Need

Shelly licked at the speck of blood on her third knuckle with delicate, flicking pink tongue. She worried, not for the first time that day, if she might be losing her edge. She stretched and the tendons in her calves screamed in defiance.  The chase had been an exhilarating surprise at first but after she'd taken him down, her body registered the sure signs of her advancing age in painful stages.

At one time her body had been a machine, fierce and fluid.  Her ability to overpower her prey quickly and silently had more than made up for her lack of finesse in the mental demands of the pursuit.  She had honed her skills and soon learned that the real thrill of the chase was the seduction.  The more she mastered the mental, the softer her ground game had become. Over the years, it had gotten so easy for her.

She looked down at the crumbled body. She had seen it in his eyes, the moment when her hold had been broken and the will to live had rushed back into his limbs. It had startled her, losing the connection. He had gotten at least a hundred yards on her before she could get herself together and take off after him. It had been a messy kill.

The hunger had come upon her as it always did, slowly building.  The anticipation was like a drug, firing the senses and touching off all her nerve endings at once.  Shelly could to feel it, poised just under the soft surface of her skin, waiting to rip open the seams and crawl out into the light.  She had fought it as long as she could. She had struggled through an agonizing week, trying to be something else than what she was, trying to feel anything else but that terrible need. 

Rockabilly Roller Star Never Goes Home Again

 "Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 1030 January 4, 2017
Prompt: Dreams have no expiration date. Do you agree with this statement?

Dreams have no expiration date, except of course that dream I once had of becoming a sexy, rockbilly roller derby star...that dream has died a slow death with the unforgiving mid-40's birthdays and sometimes self-dislocating knee joint. Clearly that heady vision of greatness has been moved to the expired column. Everything else...I might still have a shot at!


"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1511: January 4, 2017
Prompt: Write about moving home.

It seems that the majority of my life has been about moving out and moving on rather than moving home. My parents went through a painful divorce, the worst of it while I was away at school. Moving home, even on the weekends and breaks, often meant coming home to one tension-steeped household or the other. It was a wholly unappealing prospect. I managed to eek out alternative living arrangements, staying with friends in the summers between semesters and finally getting a place off-campus with a boyfriend. In a sense, I feel as if I never really went home again after I started college, not in any real sense. Part of it was, I liked being on my own but mostly I enjoyed distancing myself from the photo-finish family that was imploding and deconstructing before my eyes. I welcome the opportunities to go abroad and stay at school and work through most weekends. As a result of my intentional absence, my little sister bore the brunt of my mother's grief - something I still harbor a fair amount of guilt over. I motored past all the dynamic changes in my family life and just kept moving...moving up and moving on..just never moving back.

The Polar Express and the Magic of Believing

Today was Polar Express Day at my daughter's school.  The kids all got to wear pajamas and bring a stuffed toy or doll for a school-wide viewing of the Christmas classic movie, The Polar Express.  It was a happy, festive morning with all the teachers and administrators sporting ugly Christmas sweaters, Rudolph antlers and all manner of holiday bling.  With promises of  abbreviated academics, hot chocolate and popcorn, her day is certain to be a fun one.  It feels like the perfect way to kick off her holiday break. One again I am thrilled with our choice of school and filled with gratitude for a staff and school community that provides days like this for the kids.

I'm pretty sure this will be our last year for Santa.  My daughter is a thinker and she can only hold her pragmatic reasoning at bay for so long.  I get the sense this year that she is avoiding the obvious questions, the "holes" in the story.  On more than one occasion, she has started to question one thing or another, but changed the subject herself rather than pursue the line of reasoning past a certain point. In her heart of hearts, I believe she already suspects
but is not ready to bring herself to the truth. I'm relieved she has given herself this one, last magical year to believe.

To our credit, we have taken full advantage of all the seasonal delights.  We have listened to Christmas carols every morning and afternoon on the drive to and from school. We have driven around looking at the holiday displays in our neighbors yards. We have done the Festival of Lights and the Nutcracker, eaten too many candy canes and torn open the paper doors of our advent calendars each morning.  We have watched countless Christmas specials and movies and drank eggnog dusted with cinnamon from our Christmas patterned china mugs.  It has been a wonderful season and she has enjoyed every moment.

