jobs. He told refused them, over and over again, but they kept coming back and started threatening him and his family. He ended up moving out to the suburbs, changing his phone number and getting a job as a photojournalist for a local newspaper. It didn’t pay well, initially, but it gave him a sense of legitimacy.
Learning to swim was harder than he thought it would be. Often his wife, Hannah, would bring Donal and their son to the pool while he trained. Shamus loved to splash and blow bubbles and Donnie floated and played while Patrick swam. He hired a coach, and eventually became comfortable in the water. He pushed himself hard, learning to tread and to float on his back, to open his eyes under water and to swim with long, powerful strokes.
He used some of his illicitly gained savings to buy a bike, and found an Ironman training plan online. He balanced his time between family, work, and training, feeling more energized and encouraged than he ever had in his life. He became high on exercise, on the dopamine that surged through his body, fueled by hours of swimming, biking and running. Amped by the positive changes he was experiencing in his life.
His family came with him to Holland for the competition. Even little Donnie and his grandparents went along to see Patrick compete. It felt amazing, standing on that canal surrounded by so many people, all trying to prove something to themselves and to each other. Patrick inhaled the cool, crisp air; filled with a deep sense of achievement. The race hadn’t even started yet, but he felt like he had already won.
He had won his life back and in his own eyes he had become a hero.
Monday, September 9, 2019
Xcelite deluxe set no 127 by Peggy Rockey
Prompt: Workbench | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: Sexual content
Due August 14
Nathan’s hands, gnarled with arthritis and old age, felt too large and clumsy for the task he’d set for himself. The beloved tool set is old, older than he is, handed down from his father and his grandfather before him. The rust and peeling paint are evidence of a life well lived, yet Nathan had plans to restore it to its original state. Nathan plans to pass it on to his two year old great grandson on the occasion of their next visit.
Handling the tool set had flooded Nathan with a sense of nostalgia. Fond childhood memories surfaced of playing with this particular tool set, the Xcelite Deluxe Nutdriver Set No. 127. As a little boy, he had played out here in the garage, happily matching the colored drivers to their color-coded slots in the metal case, while his dad tinkered with his hobbies. His father had called the drivers spin tights, had used them to fix old radios and televisions.
A strong memory came to him, of being lifted up to sit on the workbench, his short legs dangling in the air while his dad fiddled with the wire tape recorder. Dad and Grandpa Al had exchanged recorded messages throughout most of Nathan’s childhood, sharing little snippets of their lives they found amusing or interesting; preferring to communicate in this manner when a telephone call or a letter would have done the same.
Nathan had uncovered an old box of these recordings just a few days ago, cherished memories of voices long silenced, but not forgotten.
"Say hello to your Grandfather, Nathan," Daddy had held the large, rectangular microphone up to his face.
"Hello Gram-pa," he had replied in his uncertain, little boy voice.
"Tell your grandfather what a good boy you are, Nate; how big and fast you're growing."
"I'm a big boy, Gram-pa."
Nathan smiled at the memory; Dad had gone on chatting into the microphone for a while, his deep voice laughing at his own jokes; until his mother came in to make inconsequential small talk about soaking chicken in buttermilk while oil heated up on the stove.
Nathan feels a thickness in his throat, a longing so intense for his parents that he hadn’t felt in years. It had been such a great thing to listen to those old recordings, but it had been bittersweet as well, and left him in a bit of a funk.
He set the tool case back into the tray of vinegar, the sharp, acrid scent permeating the garage. His Dad had taught him this trick long ago, using white vinegar to remove rust from metal. The aroma tickled his nose and made his eyes water.
Of course it was the vinegar making his eyes tear up. Not the yearning for his long dead parents, nor the more recent memory of Sally, lying pale and shaken in the recovery room following surgery earlier that morning, of his wife’s brave, bandaged face on the drive home from the hospital. She’d said is wasn't painful, but she worried that the scar would mar her face.
“Scar, schmar,” Nate had assured her. “It’ll just add character to your good looks. You are just as beautiful as you were when I first fell in love with you, even now after all these years, with your gray hair and wrinkles.”
"And saggy boobs?"
“Those too," he had teased, reaching across the car to give her breast a gentle caress and a quick tweak of her nipple.
"Oh, you," she swatted at his hand, but her lips had lifted in a tentative smile, and he could tell her spirit had lifted as well.
He had put her to bed, kissed her forehead and stroked her thick hair, until she shooed him away so she could sleep off the last dregs of anesthesia. Nathan had come out to the garage to distract himself from his feelings of helplessness, of his inability to protect his wife and keep her safe.
He plucked the tool case out of the vinegar again and set it on the workbench. Picking up an old toothbrush, he began scrubbin the soft bristles against the largest rust spot. He was determined to remove the blemish from the tool, like the surgeon removing the cancer from his wife. The rust came off slowly, but it was a time consuming, painstaking process. Eventually, he had to stop, to rest his hands from the ache of hard use.
As he placed the tool case back in the vinegar, his eyes took in the heart shaped engraving he’d carved into the lower left corner of the workbench. The sight of it lightened his spirit momentarily. He'd been so young then, but he was just as besotted now as he’d been back then. N.A + S.F. The initials are as clear as they’d been when he’d first put them there. Had it really been sixty years?
He’d been in love with Sally Fisher even when she had been Josh O’Rielly’s girl, back when they’d all been in high school. Josh hadn’t treated Sally very well. More often than not, he would leave Sally with Nate while he went off drinking and hanging out with “the guys.” He’d done this so often that Nathan suspected Josh actually preferred men over women, and had not been brave enough to admit it. Josh’s neglect had had a terrible effect on Sally’s self- esteem, leaving her feeling unworthy and undesirable, when that was so far from the truth.
