Stretching the muscle this morning a bit....not sure where it goes...

Isabella Ranking sat alone on a cold stone bench contemplating the ruin of her life. She thought there was a slight chance she was being overly dramatic about things. Still, sitting alone in the almost rain by the ragged edge of the coast watching the somber gray waves, it certainly felt like her life was over.

Behind her back, the impressive façade of Graystone Mansion rose up into the colorless sky. Five Stories of old New England elegance perched high on the prettiest stretch of coastline, Graystone had made the transformation from a once-upon family residence to the administration building of an accredited state university. She had loved that building once. Today, Isabella could barely bring herself to look at it. She felt it’s presence bearing down on her shoulders and knew she would no longer find any beauty it its dark windows and sharp angles of unforgiving stone.

Isabella felt the wave of nausea hit her and turned her face into the wind to fight the sour fit in her stomach. She breathed deeply of the salt air. Her newly minted sense of super smell also picked up the cloying scent of decay from the seaweed clumps rotting between the rocks exposed at the low tide mark. She coughed, and spit. The taste of rot suddenly metallic in her mouth. Not for the first time, she found her hands folded protectively over her middle, covering a phantom bump that was not visible. How had she managed to end up here? With all her ambition and drive? She had been the first of her family tribe to go to college, the shining example to her younger siblings. Isabella imagined the look of anguish on her father’s face when she told him she was dropping out, when she told him about the baby. She felt as if she was going to vomit and the urge drove her to her feet and into motion.

She began walking the brick path that wound along the coast and through campus. Forcing herself to keep moving while she wiped at the silent tears coursing down her cheeks. Fortunately the campus was almost deserted on this eve of the trimester break and she could pass unseen among the few students who raced about making preparations to leave. She was stalling, not ready to go home and face what was coming. She had briefly considered putting it off, she could go another few months without her pregnancy becoming too obvious. Isabella had quickly abandoned that plan. Her mother would take one look at her and know everything. It had always been that way. Her mother had an uncanny ability to ferret out everything little thing her children had ever tried to keep hidden, especially her oldest daughter.

Isabella had reached the door of her little red Subaru. Heavy-hearted, she pulled it open and sank down behind the wheel. She looked out over the sound before her. White caps roiled in the choppy seas now, mirroring, it seemed, the tempest raging inside her. She took one last, long look and turned the key feeling the car shudder to life underneath her.

Flying Monkeys and Water Balloons

It's April 4th here in lovely, white New England. I'm contemplating several things this morning as I watch the snow fall and I defy my IT department by downloading Spotify. I've ignored their warnings and abandoned Pandora as it doesn't give me the ability to play God and Master over my musical selections. I'm filled with contentment as the world goes white and Bowie fills the air in my work space. This morning I am thinking of that novel I've not started...that's the one that I am convinced will catapult me to the stop of the best seller lists, subsequently causing me to go into hiding as my acquaintances discover their uncanny and unflattering similarity to my characters. It makes me smile a bit. Who am I kidding? There is no novel, despite the oodles and oodles of inspired material I could use. For now, all are safe from the poison pen of truth. I will have to be contented to read their passive aggressive posts and ponder the fantasy...
Speaking of judgmental people, I'm also delighted with the notion that Trump's campaign of idiotic misogyny appears to be loosing steam. Faith in humanity maybe restored after all...dare I hope we move to a contested election when the GOP may elect a worthy candidate, new and untainted by the garbage pail race to the white house we've all been forced to audit? More fantasy? And lastly, flying monkeys. I'm thinking how much easier life would be if I had unquestionable command of my own army of flying monkeys...

And now for the daily prompts:

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 758 April 4, 2016
Prompt: “It's the sides of the mountain that sustain life, not the top.” Robert M. Pirsig
Interpret this quote in any form or style you wish.

Sometimes I aspire to climb mountains. I want whatever spoils await me at the apex but I always abandon the climb in the end, getting lost instead in the rich mountainside villages that offer vivid colors of life in progress. It is often lonely at the top. I would rather surround myself with life in all its splendor.


"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1237: April 4, 2016
Prompt: Water Balloons. Take this prompt anywhere you want.

