Hope or Hormones?

It had been a few months since the attack and consequent demise of her relationship when she had finally started to feel like herself again. There were times, when she sat very still, she felt his fingers around her neck and felt the air leave her body. There were other times when she missed him so much she could convince herself that she imagined the whole scene. She knew she did not miss him nor did she imagine what happened but the mind tends to play tricks when you are alone at night.

He has tried to talk to her since it happened, phone calls, texts apologizing, and flowers even but she sent the flowers back and the calls went unanswered. It was better this way. She felt broken and did not need a reminder or a repeat. How is it I always pick the worse guys, she thought to herself.

She had settled into a routine, coffee shop, work and then home again. She stopped going out with her girlfriends because she did not want to discuss what happened and she avoided her mom because her mom liked him and thought she should give him a second chance.

She had also taken to eating lunch at her desk. The noise and the gossip of the break room had been more then she could handle when she went back to work a few days after the attack and she had gotten into the habit. Months later and she still won't eat lunch anywhere but at her desk.

“Hey there!”

Startled, she turned to see those blue eyes that she has been crushing on for a year. She avoided him the last few months as well. It was his phone call that had led to the fight but more then that it was their friendship that had led her to the realization of just how unhealthy her and her ex-boyfriend had actually been together.

“Hey,” she choked a little on the word.

“You are not eating at your desk again.”

“I’m not? And where would you suggest I eat?”

“With me,” he snatched up her sandwich, put it back in the bag and gently pulled her up from her chair. They stood there for a moment, bodies touching and for the first time she felt something other than self-pity. Could that be hope or hormones?

“I know something happened with you and you needed time but I miss hanging out with you. We are going to get out of the office, have lunch and enjoy the outside until we have to come back to our dark, dank cubicles.”

“Well since I don’t have a choice, let’s go” she giggled for the first time in a while. With a little reluctance she took her hands back and followed him out into the world.   

Move forward, she thought, move forward.



According to Dante, the gates of hell are inscribed “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.” I challenged you to be inspired by such a warning, in 500 words or less.   Read more here from others who did the prompt.

I am not sure if I lived up to the prompt but the story before this was her hell and the rest of the stories are here.

Better Leave Tonight

He rolled off of her with a grunt, the sheet barely covered his naked, sweaty body. They had seen each other for two years and were no closer to walking down the aisle much less living together then they were the first time they went out. She stared at him trying to remember the last time they had even slept in the same bed.

“I’m hungry,” he grumbled, looking at her with what was once his cute, puppy dog look. That look only annoyed her more.

This would be her cue to go make something for him. This has become a burden. He has become a burden. She slid out of the bed and took the sheet with her, leaving him naked. He did not seem to notice, or care.

Wrapping the sheet tighter, she headed to her kitchen, opened the fridge and stared into the space.

She decided what she was going to do as she started pulling things from the fridge and putting them on the counter next to the stove. Reaching for the frying pan, her vision blurred a little thinking about the future but stopped herself and turned the stove on. Opening the package of bacon, she peeled off three slices and placed them in the frying pan. She watched the grease crackle in the hot pan.

Sliding the knife from its place, she started to feel a little stronger and with each slice into the juicy, red tomato, her confidence grew. She put two slices of bread in the toaster and turned the bacon over. The smell of bacon filled the kitchen and her stomach growled.

She grabbed the toast as it popped out of the toaster and slathered on the mayo. She did not bother with a plate as she layered the lettuce, tomato and bacon on top of the thick layer of mayo. He hated mayonnaise.

She grabbed a beer from the fridge and took the sandwich out on to the balcony. Her view was nothing more than the tiny courtyard and the back of some apartment buildings but there was always a nice breeze.

As she took the last bite of her BLT, he finally came out of the bed room. He looked at her, confused and irritated.

Looking at him she swallowed the last of her beer, “You still here?”




This week we showed you a picture of a delicious BLT and then asked you to write, in 400 words or less, a post inspired by it.

If it Kills Me

“You want to go where?”

She turned down her iPod as Jason Mraz crooned, "And baby that's a case of my wishful thinking..."

“Happy hour,” he replied, “with you.”

It’s about time, she thought but was trying to stay calm.