As a result, she took to flirting outrageously with Nathan in a failed effort to gain Josh’s attention, to make him jealous. And Nathan hadn’t minded that one bit. She was so pretty, with her big blue eyes, and lopsided grin; her hourglass figure, toned from jogging and playing basketball. It had made Nathan so angry to see her pining away for a man who didn’t want her. She’d been sexy as hell. Hell, she still is, Nathan thinks, even at seventy seven.
Sally and Josh eventually broke it off, opening the way for Nate to court her instead. They’d had a whirlwind romance; already in love with each other by the time they were free to do so. They’d married within the year.
Josh had even been the best man at their wedding. He never did come out of the closet. In all the years Nathan knew him, the only serious relationship Josh ever had was with his bottle. Sadly, he drank himself into an early grave at the age of fifty-six.
From the very start, Nate and Sally couldn’t keep their hands off each other; their physical attraction was mutual and satisfying. They made love often and even when they fought, there was always make up sex to make things right again. Time and again she would come find him, tinkering in the garage, and end up bent over the workbench, loving his hands on her hips while her soft moans escaped into the night.
After the twins were born, Nate rigged up a swing for the two girls beside the workbench, where Emma and Ellie would happily play while he tinkered and worked. As babies, they were oblivious to the times when Sally would sashay into the shop, all sexy in her mini skirt and tank top. She’d dance across the floor and sidle up against him, whisper something suggestive in his ear, and bend over in front of him, as if to pick a tool up off the floor, just far enough so he could see her lack of panties.
God, it made him hard just remembering. This, in and of itself, was a minor miracle at his age. At seventy eight, this no longer happened as regularly as it had in the past.
Nathan rubbed a wrinkled finger over the scarred workbench; the texture as rough and gnarled as his skin. The workbench has been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. Like the Xcelite Deluxe Nut Driver Set No 127. It had been a wedding gift from his father. Along with the house and the shop and all its furnishings.
Dad had had no desire to live in the house after Nathan’s mother had passed away, so he’d gifted the home to his son and new wife. He bought a shiny new silver bullet trailer and set out on the road to find adventure in his old age.
The trailer was on the side of the house now, no longer shiny, but still in decent condition. His recently widowed daughter had asked if she could borrow it to pursue some new adventures of her own, and Nathan had agreed, hoping it would help move Ellie beyond grief.
That had been before Sally had been diagnosed with melanoma and their lives put on hold. Today’s surgery had been the second and, thankfully, the doctor seemed confident that he had removed all the cancer cells, though she would need to go in for follow up evaluations every six months. This second surgery had not been nearly as difficult as the first, when they had removed lymph nodes from the side of her neck, but Nathan expects she will be exhausted and depressed, as she had been before.
His chest tightens with anxiety. Irrational fears were now forcing their way past the nostalgia that had comforted him just moments before, taking hold of his thoughts. He doesn’t know what he would do without her. She is the love of his life, his best friend, his main squeeze.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, a form silhouetted in front of the brightness of the late afternoon sun. It took less than a moment to recognize her.
His heart quickens as she comes into the garage, her eyes locked on his, walking slowly towards him with a suggestion of seduction in her lopsided grin.
“What are you tinkering with, old man?” She asks, her voice low and husky.
She’s wrapped in a woolen robe, her bare feet making little sound as she approaches. “You better not be out here worrying about me,” she said, “because I am going to be just fine.”
His throat tightens and he swallows reflexively. She lifts up on her tippie toes, places her hands on either side of his face and tugs him gently towards her until his lips settle on hers. He worries about brushing against the bandage and hurting her.
The kiss is tentative at first; but intensifies as her arms come around his neck and her tongue dances with his. A gasp escapes him as she moves just so, with that practiced swivel of a hip, pushing up against him, just so.
She smiles that impish smile that he loves so well, opens her robe and lets it fall to the ground.
Prompt: Workbench | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Warning: Sexual content
Due August 14
Nathan’s hands, gnarled with arthritis and old age, felt too large and clumsy for the task he’d set for himself. The beloved tool set is old, older than he is, handed down from his father and his grandfather before him. The rust and peeling paint are evidence of a life well lived, yet Nathan had plans to restore it to its original state. Nathan plans to pass it on to his two year old great grandson on the occasion of their next visit.
Handling the tool set had flooded Nathan with a sense of nostalgia. Fond childhood memories surfaced of playing with this particular tool set, the Xcelite Deluxe Nutdriver Set No. 127. As a little boy, he had played out here in the garage, happily matching the colored drivers to their color-coded slots in the metal case, while his dad tinkered with his hobbies. His father had called the drivers spin tights, had used them to fix old radios and televisions.
A strong memory came to him, of being lifted up to sit on the workbench, his short legs dangling in the air while his dad fiddled with the wire tape recorder. Dad and Grandpa Al had exchanged recorded messages throughout most of Nathan’s childhood, sharing little snippets of their lives they found amusing or interesting; preferring to communicate in this manner when a telephone call or a letter would have done the same.
Nathan had uncovered an old box of these recordings just a few days ago, cherished memories of voices long silenced, but not forgotten.
"Say hello to your Grandfather, Nathan," Daddy had held the large, rectangular microphone up to his face.
"Hello Gram-pa," he had replied in his uncertain, little boy voice.
"Tell your grandfather what a good boy you are, Nate; how big and fast you're growing."
"I'm a big boy, Gram-pa."
Nathan smiled at the memory; Dad had gone on chatting into the microphone for a while, his deep voice laughing at his own jokes; until his mother came in to make inconsequential small talk about soaking chicken in buttermilk while oil heated up on the stove.
Nathan feels a thickness in his throat, a longing so intense for his parents that he hadn’t felt in years. It had been such a great thing to listen to those old recordings, but it had been bittersweet as well, and left him in a bit of a funk.
He set the tool case back into the tray of vinegar, the sharp, acrid scent permeating the garage. His Dad had taught him this trick long ago, using white vinegar to remove rust from metal. The aroma tickled his nose and made his eyes water.
