He lay in a cheap hotel bed as she lay in the street, dying.
After they laid him in the morgue and her to rest, they found the truth lying in a drawer.
Thirty-three words on love gone wrong, minus love, sad, tears, wept, heart, and pain for this week’s Trifextra. Oh, and this is a true story.
The guy was young and awkward about his shaggy good looks. He was cool and funny and he loved his guitar. The guy wrote sad songs and he liked being in a band almost as much as he liked having a girlfriend.
I was young and shy and I should have gotten up on stage with him to sing his sad songs. I could have shaken a tambourine and snuck sips of beer. I might have flirted with his weirdo band mates. I should have had more fun than I did, sitting quietly on my barstool playing the good girl, wishing I was at the library studying instead.
I should have been different. I should have been less careful. I should have grabbed my camera and gone to more of his shows. I should have put on a skimpy dress and cheered louder than I did. I definitely should have demanded a quickie in the alley around back.
Once I dated a guy in a band and who played guitar. I should have told him that I loved his music more than I loved him. I should have photographed him, drawn him, painted him so that he could see himself the way I saw him: awesome. I should have let his thing be my thing because if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that there are two kinds of love. There’s the scared kind, where you say no and hold on too tight. Then there’s the true kind where you say anything is possible. Anything, even the impossible. And you let go.
I dated a guy in a band once, and you’re not going to believe this, but I told him to quit. I told him that the band was not for me. I told him to choose.
I’m telling you, he should have let me go.
Grandpa told them that pirates buried their loot by the water.
The boys spread out the old map on the front porch, beneath Grandma’s lamps. They traced its streets with their fingers, following its maze under train tracks, around erstwhile buildings, through the skeletal neighborhoods to the looming lake.
They used a twig to poke a hole in the spot.
They stuffed the map into a ratty old bag, along with a toy shovel, some of Grandma’s cookies, and a disintegrating can of Sprite.
None of the streets matched the map. No one thought to look for the boys until much, much later.
100 words for this week’s Friday Fictioneers. Go check out the rest, or better yet, write your own.
The nasturtiums outlived mom by several weeks. After the arrangements were made and the hubbub of the funeral had passed, I returned to pack her things. I found her there waiting in the empty rooms. The moving boxes made her angry and I knew I had to work quickly to dismantle her reality. She cringed while I wrapped her art pieces in newspaper and boxed them for my sister. In the kitchen I rinsed her long-empty water glass before I packed it, catching a glimpse of those flaming petals in the window box.
“They need water,†mom said from the doorway.
Weekends were so relaxing now that their youngest son had gone off to college. Saturdays still had too many chores, but Sundays were perfect.
Shawn woke up early to put on the roast for their dinner. He browned the meat and studded it with bacon, then soaked it in wine. Afterward, he fixed their breakfast: toast and jam, sliced peaches from the garden, and hot coffee. Jenny was already curled up with the style section on the bench at the sunny breakfast nook when he brought the food over. He laid her plate in front of her and then joined her on the bench, reaching for the front page. They languished over their coffee and newspaper until midmorning.
When Jenny rose and walked toward the bedroom, Shawn knew what she wanted. He abandoned the breakfast table with its scattered dishes and followed her. He moved to the closet, no longer locked now that James had left home, and removed the ropes. He laid them out on the bed and a stray thought crossed his mind.
“Hang on a moment,†Shawn said to Jenny and returned to the kitchen. He brought back a pencil and a pad of paper, which he laid on the bedside table.
Jenny waited obediently on the bed, nightie off.
“Good girl, Jenny,†Shawn murmured. He reached for the ropes and began tying Jenny’s arms together behind her back. He worked for a while, encasing her in rope, creating an elaborate pattern even more beautiful than the one he had tied the Sunday before.
“I want you to spell something for me, Jenny,†he announced to his wife gently.
“What?†she asked, smirking. They both knew that she was a terrible speller.
“Spell torment,†darling, Shawn replied, tightening the final knot.
Jenny winced a little and began to spell. “Torment. T-O-U-R-M-I-N-T,†she said.
“No, Jenny, that’s not correct,†Shawn told her firmly, and picked up the pencil. He moved to the closet and retrieved a large knife. He stood directly in front of his wife and began to sharpen the pencil with the knife. The wood shavings dropped onto the ropes where they held her legs spread apart.
When he had sharpened the pencil, he lifted the pad of paper and wrote on it. He tore out the page and used the knife to pin it to the wall directly in front of Jenny. Shawn loved that he could do that kind of thing now that the kids were away. He pondered a few minutes, and then used the last bit of rope to rig up a suspension device for the pencil. He set it hanging just an inch or so from her eye, so that if she shifted too much the pencil would surely poke her eye out.