It was, technically, a company event, not a date. But, an event that she had emphatically said she would not attend when another of her co-workers had asked if she was going.

“I suppose we could hang out,” she said slowly, tilting her head to look up at him, trying to gauge his intentions.

“I think we are obligated to go.”

“Obligated? Really?”

“Yes, obligated. We need to represent those outside the cliques.”

He was starting to lose his nerve. He had been practicing for an hour on how he would ask but he had been working up the nerve for about a week to go through with it.

Her iPod sang on, "As the feeling inside keeps building and I will find a way to you if it kills me…"

“Would that not make us our own clique?” she said coyly, trying not to let her enthusiasm show, yet.

“I suppose,” he suppressed a grin and as he spoke his eyes lit up.

Have his eyes always been so damn blue?

She knew she was going to say yes. How could she not say yes when he was looking at her like that. He always looked at her like that and it was not her imagination. She felt her cheeks grow red but would not break his gaze.

“Okay”

“Really?”

Sure, she might have to explain to her boyfriend why she changed her mind. On the other hand, it is work related and she should really attend. Anti-social people never move ahead. Then again, he might not even wonder at all.

When was the last time he took notice of her comings and goings? She often wondered if he even saw her when they were together. She felt invisible with him and looked forward to the nights she slept alone.

Her iPod keep singing, “And all I really want from you is to feel me...”

To hell with my boyfriend.

“Yes, I will go to happy hour with you.”

And as they walked into the bar, all they heard was Jason Mraz… Hello, tell me you know, yeah, you figured me out.

We’ve asked you to show us in 400 words or less how your character reacts to a piece of music. Did music advance a story line or flesh out a character–or both?

Ordinary Office Romance

When you see them talking in the hallway you may think that you are watching a secret rendezvous, maybe an elicit affair, a glimpse into something special.

They do appear to have a secret but the truth is - it is only a secret to them. Their friends know the truth but others see and others gossip, but it is just gossip.  They think that they are just two ordinary people, stopping to talk to each other in an ordinary hallway, in an ordinary office. However, they are far from ordinary and maybe they are even fated to be together.

It is funny how fate whispers when it really needs to be shouting.

Our ordinary couple consciously stands a little closer then necessary when they chat.  They tend to speak softly to one another so the other must lean a little closer to hear. If you looked hard enough, you would swear you could see the spark form between them as they chat about nothing in particular.

If only they could see it.

Oh, how badly one wants to reach out and touch the other, but won't. How they plot and plan for their paths to cross and make up absurd reasons to see one another but they just don’t see that the feelings are mutual.  They only hope that they are, too scared to find out.

Those close to them see but keep their thoughts to themselves.

“It’s just gossip,” their friends say behind their backs, “What if it did not work out? Maybe they are better off as friends.”

They tend to have lunch at the same time, get coffee from the same shop and even leave the building together, but always separate. It is as if the other is waiting to make a move but keep missing that moment.

Maybe fate is not ready to show them the way.   Could it be that the moment has past?

You can see they have been alone to long. He goes from bar to bar, leaving with the pretty, young bartender knowing that he will never return to that bar again nor the bartender. She is passing time looking across the table from the man who will never marry her.

If only fate would intervene. 




This week's challenge - to try a piece using one of the writing tools you’d like to polish a bit. Some examples we talked about in our twitter chat were writing from a different point of view, engaging our characters in conflict, or improving descriptive writing.

There were no subject restrictions, but a photo was provided in case you needed a little push. 400 words.

There is Nothing Sexy About Vodka and Sauerkraut

I wonder what he would taste like, she thought trying not to stare as he walked by her desk. As if he heard her thoughts, her crush looked right at her and she blushed.

What is wrong with me? she thought as she watched him walk away. Stop, she commanded herself, but it was too late her imagination had started to wander.

What would he taste like? Honey and cinnamon comes to mind for some reason or maybe vanilla and orange.

She was thinking of ways to get close to him when her phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID and instead of saying hello she said, "Why is it we use food to describe sex?"

"So, I take it you have seen him already today?”

Was that an accusation?

"Seriously, why use food to describe sex? Virgins lose their cherries, good girls have vanilla sex and who really wants a tossed salad?"

"Are you done?"