Of course it was the vinegar making his eyes tear up. Not the yearning for his long dead parents, nor the more recent memory of Sally, lying pale and shaken in the recovery room following surgery earlier that morning, of his wife’s brave, bandaged face on the drive home from the hospital. She’d said is wasn't painful, but she worried that the scar would mar her face.
“Scar, schmar,” Nate had assured her. “It’ll just add character to your good looks. You are just as beautiful as you were when I first fell in love with you, even now after all these years, with your gray hair and wrinkles.”
"And saggy boobs?"
“Those too," he had teased, reaching across the car to give her breast a gentle caress and a quick tweak of her nipple.
"Oh, you," she swatted at his hand, but her lips had lifted in a tentative smile, and he could tell her spirit had lifted as well.
He had put her to bed, kissed her forehead and stroked her thick hair, until she shooed him away so she could sleep off the last dregs of anesthesia. Nathan had come out to the garage to distract himself from his feelings of helplessness, of his inability to protect his wife and keep her safe.
He plucked the tool case out of the vinegar again and set it on the workbench. Picking up an old toothbrush, he began scrubbin the soft bristles against the largest rust spot. He was determined to remove the blemish from the tool, like the surgeon removing the cancer from his wife. The rust came off slowly, but it was a time consuming, painstaking process. Eventually, he had to stop, to rest his hands from the ache of hard use.
As he placed the tool case back in the vinegar, his eyes took in the heart shaped engraving he’d carved into the lower left corner of the workbench. The sight of it lightened his spirit momentarily. He'd been so young then, but he was just as besotted now as he’d been back then. N.A + S.F. The initials are as clear as they’d been when he’d first put them there. Had it really been sixty years?
He’d been in love with Sally Fisher even when she had been Josh O’Rielly’s girl, back when they’d all been in high school. Josh hadn’t treated Sally very well. More often than not, he would leave Sally with Nate while he went off drinking and hanging out with “the guys.” He’d done this so often that Nathan suspected Josh actually preferred men over women, and had not been brave enough to admit it. Josh’s neglect had had a terrible effect on Sally’s self- esteem, leaving her feeling unworthy and undesirable, when that was so far from the truth.
As a result, she took to flirting outrageously with Nathan in a failed effort to gain Josh’s attention, to make him jealous. And Nathan hadn’t minded that one bit. She was so pretty, with her big blue eyes, and lopsided grin; her hourglass figure, toned from jogging and playing basketball. It had made Nathan so angry to see her pining away for a man who didn’t want her. She’d been sexy as hell. Hell, she still is, Nathan thinks, even at seventy seven.
Sally and Josh eventually broke it off, opening the way for Nate to court her instead. They’d had a whirlwind romance; already in love with each other by the time they were free to do so. They’d married within the year.
Josh had even been the best man at their wedding. He never did come out of the closet. In all the years Nathan knew him, the only serious relationship Josh ever had was with his bottle. Sadly, he drank himself into an early grave at the age of fifty-six.
From the very start, Nate and Sally couldn’t keep their hands off each other; their physical attraction was mutual and satisfying. They made love often and even when they fought, there was always make up sex to make things right again. Time and again she would come find him, tinkering in the garage, and end up bent over the workbench, loving his hands on her hips while her soft moans escaped into the night.
After the twins were born, Nate rigged up a swing for the two girls beside the workbench, where Emma and Ellie would happily play while he tinkered and worked. As babies, they were oblivious to the times when Sally would sashay into the shop, all sexy in her mini skirt and tank top. She’d dance across the floor and sidle up against him, whisper something suggestive in his ear, and bend over in front of him, as if to pick a tool up off the floor, just far enough so he could see her lack of panties.
God, it made him hard just remembering. This, in and of itself, was a minor miracle at his age. At seventy eight, this no longer happened as regularly as it had in the past.
Nathan rubbed a wrinkled finger over the scarred workbench; the texture as rough and gnarled as his skin. The workbench has been a part of his life for as long as he can remember. Like the Xcelite Deluxe Nut Driver Set No 127. It had been a wedding gift from his father. Along with the house and the shop and all its furnishings.
Dad had had no desire to live in the house after Nathan’s mother had passed away, so he’d gifted the home to his son and new wife. He bought a shiny new silver bullet trailer and set out on the road to find adventure in his old age.
The trailer was on the side of the house now, no longer shiny, but still in decent condition. His recently widowed daughter had asked if she could borrow it to pursue some new adventures of her own, and Nathan had agreed, hoping it would help move Ellie beyond grief.
That had been before Sally had been diagnosed with melanoma and their lives put on hold. Today’s surgery had been the second and, thankfully, the doctor seemed confident that he had removed all the cancer cells, though she would need to go in for follow up evaluations every six months. This second surgery had not been nearly as difficult as the first, when they had removed lymph nodes from the side of her neck, but Nathan expects she will be exhausted and depressed, as she had been before.
His chest tightens with anxiety. Irrational fears were now forcing their way past the nostalgia that had comforted him just moments before, taking hold of his thoughts. He doesn’t know what he would do without her. She is the love of his life, his best friend, his main squeeze.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, a form silhouetted in front of the brightness of the late afternoon sun. It took less than a moment to recognize her.
His heart quickens as she comes into the garage, her eyes locked on his, walking slowly towards him with a suggestion of seduction in her lopsided grin.
“What are you tinkering with, old man?” She asks, her voice low and husky.
She’s wrapped in a woolen robe, her bare feet making little sound as she approaches. “You better not be out here worrying about me,” she said, “because I am going to be just fine.”
His throat tightens and he swallows reflexively. She lifts up on her tippie toes, places her hands on either side of his face and tugs him gently towards her until his lips settle on hers. He worries about brushing against the bandage and hurting her.
The kiss is tentative at first; but intensifies as her arms come around his neck and her tongue dances with his. A gasp escapes him as she moves just so, with that practiced swivel of a hip, pushing up against him, just so.