“You need to study, darling,†Shawn told Jenny kindly. “When I get back I expect you to be able to spell torment for me,†and he pointed toward his note, which showed the word in large capital letters. He showered, dressed, and paused to admire his wife before straightening up the kitchen. Around lunchtime, he headed out to the movies. He always enjoyed his Sunday afternoon matinee.
After the movie, he stopped at the bakery for a pie for their dessert. He returned home, greeted by the delicious smells of red wine and roast emerging from the kitchen and happily spent the rest of the afternoon tormenting his lovely wife.
Later, as evening descended, Shawn laid the table for dinner and poured Jenny’s wine as she emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and dressed for dinner. “You were an excellent student today,†he praised her, kissing her lightly on the head as she sat down to dinner.
“Thanks, honey,†she laughed.
He always felt guilty about it afterward.
“Here, Chloe, let’s get you into the cart,†he said calmly as he lifted her up. Nothing strange about that, he thought as he began his shopping. One by one, he put orange juice, cereal, granola bars into his cart, stocking up. His heart pounded.
He meandered to the other side of the store, eyeing the cheap sandals and colorful towels.
“Chloe, sit down please,†he said distractedly. “Chloe, want to pick out a doll?†he said brightly. He quickened his pace, nearly rushing toward the toy section. Finally, he thought. Calm down, he thought.
He slowed down as he neared the doll aisle. He lurked, wishing that he didn’t feel like such a creep for being here. He peered down the aisle, thrilled to find it empty.
“Okay, Chloe, Daddy’s going to buy you a doll. Any doll you want, okay?†he smiled at his four-year-old daughter. He moved slowly down the aisle, as if in a trance, and straightened each doll. He neatened their clothes and caressed their hair. He used one finger to manipulate their moveable eyelids, opening each lovely eye so that every doll was looking at him.
“Daddy, I want to get out!†Chloe screamed from the cart.
“No, no, Chloe, you have to stay in the cart,†he barked, too loud. He was so close. He snatched up a box of granola bars from the cart and tore it open. “Here, have a snack.†He thrust the wrapped granola bar into her hands.
“Open it, Daddy!†she wailed.
“Yes, dear,†he mumbled. He looked desperately up and down the aisle. No one yet, he thought, relieved. He ripped open the granola bar and handed it to Chloe. He scanned the dolls, all neat, tidy, and looking at him with their loving eyes. He pulled out his phone and snapped a photo, trying to keep his hands from shaking. He smiled at the photo.
“Which one do you want, Chloe?â€
My submission, including the third definition of manipulate: to change by artful or unfair means in order to serve one’s purpose: to doctor, for this week’s Trifecta challenge.
Yeah, Nate is a real monster, just like every other two-year old in the world. They even have their own moniker, like some kind of generational coup condoning their bad behavior. I’m sure you’ve heard of it.
On the walk home from school today, he pulled me over to the row of snow-capped ice piles lining the sidewalk.
“I yant to climb on the snow mountains, Mama,†he told me, slipping off of the nearest one onto the concrete. I held his arm tightly and helped him navigate.
The five-minute walk took twenty monster minutes and I arrived home chilled and with a left arm sore from dragging the happily oblivious terrible two-year old. He was red faced and thrilled that his day included a mountain-climbing adventure.
At lunch, he yanted my pancakes, and helped himself to my food without asking.
Now, he’s looking for the dimes he calls diamonds that he hid in his cargo pants this morning. He doesn’t yant to nap, so he’s busy setting booby traps for his brother and sister who get home in three hours. He’s yammering, always yammering, invading my consciousness, making me angry.
Honestly, this kid invaded my consciousness long before he was born, even before his conception. He lurked in my imagination, demanding a life of his own. He haunted me, and against my better judgment, despite all logic, I gave him what he yanted.
Come to think of it, all of my kids are monsters.
Thanks to this guy for inspiring me to write this post. I think he knows what I mean when I say that sometimes we parents just have to give our kids what they yant.
There was a time when things were different. Not so long ago, she could not possibly have imagined the joy she would feel after locking herself back into a cell.
When she was little, her grandpa taught her magic – real magic, not potions and spells. He taught her to manipulate perceptions, to create illusion. “You have to get the sun in their eyes, kid. The rest is easy,†he told her with a sidelong glance. Grandpa’s magic was gritty and real.
As she pressed the heavy lever on the drill, making hole after hole, she remembered the day he taught her to pick a lock, out on the front porch, the sun glinting off chrome bumpers on the street and the heat gathering under the shingled roof. She started on Grandpa’s old treasure chest, where he kept his cards, trick knives, and his fake parrot. When she mastered the small keyhole, they moved on to the deadbolt on the front door. Within a few hours she could open it quick.
“You could work your way out of anything, kid,†Grandpa announced proudly.
