Tag Archives: doodle

Strawberry – what my Daddy taught me

Continued from 12th and 13th December.
I am already halfway to my feet before I catch myself. This is none of my business. I sit down again. The trucker looks straight at me with icy eyes and cocks his head back; a challenge.
I hold his gaze for a moment, then look down at the menu. Its words swirl meaninglessly.
My Daddy taught me that to back down is cowardly. But my Daddy isn’t here. And he can’t remember how many times I saw, from the back seat of his car, his lights punched out in the parking lots of bars. Back then I’d started to plan how I would’ve handled those situations differently. This is one of those situations.
“Here we go,” she says sliding a cup of steaming coffee onto the table. “You having anything else?”
“A piece of that chocolate cake I saw when I came in?” I point towards the door.
Her space fills with stillness. I glance up. Her pen is aimed at a little white writing block she holds in front of her face. I can see her eyes looking over the top of the writing block. Looking right at me. I get that sense of being strangled again, of my blood heating up and running so fast through my brain that my mind feels light and dizzy.
“Sure,” she says putting the pen and paper into the opening of her apron. “Would you like some cream with that?”


The Horse

Photographer: Andrew Robson
Copyright: 2011

The horse watched him. And the horse recognized his wildness.

Strawberry – trucker trouble

Continued from yesterday…
“Good morning, Sir. Have you been helped yet?” the drawl of her smoky voice has a history of poverty.
I shake my head, unwilling to trust my own voice. It feels like someone is strangling me. I am faint. My blood is boiling in my head.
“Hang on a sec for a menu, okay?” she says, then walks toward the till.
I am weakened and thrilled by the sight of her pert ass jiggle from side to side underneath her skirt. The backs of her nude, white legs, formless as pencils and so confident in their youthful stride, captivate me.
She whisks a menu from behind the counter and starts back. I avoid her eyes by looking elsewhere, only to see the trucker lick chocolate covered fingers with salacious delight as she passes by him. I bite my lip.
“Here we go,” she says placing the menu in front of me with a graceful sweep that brings with it a waft of her deodorant tainted sweat. “Can I get you a coffee?”
“Yes.” It’s my voice. Sounds so foreign. Still, I avoid looking at her.
She walks off again. I peek.
“Hey, Honey,” the trucker grumbles, stopping her with a hand as she is just about past his booth.
She gasps. Even the kids in the background fall silent at the sound.
“How ‘bout another one just like that,” the trucker says and stabs his empty plate with a blunt, fat finger.
I am already halfway to my feet before I catch myself. This is none of my business. I sit down again. The trucker looks straight at me with icy eyes and cocks his head back; a challenge.

Strawberry – entering the diner

When I enter the diner that’s the first thing I take in. The space. How it’s filled. How it exists.
The most dramatic and immediate change from the space I’ve just left behind is the assault of cooking oil and ammonia on my nose. Do people still clean with ammonia?
Then the colors. Red leather benches. White tabletops. Pink uniforms.
A toddler three tables to the right of the entranceway pitches a spoon into the air. It forms an impressive arc before it comes to a ping and skittle on the cream tiled floor. His brother laughs. His mother scolds.
I head left. I pass an enormous trucker wolfing a chocolate and syrup waffle. An old man stares at his reflection in a mirror behind the counter as he waits for his change. The waitress, whose rings under her eyes match her charcoal hair, scratches in the till with her fingers, and the flesh of her underarms flaps gently.
I take my seat in the last booth before the bathrooms. My back is against the wall. I sense someone behind me. She exits the corridor wiping her hands on her apron.
Her skin is like snow right before sunset; her hair the sun about to set. Her lips are a strawberry, her eyes are two invigorating pools reflecting the sky on a mountaintop.
“Good morning, Sir. Have you been helped yet?” the drawl of her smoky voice has a history of poverty.

Lilly’s Way

I have needed to stretch my writing muscles a bit this week and write something completely different from my NaNo piece. So here it is – me just going for a short jog.