She smiles that impish smile that he loves so well, opens her robe and lets it fall to the ground.
That's My Boy
That's my Boy by Peggy Rockey
Prompt: Lethal | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Action? Suspense?
Warning: Foul language
Due June 19
The boy is beautiful. Tall for his age. Fearless in the way he charges into the skirmish, risking bruised ankles and shins while tangling for possession of the soccer ball. Confidence shines in the boy’s dark eyes and wide grin as he kicks the ball to a teammate downfield, charging after it with all the energy of an active twelve year old.
Of all the kids on the field, this one has captured his attention. The way he moves. The combination of dark hair, tanned skin, lithe athletic body. His breath comes more rapidly as he watches the boy. Saliva fills his mouth and he swallows reflexively. His body tightens deliciously, almost painfully; first time since being released from incarceration.
***
“Come on, Ian, get in there.”
“Way to play, Ian. Nice pass.”
“Block him, Mary, block him! You can do it.”
The energy on the field is contagious as onlookers call orders and encouragement to the players. Cheers of victory and groans of disappointment sound as the ball is kicked downfield, kicked again by a fellow teammate. It soars past the goalie; into the net for the score.
Three to one. Four minutes left to play.
***
Ian intercepts another pass from the opposing team, kicks the ball downfield again.
“That’s my boy!” Sara beams with pride. He’s been the star of the game. May not have scored any goals himself, but he’s been the one to set up the plays, passing the winning scores to his mates.
She scans the crowd surreptitiously to see if anyone else has noticed how well her boy is playing. “Darla, who’s that bald guy over there?” Sara nods towards a shabby looking man sitting off by himself in a lawn chair, sipping from a large cup. “He’s kinda creepy.”
“I dunno.” Darla says. “He drove up in that old van a little while ago. I thought maybe he was someone’s grandfather, but he’s just sitting there by himself. He hasn't spoken to anyone, as far as I've seen.”
The guy's dressed in a faded white tank top, sweat-stained and stretched taut across the flab of his chest and stomach; dirty sweat pants; flip flops. As a parole officer, she’s been trained to interact with hardened criminals, has learned to be observant and suspicious. Sara’s instincts move into high alert as she takes in his ruddy cheeks, the sheen on his forehead. That look of fierce longing should not be on the face of an old man watching young kids playing soccer on a spring morning.
“Get in there, Tony, get that ball away from him.”
“Kick it, Ian! Kick it!”
The shouting draws Sara’s attention back to the game, but not before committing the van’s license plate to memory.
She looks up just in time to see Ian leap, stopping the ball’s flight against his chest.
“That’s my boy!” She yells, again, hugging pride close to her heart, as she would have liked to hug her son, who’s recently become too old for hugs from his mom.
***
"His name's Ed Garcia. He's a damned pedophile.” Sara’s voice is low, clipped. She stabs her finger at the man's picture on the monitor, scowls at his beady eyes, balding forehead, scarred nose.
She and Matt are sitting at the desk in her home office. Ian and Jared have gone to bed. Matthew leans in, nuzzles Sara’s neck, tugging playfully on her ponytail.
“He definitely fits the profile of any one of a dozen guys I’ve arrested over the years.” Matt says, before reading the charges. “Indecent exposure. Lewd and lascivious acts with a child under fourteen years of age. Fuck. I don’t know why they don’t castrate these bastards before they let ‘em out of jail.”
“At least they have to register, so people know where they’re at.” Sara relaxes as Matt massages her shoulders. Suddenly, she stiffens again. “Look, he lives out by Will and Maggie's place."
Sara clicks on the address, zooms in on satellite view. "Yeah, see; here's where Will's brother lives, across the street. Damn! Andy and Gina are just two homes away from the guy. We should warn them there’s a frickin pedophile next door so they know to keep an eye on their grandkids when they come to visit."
***
Sara’s waiting at the bus stop Monday afternoon when the bus bringing Ian home from middle school arrives. Several kids get off the bus, but Ian isn’t among them.
"Mandy," she calls to one of the girls, "where's Ian?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Stefani, I saw him when class got out, but he wasn’t around when the busses arrived.”
Worried, Sara begins making phone calls. She calls her older son, Jared, and some of Ian’s friends, the ones that have phones, or the parents of those that don’t. No one has any knowledge of Ian’s whereabouts.
With increasing concern, she drives to the school. The last time anyone saw him he’d been heading for the bus. The school is too remote for Ian to have just walked off by himself, and Sara knows he wouldn’t have gone with anyone without first asking permission.
Frantic now, she calls Matt while driving home.
“Honey, I can’t talk right now. We're in the middle of a drug sting; my guys are about to take down the suspect.”
“Matt, Ian’s missing. He wasn’t on the bus, and no one knows where he may have gone.”
“Did you call Jared? He’s probably with his brother.”
“He’s not. Jared’s home from high school already, says he hasn’t seen Ian since morning."
“What about Jeffrey, or Daniel?”
“I’ve called them, too. If you’d let Ian have a phone, like I asked, he might have called me, or I could trace his location.”
“He doesn’t need a phone, Sara. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“But what if that pedophile got him,”
“Oh, come on! Why are you jumping to the worst conclusion? This is so unlike you.”
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling. Something’s not right.”
“Listen, I have to go. I’m sure Ian’ll call. Don’t do anything rash, Sara. Be patient.”
But patience is not in Sara's genetic makeup. Not when her son's gone missing.
Sara’s had rigorous self-defense and martial arts training, carries a concealed weapon. If this makes her a bit cocky and over confident, well, Matt’s probably the only one that knows this, and these are traits he loves about her.
Finally, she decides to call Andy. After explaining the situation to him, he reluctantly agrees to help her scope out Ed Garcia’s place, warns her about the guy’s dog.
The sun is just beginning to set as Sara pulls into Andy's driveway. She removes her Ruger subcompact .380 from the glove box; gets out of her car as Andy comes out to greet her. In his late-sixties, he’s tall and in fairly decent shape. She gives him a quick side-hug, raises a hand to Gina, standing in the doorway.
