Tag Archives: girl

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?”

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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.

Bus Ride – Inspiration Monday

Inspiration Monday: stronger than fate is the theme over at BeKindReWrite this week. I chose the prompt Why is she smiling?. Be sure to check out the amazing writers over there and join in once you feel inspired.

Bus Ride
Why is she smiling? What does she know that I don’t?
Why is she smiling? There is that unspoken rule that you don’t look other people in the eye when you’re on public transportation, yet whenever each fluctuation of golden orange light cast from the streetlamps overhead peaks, I see her obstinate gaze remains steadfast on me. Why is she smiling? We’re riding the last bus out to the suburbs, though I live on the opposite side of town. There are only four stops left and six people remain on board. She will get out at the last stop. So will I, so why is she smiling? Is that even a smile? Or is it a sneer? The rolling cascades of dark hair framing her face must be the envy of every woman she meets. Her eyes are dark chocolate, full of bitter sweetness. Blue jeans and a sweatshirt two sizes too large, black and emblazoned with a large white A, make it impossible to tell with any certainty what the precise symmetry of her stature is.
The bus stops. She is washed in light. She gets up and walks towards me. Why is she smiling? Her laptop bumps the side of my face as she passes. Purposeful? I don’t know. Is she forcing my hand? I don’t know. This is not her stop. I dare not turn to look at her. I take a breath. I rise from my seat and make for the open door on the side of the vehicle. In the moment I turn onto the steps, I realise she is seated to my left. I glance at her on the way out of the bus and readjust my handbag. Why is she smiling?

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.

Raindrop View: The Buddha Rocks Project

This is my final day of The Buddha Rocks Project.
I want to thank Evelyn at Filling a Hole for introducing it and inviting me to join in. It has been a marvelous challenge.
Thanks also to Eric for letting me use his fantastic and very inspirational photographs to get my mind running off on a week of tangents. I hope I did them justice.
The rules are basic. 7 days of posts inspired by 7 pictures taken by Eric.
To see his blog, head over to: Bubba’s Place.
This is day 7.

Raindrop View
We flee our home on a sea of debt.
Dad, captain at the helm of the silver Prius, frowns into the rear view mirror and informs us to Hold on.
Mom is in the front, next him. She beats her trembling lip by offering Patrick, Mary and I sodas and crisps. The younger kids think we’re going on a grand adventure, so they gleefully take the rare loot. Even though the volume controls of their voices are stuck at 9 again, for the first time ever neither Mom nor Dad yell at them to quiet down.
Being the eldest daughter, I am wiser to our circumstances. I fear for the survival of our little skiff and its inhabitants. The tides of misfortune around us will continue to rise. The swell of confusion and fear and anxiety they generate throughout the land could tip and drown us in a moment.
Yes, the rains are here to stay a while; they are here to cleanse. And the ark my parents built was revealed to be nothing more than a sideshow that the Masters of Illusion used to sell as tickets to their main event.
I watch as drops fall from the sky. I watch them smash, unharmed, onto the car’s window, where they slide gracefully into one another to form larger drops, then pools.
The Masters alone will survive largely unscathed, unless we determine to become raindrops.

To Nothing Special, With Love – Part Four

Evelyn started To Nothing Special, With Love.
I did a continuation To Nothing Special, With Love – A Continuation
Evelyn responded with To Nothing Special, With Love – Part Three
And now I continue with Part Four…

To Nothing Special, With Love – Part Four

Leslie had finally collapsed just before dawn. She was lost.
Unable to feel her legs anymore, she dropped to the scented blanket of pine needles covering the ground and stared up at the dark canopy of swishing treetops. The night had passed in an adrenalized blur of twists and turns during which she lost and found herself like a river does on its way to the ocean. At last, Leslie concluded that her meeting with the dark man earlier in the night had been a dream, a madness, and that she was finally awake to the embarrassing reality of her situation. Hungry, thirsty, yet too exhausted to care, she fell asleep.

“Wake up.”
Leslie heard his voice through the cotton wool.
“Hey, lady, wake up.”
She remembered the strange force that drew her into the woods, the shadowed man and the promise of love, a night spent abandoning herself.
Leslie opened her eyes and sat up as quickly as she could. He leant in close with a smile, “Good morning, sleeping beauty.”
Leslie bit her bottom lip with excitement. Fairy tales were not meant to be real, but there he was; tall, dark and handsome. She jumped to her feet and threw her arms around his neck. She rested her head on his broad chest then let out a squeal of delight when she heard his powerful heartbeat explode in her skull.
“Erm, sorry M’am, I didn’t mean to disturb you, but these woods are dangerous. I thought I’d wake you so you can keep moving along,” he said, gently pushing her away from himself.
“I was lost,” she said, “but now I have found. I know you don’t recognize me, but you will. I am Leslie. I am your love.”
“I’m Lewis,” he said. “Lew. Did you fall and hurt yourself?”
“No, no, you don’t understand. I met the dark man last night, who told me to search for you, my one true love. He said that I’d find you here. That you need me, but don’t know it yet. And here you are.”
“Really,” Lew said, both eyebrows raised. “The dark man, eh? Tell me, Leslie, are you from Greenwood Clinic?”
“Where? No, I’m from Silverstream. You know, the town just over… there?”
“Alright. Okay,” said Lew. “Leslie, why don’t you come back to my place in the woods so we can check out you’re not hurt or anything? Then if you’re okay, I can take you back home.”
“Lead the way,” Leslie grinned.