Look at me, she said in the voice of a thousand burnt out stars. Look at me. I am woman.
The universe was a hotel bar in a neighbourhood so seedy that if it became fertile nobody would see trees for forests. The lights were permanently set to half past sunset, while the eyes of the patrons idled in parking bays for the disabled.
You buy me a beer, handsome? she cooed in a crow’s voice.
Listen, lady, I tell her, it’s a downward spiral when you start drinking on the job.
When the Devil’s your boss, it’s a requirement, she comes back.
Nice, I say and wave the barkeep, who looks like he could be the lover of the bride of Frankenstein, over with a finger. When he moves, it looks like his body parts belong to a human, but I wonder if they are living.
Give the dame a drink, I order him, and make mine a double.
His brown-toothed smirk tells me all I need to know. He thinks he’s seen it all before. I feel like telling him he ain’t, but he looks like he could do with one last surprise in his life, so I keep my mouth shut and pull out a handful of coins and spill them onto the bar counter. Should keep him occupied a while.
Sures hope you got more than that down there, the old sweetheart says.
Sure I do, I wink back at her, then pull out my cigarettes and matches. I light up. Through the blue plumes of smoke curling in on themselves like serpents trapped in a dream, I see a man seated at a table in a darkened corner. My mouth twitches at the sight of him. He watches me closely.
The barkeep slams two drinks onto the counter with a grin before he sweeps up the change in a surprisingly dextrous movement. He turns and limps away without as much as a glance backwards. The dolly next to me nearly tumbles over the bar, she reaches for her beer with such urgency, like it’s going to grow legs and walk away. I take my drink. Golden. Iced. I clink my glass into the beer bottle.
To us, she says.
You bet, I say. I take a slug. Goddamn tequila. I pucker, holding a sharp inhalation of alcoholic fumes in my lungs. I close my eyes and feel the liquor run into my bloodstream. It is exhilarating. When I open my eyes again, I ask, What’s your name?
Lilly, she says. Like the flower.
Beautiful, I say. You come here often?
You could say so, she says.
Who’s the fool in the corner?
Never seen him before, she doesn’t even bother to look in his direction.
Looking to get laid tonight, Lilly? I ask.
With the lights on, she says.
I consider her.
And I know some knots not even you’d get out of, she continues, leaning in so that she can mumble in my ear. Her breath odour is a concoction of beer, meat and cheap lipstick.
I nod my head.
I’m always game for a challenge, I say, glancing up and staring directly into her blue eyes admiring me in the mirror hung on the wall behind the bar counter. I drag deeply on my cigarette then throw back the tequila.
Yo! I yell at the barkeep. Two more over here. And one for the gentleman in the corner over there.

Dynamite – Drabble for Friday Fictioneers

This is a drabble I wrote for Friday Fictioneers at Madison Woods.
I will be joining the madness called NaNoWrimo for November, so there will be changes in my bloggin habits for the month. I’ll post more about that on Monday. Hope you all have a super weekend.

Legend has it this is the same stick of dynamite Abel held in his hand the morning he stood before his father and declared, “With this power in my hand I will change the course of history today.” Abel’s father snorted and contorted his face, levelled his head and eyeballed the young man in front of him. Then slapped him hard enough to leave five red finger imprints as well as a palm print on the boy’s left cheek.
“Didn’t I teach you a damn thing?” the old man asked. “The greatest power in this world lies inside of you.”

Must Love Die For It To End? (Drabble)

The first time I died was the recognition of how complete your surrender was while in his arms.
What is it to dance if not a manifestation of our deepest yearning to trust and to be trusted? What of those we are unable to dance with – what do we whisper about them in our hearts when the song comes to an end? Why is it we thank them with counterfeit smiles then shoulder past them? There is no real judgement, is there? Only power struggle.
I had hated you for opening that door to my understanding. Now I thank you.