“Still no word from Ian?”
She shakes her head, doesn’t trust herself to speak past the lump that’s formed in her throat.
“Okay. Well. We can hike down to the creek bed over there.” He points to an overgrown trail that disappears down the steep hillside, where the tops of oak and pine trees are seen. "I hike down there often enough,” Andy says, “Garcia won’t think twice if he sees me. We can come up the backside of his property from there; but like I said, he’s got a dog.”
The trees cast eerie shadows as the sun descends below the horizon. They reach the little valley at the bottom of the property, continue up the steep trail, breathing heavily as they crest the hill where Garcia’s house comes into view.
The dog is an ancient German Shepherd Pitbull mix that may once have been quite vicious. It lets out a weak growl, gets to its feet and charges at them in a doddering, limping pace. Sara coolly shoots it with a fast acting tranquilizer and by the time it’s just a few feet away, it falls at their feet. If it whimpered, the sound is lost in the gusting wind that whips through the trees.
It’s almost dark. A single light shines from a window. They creep stealthily onto the porch, peer inside. What she sees causes the blood to pound in her ears. Adrenalin surges through her and she finds it difficult to breathe.
Ian’s head is covered in a dirty cloth. She can't see his face, but Sara would recognize her boy anywhere. His tall, lean frame is so dear to her. He’s obviously gagged; she can hear muffled curses, stifled screams. His hands have been duct taped together and he’s been pushed to the ground where the maggot is trying to tape his legs.
The boy’s arms and neck are bruised. He’s struggling ferociously, and from the blood seeping from the man’s nose and mouth, Ian hasn't made this easy on the bastard. Sara aches for her son, but she’s proud to see him fight.
Freeing her gun from its holster, she gives the nod to Andy. He crashes through the door while Sara sprints across the room, barreling into the pedophile. As they sprawl across the floor, Sara’s phone begins vibrating in her pocket. She supposes its Matt checking on her, but of course she can't take the time to answer. She just wants to kill this fucker for what he'd been about to do to her son.
Sara's thoughts have gone lethal and she has to restrain herself.
She raises her gun, tempted to shoot him straight though his rotten heart, cracks him over the head with a satisfying thud instead, watches him fall to the ground. Andy rushes over and between the two of them they restrain the asshole and tape him to a chair.
Sara realizes it's all been a bit too easy, but surprise had been on their side, the man too caught up in his debauchery to be aware of his surroundings. Perhaps he'd grown careless in his old age, thinking he was safe in the relative remoteness of his home.
Her phone rings again as she frees Ian from his bonds. She pulls the head covering off her son, hugs him close to her chest before the shock of recognition hits her. She holds him at arm’s length, gazing into the face of this frightened, shaking boy, pulls him back into her motherly embrace and lets the child sob into her shoulder.
"That's not my boy."
The phone rings again, and she pulls it from her pocket. Unknown caller. Not Matt then. She almost ignores the call but instinct tells her she should answer.
“Hello?”
“Mom? Dad said you’re worried about me. How come you’re not at home?"
Prompt: Lethal | Word Count: 1800 Words Exactly | Genre: Action? Suspense?
Warning: Foul language
Due June 19
The boy is beautiful. Tall for his age. Fearless in the way he charges into the skirmish, risking bruised ankles and shins while tangling for possession of the soccer ball. Confidence shines in the boy’s dark eyes and wide grin as he kicks the ball to a teammate downfield, charging after it with all the energy of an active twelve year old.
Of all the kids on the field, this one has captured his attention. The way he moves. The combination of dark hair, tanned skin, lithe athletic body. His breath comes more rapidly as he watches the boy. Saliva fills his mouth and he swallows reflexively. His body tightens deliciously, almost painfully; first time since being released from incarceration.
***
“Come on, Ian, get in there.”
“Way to play, Ian. Nice pass.”
“Block him, Mary, block him! You can do it.”
The energy on the field is contagious as onlookers call orders and encouragement to the players. Cheers of victory and groans of disappointment sound as the ball is kicked downfield, kicked again by a fellow teammate. It soars past the goalie; into the net for the score.
Three to one. Four minutes left to play.
***
Ian intercepts another pass from the opposing team, kicks the ball downfield again.
“That’s my boy!” Sara beams with pride. He’s been the star of the game. May not have scored any goals himself, but he’s been the one to set up the plays, passing the winning scores to his mates.
She scans the crowd surreptitiously to see if anyone else has noticed how well her boy is playing. “Darla, who’s that bald guy over there?” Sara nods towards a shabby looking man sitting off by himself in a lawn chair, sipping from a large cup. “He’s kinda creepy.”
“I dunno.” Darla says. “He drove up in that old van a little while ago. I thought maybe he was someone’s grandfather, but he’s just sitting there by himself. He hasn't spoken to anyone, as far as I've seen.”
The guy's dressed in a faded white tank top, sweat-stained and stretched taut across the flab of his chest and stomach; dirty sweat pants; flip flops. As a parole officer, she’s been trained to interact with hardened criminals, has learned to be observant and suspicious. Sara’s instincts move into high alert as she takes in his ruddy cheeks, the sheen on his forehead. That look of fierce longing should not be on the face of an old man watching young kids playing soccer on a spring morning.
“Get in there, Tony, get that ball away from him.”
“Kick it, Ian! Kick it!”
The shouting draws Sara’s attention back to the game, but not before committing the van’s license plate to memory.
She looks up just in time to see Ian leap, stopping the ball’s flight against his chest.
“That’s my boy!” She yells, again, hugging pride close to her heart, as she would have liked to hug her son, who’s recently become too old for hugs from his mom.
***
"His name's Ed Garcia. He's a damned pedophile.” Sara’s voice is low, clipped. She stabs her finger at the man's picture on the monitor, scowls at his beady eyes, balding forehead, scarred nose.