This year I have taken extra care to also talk about the real spirit of Christmas.  I've told her about Mary and Baby Jesus.  She knows about the Star of Bethlehem and the meaning behind all those Nativity scenes where a bed of empty straw awaits a child king on Christmas eve.  While I haven't the foundation to educate her in all the church's mysteries, she understands that this is a time of celebration in Mommy's church, that something wonderful began the night the Savior was born in that humble place. In a marriage of mixed faiths, my husband and I respectfully keep the fundamentals simple for her, finding the common ground between the religions we were both raised with.  We instill in her the belief in one God and the understanding that there are many paths to him, many ways to celebrate our Faith.

My daughter also understands that Christmas is a time of family, of charity and giving. She has taken notice of those people asking for money or work, holding signs and standing in the cold as we drive past. She has taken special pride in putting her coins into the red buckets of the Salvation Army bell ringers outside the stores. I believe she knows what Charity means and why it is particularly important this time of year.

Mostly, I believe she has a good understanding of what really makes Christmas magic, and knows its much more than the man in the red suit and presents under the tree. My heart feels full and certain with the knowledge that she will let Santa go when she's ready and when she does, she will have enough magic and wonder left inside her to believe in things even more magical and special.

Stuffed Dates and the Siberian Snow Queen

In the hustle and bustle of a typical December, I have found exactly no time to write. I have watched a distressing amount of prompts pass me by as I struggle to keep my head above the volume of work on my desk. I almost welcome the lull that mid January will bring me as a true New England winter settles in. I tell myself I will get back to my submissions and deadlines then. We will see what the new year delivers...for now, I'm happy to find a little pocket of quiet before the onslaught starts today to get one or two entries out.

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1496 December 20, 2016
What's your favorite Christmas, Hannukah or Winter recipe? Does your family have a traditional recipe that is served whenever they get together?

To be honest, I'm not fully aware of how the dates came to grace our holiday table. It seems that they were always there, making their humble appearance between the rolls and cranberry sauce. It was my grandfather's thing, those stuffed dates. I remember watching him make them. I remember having him teach me to stuff them with just the right amount of peanut butter so that when you rolled them, they would get coated with just the right amount of sugar. When I was a child, I never ate them. The shriveled fruit held no appeal, not even covered in a healthy dose of sugar. He loved them though, and would pop them into his mouth, ever third or fourth one made. Then he'd place them, in a little glass dish, in the center of the table where they would stay untouched for most of the night. I never saw anyone but my grandfather eat them and maybe my grandmother, who would eat one or two mostly out of obligation I believed. For me, it was always the creation of the treat that I grew to enjoy, that connection to something that was just simply always done out of tradition.

After my grandfather passed on and my parents divorced, the holidays were very different for a long time. Then, my Uncle brought Christmas Eve back to my grandparent's house and those stuffed dates reappeared again on the Christmas table. I think it was a collaborate effort between my Uncle and I, a shared memory that connected us to man who was a complicated but central figure in both our lives. Making those dates feels like a way of honoring the father and grandfather that we both believe he wanted to be, even if he failed at times. As I watch my daughter making the dates now with her cousin, I am taken back to the days of my childhood when it was me that dutifully took the sliced dates from my grandfather to stuff with peanut butter. I watch Jaden take them now and delicately roll them in the plate of granulated sugar and proudly line them up in the glass dish. I started eating the dates at some point after my grandfather was gone. Over the years I've grown to like them. We don't make a lot, there are still only a handful of us that will eat them, but they get made without fail each year all the same.


"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
DAY 1015 December 20, 2016
Prompt: How would you like to ride in a “one-horse open sleigh” on snow and ice with the cold Siberian wind blowing at your face? Can you come up with a story, a poem, or an essay about it?