Grandpa’s magic skills proved worthwhile in prison. She had an uncanny way of showing people what they wanted to see. Good behavior got her where she was today, here at this workshop out in the middle of nowhere. She worked through the afternoon, time seeping in a slow drip and the heavy air wrapping itself around the benches, spliced through with the electric jolts of the power tools. Her hands burned where they held the hot lever of the drill. The sun slanted low in the sky as they cleaned up their tools and wiped down their benches. Grandpa would have liked it here, she thought.
Before she headed for the dingy white bus, she slipped the sharpened sliver inside her sleeve. Aboard, she sat down near the front, staring at the sun through the window. The older woman’s hand on her wrist jolted her.
“Hi Amy,†the older woman said, as she slipped in beside her on the sticky vinyl seat.
Amy gave her a dry, knowing smile. “Hey, Jill.â€
“It’s killer hot today,†Jill said, and ran her hand up Amy’s arm to her shoulder, then her neck, stopping at her hair.
At her touch, Amy got chills. She gave Jill another dry smile and turned back to the window. They rode the rest of the short trip in silence, Jill’s hand twisting Amy’s hair, pulling it.
Back in her cell, Amy shoved the shard of wood into her mattress, hoping that she’d be able to find it later in the dark. Time slowed down again as she waited to make her move. Finally, in the night, after the guards made their last check, she ran her fingers along the seam of her mattress until she felt the familiar prick. It took only seconds for her to pick the lock of her cell, moments for her to scurry silently to Jill’s cell next door and repeat her lock trick. She wove her tool into the waistband of her pants.
Inside the cell, Jill stood, waiting. Neither of them spoke. The older woman lifted Amy’s shirt over her head and dropped it to the ground. She pushed Amy back, hard, against the wall and ran her hands over her breasts, her belly, and down. She pinned Amy’s arms to the wall and silently went to work, driving Amy over the edge again and again. Afterwards, after Amy had returned the favors, she snatched up her shirt, retrieved the sliver from her pants, and slipped back to her own cell, grinning now.
Grandpa had been wrong about magic, Amy thought. You don’t always have to get out to escape. She stashed the shard in the seam of her mattress for next time and slept.
I picked up where I left off on this post for my submission to the Speakeasy this week. All the great feedback on my snippet really got me wondering about how much trouble this girl was getting herself into.
Hear me out, I have a theory. Girls end up like their moms, right? If your mom is a neat freak, you will probably be one too. You probably still remember the little red dress that your mom slipped on for date nights. Maybe you were unlucky enough to have a crazy mom who didn’t get out of bed in the morning to see you off to school; maybe love feels like making your own PB&J in the dark kitchen on a cold morning.
No, I don’t think so. Girls reject their moms. Somewhere around twelve or thirteen, moms start to gross us out. Even if your mom is beautiful – and perfect – you start to hate her beauty. It’s confusing. Somehow the very existence of your mom feels annihilating. Maybe this goes both ways, maybe the fact of her daughter’s becoming a teenager feels annihilating to the mom as well. Maybe they both reject each other.
In their mutual rejection, mother and daughter reach out, grope for another connection, an alternate link to life. I suspect that fathers often fill this role for the girls, but for me it was my grandma. If you’ve read here awhile, then you know that my Bubbie was mean. She made me rinse with Listerine before I’d even lost all of my baby teeth. She blamed me for my older sister’s mental illnesses, and she regularly withheld her love for me. Still, she had a huge effect on me. I couldn’t help myself from loving her anyway, from seeking her approval and even trying to be like her despite her despicable ways.
My Bubbie was incredibly strong. She knew how to protect herself, which my loving, kind, honest mom never learned. She set her limits and didn’t let anyone cross them. My Bubbie showed me how you can love people who you don’t like. She demonstrated that meanness is just another form of admiration, that it is the recognition of dangerous difference.
I’m not defending my grandma, nor advocating meanness. I’m only noticing two decades into my adulthood how valuable that alliance has been for me. At 36, I am probably more like my mom than my Bubbie, but I learned from the best how to be mean. On a daily basis, I let my mean side temper my loving side. I use it to demand the most from my friends, and I use it to set my kids free from unhealthy expectations.
My Bubbie taught me how to protect myself. What about you? Did your grandma give you a secret super power?
Thanks to this guy for inspiring my title. So, Jack B, is it true for men, too? Do mean guys come from mean grandpas?Â
They worked through the afternoon, time seeping in a slow drip and the heavy air wrapping itself around the benches, spliced through with the electric jolts of the power tools. The sun slanted low in the sky as they cleaned up their tools and wiped down their benches. It would be a lovely sight, she thought, if things were different.
Before she headed for the dingy white bus, she slipped the sharpened sliver inside her sleeve. Aboard, she sat down near the front, staring at the sun through the window. The older woman’s hand on her wrist jolted her.