She and Matt are sitting at the desk in her home office. Ian and Jared have gone to bed. Matthew leans in, nuzzles Sara’s neck, tugging playfully on her ponytail.
“He definitely fits the profile of any one of a dozen guys I’ve arrested over the years.” Matt says, before reading the charges. “Indecent exposure. Lewd and lascivious acts with a child under fourteen years of age. Fuck. I don’t know why they don’t castrate these bastards before they let ‘em out of jail.”
“At least they have to register, so people know where they’re at.” Sara relaxes as Matt massages her shoulders. Suddenly, she stiffens again. “Look, he lives out by Will and Maggie's place."
Sara clicks on the address, zooms in on satellite view. "Yeah, see; here's where Will's brother lives, across the street. Damn! Andy and Gina are just two homes away from the guy. We should warn them there’s a frickin pedophile next door so they know to keep an eye on their grandkids when they come to visit."
***
Sara’s waiting at the bus stop Monday afternoon when the bus bringing Ian home from middle school arrives. Several kids get off the bus, but Ian isn’t among them.
"Mandy," she calls to one of the girls, "where's Ian?"
"I don't know, Mrs. Stefani, I saw him when class got out, but he wasn’t around when the busses arrived.”
Worried, Sara begins making phone calls. She calls her older son, Jared, and some of Ian’s friends, the ones that have phones, or the parents of those that don’t. No one has any knowledge of Ian’s whereabouts.
With increasing concern, she drives to the school. The last time anyone saw him he’d been heading for the bus. The school is too remote for Ian to have just walked off by himself, and Sara knows he wouldn’t have gone with anyone without first asking permission.
Frantic now, she calls Matt while driving home.
“Honey, I can’t talk right now. We're in the middle of a drug sting; my guys are about to take down the suspect.”
“Matt, Ian’s missing. He wasn’t on the bus, and no one knows where he may have gone.”
“Did you call Jared? He’s probably with his brother.”
“He’s not. Jared’s home from high school already, says he hasn’t seen Ian since morning."
“What about Jeffrey, or Daniel?”
“I’ve called them, too. If you’d let Ian have a phone, like I asked, he might have called me, or I could trace his location.”
“He doesn’t need a phone, Sara. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“But what if that pedophile got him,”
“Oh, come on! Why are you jumping to the worst conclusion? This is so unlike you.”
“I don’t know. I just have this feeling. Something’s not right.”
“Listen, I have to go. I’m sure Ian’ll call. Don’t do anything rash, Sara. Be patient.”
But patience is not in Sara's genetic makeup. Not when her son's gone missing.
Sara’s had rigorous self-defense and martial arts training, carries a concealed weapon. If this makes her a bit cocky and over confident, well, Matt’s probably the only one that knows this, and these are traits he loves about her.
Finally, she decides to call Andy. After explaining the situation to him, he reluctantly agrees to help her scope out Ed Garcia’s place, warns her about the guy’s dog.
The sun is just beginning to set as Sara pulls into Andy's driveway. She removes her Ruger subcompact .380 from the glove box; gets out of her car as Andy comes out to greet her. In his late-sixties, he’s tall and in fairly decent shape. She gives him a quick side-hug, raises a hand to Gina, standing in the doorway.
“Still no word from Ian?”
She shakes her head, doesn’t trust herself to speak past the lump that’s formed in her throat.
“Okay. Well. We can hike down to the creek bed over there.” He points to an overgrown trail that disappears down the steep hillside, where the tops of oak and pine trees are seen. "I hike down there often enough,” Andy says, “Garcia won’t think twice if he sees me. We can come up the backside of his property from there; but like I said, he’s got a dog.”
The trees cast eerie shadows as the sun descends below the horizon. They reach the little valley at the bottom of the property, continue up the steep trail, breathing heavily as they crest the hill where Garcia’s house comes into view.
The dog is an ancient German Shepherd Pitbull mix that may once have been quite vicious. It lets out a weak growl, gets to its feet and charges at them in a doddering, limping pace. Sara coolly shoots it with a fast acting tranquilizer and by the time it’s just a few feet away, it falls at their feet. If it whimpered, the sound is lost in the gusting wind that whips through the trees.
It’s almost dark. A single light shines from a window. They creep stealthily onto the porch, peer inside. What she sees causes the blood to pound in her ears. Adrenalin surges through her and she finds it difficult to breathe.
Ian’s head is covered in a dirty cloth. She can't see his face, but Sara would recognize her boy anywhere. His tall, lean frame is so dear to her. He’s obviously gagged; she can hear muffled curses, stifled screams. His hands have been duct taped together and he’s been pushed to the ground where the maggot is trying to tape his legs.
The boy’s arms and neck are bruised. He’s struggling ferociously, and from the blood seeping from the man’s nose and mouth, Ian hasn't made this easy on the bastard. Sara aches for her son, but she’s proud to see him fight.
Freeing her gun from its holster, she gives the nod to Andy. He crashes through the door while Sara sprints across the room, barreling into the pedophile. As they sprawl across the floor, Sara’s phone begins vibrating in her pocket. She supposes its Matt checking on her, but of course she can't take the time to answer. She just wants to kill this fucker for what he'd been about to do to her son.
Sara's thoughts have gone lethal and she has to restrain herself.
She raises her gun, tempted to shoot him straight though his rotten heart, cracks him over the head with a satisfying thud instead, watches him fall to the ground. Andy rushes over and between the two of them they restrain the asshole and tape him to a chair.
Sara realizes it's all been a bit too easy, but surprise had been on their side, the man too caught up in his debauchery to be aware of his surroundings. Perhaps he'd grown careless in his old age, thinking he was safe in the relative remoteness of his home.
Her phone rings again as she frees Ian from his bonds. She pulls the head covering off her son, hugs him close to her chest before the shock of recognition hits her. She holds him at arm’s length, gazing into the face of this frightened, shaking boy, pulls him back into her motherly embrace and lets the child sob into her shoulder.