The frigid wind penetrated my fur coat like icy talons. I hunkered lower in the sleigh, drawing my heavy hood closed, restricting my vision but protecting more of my exposed face. There wasn't much to see anyway but a wide expanse of a frozen wasteland, stretching as far as the eyes could see. The Snow Queen's domain was devoid of color and definition, with the barren white ground meeting the ice blue shy, the horizon barely distinguishable. I closed my eyes briefly over my burning irises, felt a solitary tear slip free and slide down my cheek, freezing before it passed the tip of my reddened nose. I flicked in away with my gloved hand and cautioned a look at her, worried that she might have seen.

My Queen was a blindingly beautiful vision. She rode with her back rigid, her gray eyes intent on the path forged by the racing sled. Her long white hair whipped out behind her just as that of the albino stallion that dragged our sleigh in its powerful wake. Her skin was so pale, it was nearly translucent and the delicate veins in her hands looked like think lavender ribbons traveling beneath the flesh. She wore no fur over her dress, the gauzy lace hugged her curves and looked like it had materialized from the falling snow itself. The hands that gripped the reins were bare with the exception of a silver ring with a single, large sapphire stone. The jewel blazed and flashed each time she flicked the reins and called to the horse to hurry. Her lovely face betrayed no hint of urgency much as her startling beauty hid the great well of cruelty inside her.

The sleigh raced forward across the Siberian plains and the end of the world never seemed so far.

The Art of Lovingly Lying to Children

This morning I outright lied to my daughter. It wasn't a little white lie either, it was a big, fat lie. The kind of lie with legs that demands, by virtue of its incredulity, lots of followup lying. The kind of lie that can run away on you if you are not calculated and careful.

My lie was about Elves. Christmas Spy Elves to be exact. These Spy Elves, as many dishonest mothers claim to know, are an elite force of magical Elves who Santa sends out into homes all over the world. They collect important information on children's behavior in advance of the Christmas holiday. They are strictly recon in nature and their rigid code of conduct decrees that they should never, ever be seen. These Elves are looking for consistently good behavior and will often visit the same home repeatedly to confirm that their collected intelligence is accurate for each subject. They also have super speed and are stealthy quiet.

My daughter regards me carefully. She desperately wants to believe in magical Elves but she also loathes getting out of bed. I see her weighing the facts in her head, considering the probability of these Ninja-like spy elves. She burrows slightly deeper into the blankets and regards me with her sea green eyes over the comforter. This is the part where I understand the lie needs some clever embellishing. She is too bright, too perceptive to be completely taken in so easily.

"I saw one just the other day. Just really quick...running along our stone wall. I thought it was a squirrel at first but it was too fast, like a red blur." I blurt out, a bit too gleefully.

Jaden sits up now, eyes wide. I decide to go just a bit deeper...

I tell her a story about my "friend" who stayed up late one night making pies. Too tired to clean up, she went to bed leaving the counter top covered in flour. In the morning she found tiny footprints in the flour. Tiny footprints and...glitter. I think it's the glitter that seals the deal for her. Glitter apparently, is irrefutable proof of the existence of magical beings for Jaden, everything from fairies to unicorns to reindeer and magical spy elves.

Jaden leaps out of bed and begins to hit me with a barrage of excited questions. Do I know if elves can fly? What do elves eat? Are there girl elves and boy elves? I field the questions calmly and with unwavering conviction. She listens intently, all the while happily complying with my dressing her and doing her hair - things that normally spark epic battles most mornings. I've got her, hook, line and sinker as they say.

Am I proud of my deceit? Not exactly but Santa and magic elves have such a finite existence in the lives of children. Giving them life for such a brief time doesn't seem so wrong, especially...and let me be very honest here, if those things inspire her to be on her best behavior. I know that one day in the not too distant future some bratty schoolmate will convince her that these things don't exist. She will believe their words over my beautifully constructed lies and the jig will be up. I'll have to contend with my daughters realization that I've lied to her all these years, knowingly manipulated and influenced her good behavior. She'll likely demand to know what else isn't real now that the veil has been brutally pulled from her eyes. I dread this most of all - that day she loses the magical promise and possibility of childhood innocence in her life.