Torrential rains suddenly broke and yielded to July summer sunshine. Four sets of feet clambered across the porch and launched into the still wet yard, shedding socks and shoes in their wake. The leader John, his body tanned and lithe, was the first to reach hose on the far side of the house. Cranking the spigot, he began barking orders at his soldiers. Georgia, the oldest girl was dispatched to get the bucket. Riley was instructed to gather the bags of ammunition. Bella and Ryan were sent to edge of the yard to watch should any of the enemy venture out prematurely. They began working, efficiently filling, tying and stacking. They worked, a nearly silent contingent, building their reserves as the sun beat down on their bare backs. After fifteen minutes, their bucket was filled to the top. "Would it be enough?" Riley looked at John, the question burning in his round eyes. John looked back as his ragtag unit, their bodies were almost vibrating with the anticipation of battle.

"Go," he ordered Bella and Ryan. The two youngest set off running for the house, raising the alarm with loud, whooping voices.

Riley and Georgie moved into position, flanking John. They reached into the bucket, ready.

The decoys came racing back on pumping legs, trailed by a good number of the enemy, still clutching cocktails and wearing masks of concern.

John waiting, letting them draw closer, into range.

"FIRE!" He suddenly shouted, tossing the heavy bombs as far as he could into the approaching enemy. Georgie and Riley echoed the war cry, letting loose their own barrage of fire power.

The water balloons connected with the group of adults, exploding across the broad chests and surprised faces. Screams filled the yard. Bella and Ryan fell behind their lines and took up arms, pumping fists and shouting in between throws. The four of them soaked the advancing adults, reloading again and again until the balloons began to run low. Uncle Leo snatched little Bella, tossing her on his hip falling back. Too late, John realized he was going for the hose.

"Retreat!" He shouted to the remaining members of his squad. They scattered but where soon captured by the adults.

Uncle Leo commended John on his battle plan and bravery of his team before turning the hose on the captive regiment, all except Bella who had turned traitor. She clapped and squealed with delight as her older cousins were hosed off their feet.

The victors returned to their armchairs and red solo cups while the losing squad traversed the yard plucking the colorful remnants of burst water balloons from the grass. The sun quickly dried their working bodies. They had fought hard, they had fought well. The summer was long, they would fight again.

Chasing Success and Getting Lost Among the Momeraths

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"

Day 753 March 30, 2016 

Prompt: Why are we conditioned into the strawberry and cream, Mother Goose world, Alice in Wonderland fable, only to be broken on the wheel as we grow older and become aware of ourselves as individuals with a dull responsibility in life? Sylvia Plath.  What is your take on this?

The brilliance of Plath’s tormented insight has been revealed to me more and more I as age.  The way in which she viewed the world around her and her place in it, was remarkably developed and venerable for someone so young. She tragically bore the “dull responsibility” in life for as long as she could and I think of her struggle often these days. Writing, I hope, brought her some respite from those dark hours.  I know that it does that for me sometimes.  I think I agree that we, young girls in particular, are conditioned with fairytales and fables. I think they are far less a staple of growing up than they used to be.  I believe the collective conscious of today crafts warrior princesses who do the rescuing, brave girls who engineer and invent and young minds who solve problems and tote the motto, #smartisthenewcool.  I like to think mothers today raise girls who have a confidence and a vision for themselves and like me, look for the real life lessons in those old Mother Goose stories. Also, I’m not sure I see myself as an individual with a “dull responsibility in life”.  There are days of drudgery of course, but those days don’t carry the script of my existence.  Have I been broken on the wheel? Absolutely. Several times over at certain points in my life…but for each “down” there has always been a resounding “up”.  Becoming an individual is the beauty of the journey, with all its vivid pain and joy. The times when I have been broken, have allowed me to grow into something more. I love Alice and I wish sometimes the world was more “Wonderland” but one can only get lost among the mome raths for so long before having to grow up.  I know that and I make sure my daughter does too. I might not be able to spare her the wheel but I can do my best to prepare her for it.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "

DAY 1232: March 30, 2016 

Prompt: What does success mean to you?

Success is something I think a lot about. My type A personality tells me that the more power and authority I have in my career, the more successful I will be.  I am driven, at times, beyond my own real ambitions I think. If I were to consider the question of what success legitimately means to me, I think my actual opinion would be far less lofty and almighty.  I would like to have recognition for my accomplishments in a very male dominated industry.  I would like my contributions to the company to be acknowledged among my peers in that industry. I would like to be seen as someone who “knows their stuff” and who’s opinion and insight matters.  Do I need to be CEO?  Some days it is easy to get lost in that fantasy but truth be told, I don’t want to sacrifice all that I would need to in order to be a good CEO. Having the finances to make home improvements, send my daughter to piano lessons and summer science camps and to take that annual vacation…that’s a more attainable way to define my success. I think just being able to live life as full as one can, with as much contentment as possible and without the stress of surviving from paycheck to paycheck, I think that makes us successful.