"That's not my boy."
The phone rings again, and she pulls it from her pocket. Unknown caller. Not Matt then. She almost ignores the call but instinct tells her she should answer.
“Hello?”
“Mom? Dad said you’re worried about me. How come you’re not at home?"
Jillian
Jillian by Peggy Rockey
Prompt: Rome | Word Count: 1200 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Due Date: May 22, 2019
Crisp new Euros were burning a hole in my pocket as I passed through Campo De Fiori. I’d just sold a painting and I so wanted to celebrate. The market was lively; throngs of locals and tourists wandered among the stalls, voices raised to be heard above street musicians and the blare of nearby traffic. Exhaust from a passing bus blended with the scents of the piazza, flowers, spices, perfume, and hair spray, of the occasional unwashed body. Normally I loved the chaotic activity of the market, but today it just served to remind me that I was alone.
I really wanted to stop at one of the outdoor cafes where people sipped their orange spritzes and ate bruschetta in the hot afternoon. But Giorgio’s unpleasant frown came to mind, as I recalled the landlord’s threat to evict me if I didn’t pay the lease today.
Thanks to the Galleria Varsi, I now had enough Euros to pay the rent, with a little left over for groceries. And maybe some oil paints, if I shopped carefully. I’d been elated when the gallery agreed to show three of my paintings, but after two months, I’d just about given up hope they would sell. Now I thanked my lucky stars one had; but damn, did the stars have to cut it so close?
Reluctantly, I left the piazza and caught a bus into Trastevera. I was making a mental grocery list as I got off at my stop and turned onto Via Angelo Tittoni, where I found a young girl sitting just outside the door to my apartment building. She was rocking back and forth, knees hugged to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” She was wearing a school uniform, and couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. She looked up at me, green eyes brimming with heartbreak and sorrow.
“Oh! I know you, don’t I?” I spoke in English, intuiting the girl to be a fellow American. “Well, of course I don’t know you, but you live in the building here with your Dad, right?”
“Uh huh,” the girl replied with a hiccup. She wiped at her tears and scrambled to her feet. “I’ve just had the crappiest day ever. I lost my best friend over a stupid fight, she won’t talk to me anymore and the kids at school are always mean to me. I don’t speak good Italian, and I don’t have any friends. My Dad is depressed all the time, and I just want to go back home.”
The words came out in a rush as fresh tears started spilling again. I felt empathy kicking into high gear, wanting to make this girl feel better, but didn’t know what to say. On impulse I asked, “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”
She hesitated for a moment, studying me carefully before she shrugged, running a hand through messy, curly blond hair. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Come on. My name’s Sheri,” I held my hand out to the girl.
“I’m Jillian,” came the reply, along with a firm handshake that made me think we were going to be fast friends, even though I was twice her age.
She told me about her Mom dying of cancer last year, as we waited for the lift, and proceeded to the top floor, where we found Giorgio looming just outside my door.
“Miss Corrigan,” his deep voice always surprised me, with his short stature and all.
“It’s ok, Giorgio. I have the rent.” I pulled the wad of Euros from my pocket, counting out the amount of the lease.
“You’re fifteen days past due, Miss Corrigan, there’s a fifty Euro late fee as well.”
I added the additional cash to the stack, trying to hide my consternation. No chance for art supplies now, I thought, sending a silent plea up to my lucky stars for a quick sale of another painting.
“Next month I will not be so lenient,” Giorgio warned. “There are others who wish to lease your flat. Have your payment to me by the fifth, or you will be evicted.”
I pretended nonchalance as I assured the landlord I would pay the lease on time. I had no way to make that happen without selling another painting, unless I could find another job, now that the contract job that brought me to Rome ended last month. I turned away, unlocked the door to my flat and ushered Jillian inside.
“Wowwowww!” Jillian’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide as she scanned the flat.
I looked around, trying to see my apartment through Jillian’s eyes. It was colorful and messy. Clean laundry on the couch, waiting to be folded; breakfast dishes left on the coffee table. Mostly the place was cluttered with all the weird stuff I’d collected as subjects for my paintings, along with a smattering of art supplies, and two easels I’d strategically placed to catch light from the wide windows.
“This is the coolest apartment I’ve ever seen,” Jillian gushed. “This is like my dream house, all normal from the outside, but wonderful and crazy inside. I can’t believe you live here! Look at all these paintings. Did you do these?”
Jillian’s whole demeanor had been transformed from sadness to avid curiosity and interest.
“I did. Would you like to paint with me?”
“Oh! Could I?”
So we did. Jillian selected the biggest canvas she could find, and painted with lots of bright colors. She used like ten or twelve brushes and when we finished, about an hour later, her face had changed completely. She was beaming!
“You should give me lessons! I know my Dad would pay you for it. Please say you will?”
It would certainly help, I thought; knowing that Giorgio would not hesitate to evict me if I didn’t have the rent on time. Knowing I would probably have to leave Rome or beg my parents for money if I couldn’t find a way to make it on my own.
“Yeah, maybe. If your Dad approves, I’d be happy to. I liked having you around today.”
Jillian’s smile widened, her eyes bright with happiness. “Let’s go ask him now!”
I agreed, and as we traversed down the hallway to the lift, I couldn’t help but remember how I had found her, dejected and crying. It pleased me that I had been able to make her feel better, and at that same time, I realized that she had done the same for me. Here I’d been feeling alone and out sorts, but my art had make Jillian feel better about herself and lifted us both up out of a dark place. I thought how lucky I was to be able to live, and paint, here in Rome, and now, I had a friend to share that with.
“Dad, come meet my new friend,” Jillian called, enthusiastically, as we entered her flat. “I just know you guys are gonna love each other,” she proclaimed, prophetically, as her dad entered the room.