For now, I'm at peace with my lies.....mostly. Santa and his spy elves guarantee me at least a solid month of smooth mornings, cooperation and good behavior. More importantly, it keeps magic alive and well in my little girl and that is never a bad thing. As an adult, I look back on my own childhood and I remember believing myself and it was the believing that was the very best part of everything.

So, we will make cookies for Santa and sprinkle reindeer food over the yard with abandon. We will watch quietly for darting elves and trails of glitter and listen for sleigh bells in our beds at night. I will practice the craft of lying with love and keep the magic alive for as long as her heart allows.

Setting Scene and Keeping Positive

Even before I see that coy reminder about my blog in my inbox, I feel the restlessness that always accompanies too many consecutive days of non-writing. I feel that telltale tension in my chest and gut that signals to those creative pockets of my brain. I feel the stagnancy in every pore and it drives an almost biological need to write something, anything. In these recent weeks of so much unrest and worry, I have avoided the only thing that really keeps me centered. As a result, I find myself internalizing things or spouting off over dinner to family members who would honestly, really rather "read" how I feel than listen to my disjointed ravings. I tell myself, in the very least, at least I try to blog...even if I can't make a daily commitment, its good to have a place to go to prompts that challenge me and provide me some mental exercise.

"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 987 November 22, 2016
Prompt: Can you find a positive meaning in a negative situation or even in a word, such as revenge, mayhem, pain, etc.? Come up with your own examples, if you wish.

In these last few weeks it seems the world is mired in negative situations. I spent a great deal of time trying to find the positive meanings in things it seems, to no real avail. I have to resist the urge to disconnect from the news. It is hard not to get swept up in the mayhem in the wake of Trump's victory. It is hard to reconcile the division in this country, in my community, even in my own family. I try to take comfort in the fact that change can be positive, even as I wonder about half the country being marginalized. I try to find the faith in our new President-elect even as he and his surrogates speak of policies that I find abhorrent. I find I am failing quite often these days.


"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1468 November 22, 2016
Do your storytelling instincts take you to environmental activism, a futuristic sci-fi universe, or an adventure in the wilderness? Or perhaps, to an apartment scene in which this news seems, for the time being, to have no bearing on the characters?

My storytelling instincts usually begin with a character or a feeling rather than any specific setting unless I'm writing for a prompt that calls for one. I do enjoy setting the scene in my fictional pieces, I think that's important to try to immerse your readers in the environment. I tend to be detailed in that manner particularly when the setting is unfamiliar. For example, I wrote a story about my experiences working behind the scenes at the local aquarium. I used sounds and smells as well as visual descriptions to provide the reader with as much of a vision of the setting as possible. I enjoy reading stories where I am transported to a place. James Lee Burke is one writer who I feel does this extremely well. Take this excerpt for example from his novel, Jesus Out to Sea:

“Then the sun broke above the crest of the hills and the entire countryside looked soaked in blood, the arroyos deep in shadow, the cones of dead volcanoes stark and biscuit-colored against the sky. I could smell pinion trees, wet sage, woodsmoke, cattle in the pastures, and creek water that had melted from snow. I could smell the way the country probably was when it was only a dream in the mind of God.”
― James Lee Burke,

That is pretty amazing-sauce if you ask me...love the way his words let me "see" the place, experiencing it across multiple senses at the same time. His stories are very character driven but his descriptive powers in setting the scene, place and tone of the his novels are simply unrivaled.

The Kiss..a working draft

Isabella Ranking sat alone on a cold stone bench contemplating the ruin of her life.  Even she had to admit that it was a little over dramatic, sitting alone in the almost rain by the ragged edge of the coast.  Still, as she watched the somber gray waves and the darkening skies, it wasn’t hard to imagine that her life was over. 

Behind her back, the impressive facade of Greystone Mansion rose up into the sky.  Five Stories of old New England elegance perched high on the prettiest stretch of coastline, Greystone 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 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 was 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 yet 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. She forced 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.