He was ruggedly handsome, disheveled and, I thought, utterly adorable.
Jillian grinned mischievously. “Maybe it’ll be love at first sight!”
Prompt: Rome | Word Count: 1200 Words Exactly | Genre: Fiction
Due Date: May 22, 2019
Crisp new Euros were burning a hole in my pocket as I passed through Campo De Fiori. I’d just sold a painting and I so wanted to celebrate. The market was lively; throngs of locals and tourists wandered among the stalls, voices raised to be heard above street musicians and the blare of nearby traffic. Exhaust from a passing bus blended with the scents of the piazza, flowers, spices, perfume, and hair spray, of the occasional unwashed body. Normally I loved the chaotic activity of the market, but today it just served to remind me that I was alone.
I really wanted to stop at one of the outdoor cafes where people sipped their orange spritzes and ate bruschetta in the hot afternoon. But Giorgio’s unpleasant frown came to mind, as I recalled the landlord’s threat to evict me if I didn’t pay the lease today.
Thanks to the Galleria Varsi, I now had enough Euros to pay the rent, with a little left over for groceries. And maybe some oil paints, if I shopped carefully. I’d been elated when the gallery agreed to show three of my paintings, but after two months, I’d just about given up hope they would sell. Now I thanked my lucky stars one had; but damn, did the stars have to cut it so close?
Reluctantly, I left the piazza and caught a bus into Trastevera. I was making a mental grocery list as I got off at my stop and turned onto Via Angelo Tittoni, where I found a young girl sitting just outside the door to my apartment building. She was rocking back and forth, knees hugged to her chest, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Hey, what’s wrong? Are you ok?” She was wearing a school uniform, and couldn’t be more than thirteen or fourteen. She looked up at me, green eyes brimming with heartbreak and sorrow.
“Oh! I know you, don’t I?” I spoke in English, intuiting the girl to be a fellow American. “Well, of course I don’t know you, but you live in the building here with your Dad, right?”
“Uh huh,” the girl replied with a hiccup. She wiped at her tears and scrambled to her feet. “I’ve just had the crappiest day ever. I lost my best friend over a stupid fight, she won’t talk to me anymore and the kids at school are always mean to me. I don’t speak good Italian, and I don’t have any friends. My Dad is depressed all the time, and I just want to go back home.”
The words came out in a rush as fresh tears started spilling again. I felt empathy kicking into high gear, wanting to make this girl feel better, but didn’t know what to say. On impulse I asked, “Do you want to come in for a cup of tea?”
She hesitated for a moment, studying me carefully before she shrugged, running a hand through messy, curly blond hair. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Come on. My name’s Sheri,” I held my hand out to the girl.
“I’m Jillian,” came the reply, along with a firm handshake that made me think we were going to be fast friends, even though I was twice her age.
She told me about her Mom dying of cancer last year, as we waited for the lift, and proceeded to the top floor, where we found Giorgio looming just outside my door.
“Miss Corrigan,” his deep voice always surprised me, with his short stature and all.
“It’s ok, Giorgio. I have the rent.” I pulled the wad of Euros from my pocket, counting out the amount of the lease.
“You’re fifteen days past due, Miss Corrigan, there’s a fifty Euro late fee as well.”
I added the additional cash to the stack, trying to hide my consternation. No chance for art supplies now, I thought, sending a silent plea up to my lucky stars for a quick sale of another painting.
“Next month I will not be so lenient,” Giorgio warned. “There are others who wish to lease your flat. Have your payment to me by the fifth, or you will be evicted.”
I pretended nonchalance as I assured the landlord I would pay the lease on time. I had no way to make that happen without selling another painting, unless I could find another job, now that the contract job that brought me to Rome ended last month. I turned away, unlocked the door to my flat and ushered Jillian inside.
“Wowwowww!” Jillian’s jaw dropped, her eyes wide as she scanned the flat.
I looked around, trying to see my apartment through Jillian’s eyes. It was colorful and messy. Clean laundry on the couch, waiting to be folded; breakfast dishes left on the coffee table. Mostly the place was cluttered with all the weird stuff I’d collected as subjects for my paintings, along with a smattering of art supplies, and two easels I’d strategically placed to catch light from the wide windows.
“This is the coolest apartment I’ve ever seen,” Jillian gushed. “This is like my dream house, all normal from the outside, but wonderful and crazy inside. I can’t believe you live here! Look at all these paintings. Did you do these?”
Jillian’s whole demeanor had been transformed from sadness to avid curiosity and interest.
“I did. Would you like to paint with me?”
“Oh! Could I?”
So we did. Jillian selected the biggest canvas she could find, and painted with lots of bright colors. She used like ten or twelve brushes and when we finished, about an hour later, her face had changed completely. She was beaming!
“You should give me lessons! I know my Dad would pay you for it. Please say you will?”
It would certainly help, I thought; knowing that Giorgio would not hesitate to evict me if I didn’t have the rent on time. Knowing I would probably have to leave Rome or beg my parents for money if I couldn’t find a way to make it on my own.
“Yeah, maybe. If your Dad approves, I’d be happy to. I liked having you around today.”
Jillian’s smile widened, her eyes bright with happiness. “Let’s go ask him now!”
I agreed, and as we traversed down the hallway to the lift, I couldn’t help but remember how I had found her, dejected and crying. It pleased me that I had been able to make her feel better, and at that same time, I realized that she had done the same for me. Here I’d been feeling alone and out sorts, but my art had make Jillian feel better about herself and lifted us both up out of a dark place. I thought how lucky I was to be able to live, and paint, here in Rome, and now, I had a friend to share that with.
“Dad, come meet my new friend,” Jillian called, enthusiastically, as we entered her flat. “I just know you guys are gonna love each other,” she proclaimed, prophetically, as her dad entered the room.
He was ruggedly handsome, disheveled and, I thought, utterly adorable.
Jillian grinned mischievously. “Maybe it’ll be love at first sight!”
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