"For now"

"Well, I hate to disturb your fantasy."

"Did you want something?

"Nope, just wondered how long it would take you to have dirty thoughts about your co-workers."

"Are you implying that I am acting like a love struck teenager?"

"No. You are acting like one; I don’t have to imply anything."

With that she hung up and the sound of giggling could be heard coming from a cubicle not far from where she sat. Mistake number one was confiding in a co-worker about lusting after another co-worker. Mistake number two was answering the phone.

I bet he tastes like vodka and sauerkraut. Sauerkraut?  I must be hungry because there is nothing sexy about vodka and sauerkraut. Well, maybe vodka.

Would it be to obvious if I asked him to lunch? Will he ever make the first move? Why does sex and food seem to go hand in hand?

He walked by again and again she blushed.

Christ, I am acting like a teenager, she reprimanded her self, Maybe I should just write him a note and pass it to him during study hall.

Four hundred words or less, fiction or creative non-fiction, linked up on Friday morning’s post, based on one of the following definitions:

flavor |ˈflāvər| ( Brit. flavour)

I Have a Secret and its Long and Luscious

I have a secret.

But, my secret is shared by most women.

I have allowed myself to be defined by my hair.

My mother laughing tells how she scotch taped pink bows to my bald head as I wince at the memory of the home perms she gave me that made me look like little orphan Annie.

First of all, I do not have red hair. Secondly, I usually ended up looking like a frizz ball. Let’s not even talk about the rollers that my hair was forced to be entwined around in effort to “set” my hair in curls that never worked.

Eventually, I let my hair grow out, mostly because it is easier to throw up and out of the way then to style it. I dyed it so often that I had forgotten what my real hair color was. I was still not comfortable but that did not mean I did not love my hair. Then I went through a bad break up and cut it off. It was not what you would call the most flattering look for me but it was not horrendous either, it grew back.

I twist it around my finger when nervous or bored, flip it when I flirt and I won't lie, I like it pulled and not just through a brush (but I love having it brushed, too). It is amazing how hair can have its own personality and reflect perfectly how I feel at times and other times have just been epic failures.

I turned 37 last month and I can finally say I have a style of my own. I blow dry it, iron it and that is it, takes ten minutes. No longer dyed, it is what it is and it is all mine.  Long and luscious.










This week we asked you to write about hair. So many of us have a love-hate relationship with it. For some of us, it’s our defining feature. Whatever it means to you – or to your characters – we want to know about it.

But we don’t want you to simply describe it. We want you to use it as a vehicle to tell us something about your character, a situation, you or your life. And you needed to keep it to 300 words.

The Rental Car

As soon as she got to her desk, she saw it.

A small, white box with a ribbon tied around it. She did not have to guess who it was from but she had no idea why it was there.

Cautiously, she picked up the box. “Too small for a bomb,” she though, giggling at her own joke.

Pulling at the ribbon she wondered what she was doing. Opening the lid, her heart did a small flip. It was a key for a rental car. A slight sigh escaped her lips, thankful it was not jewelery she would have to explain.

There was a note.

Call off tomorrow.

She figured he was letting her decide if and where they would go. She forced a cough, “Maybe, I don’t feel well.”

Leaving work, she spotted the rental car parked next to her old reliable. The company’s logo was proudly displayed on the bumper. Taking out the key, she pushed a button. Sure enough, the red convertible blinked its headlights at her.

“I guess I’m sick.”

Excitedly she drove to work the next morning. She had already called off and anticipated beating him to the car, but she did not anticipate how thrilling it would feel.

Parking her car next to the rental, she smoothly slipped behind the wheel. The smell of leather was intoxicating. “This is what impulse feels like.” She pushed the button and it started. The radio started as well, "Rumor has it, Rumor has it."

“Ugh,” she thought.

She imagined the open road, driving with him, laughing and singing with him. The radio sang, "Bless your soul, you got your head in the clouds."

She sent a text when she got to work, avoiding the looks of her co-workers who thought she was suppose to be sick.

Sorry.

This week we asked you to take us on a road trip. So much can happen within the confines of a car, from fraught confessions to detours for ice cream, so we’re looking forward to seeing where you take us.

Remember, your characters can drive as many miles as they want, but they should do it in less than 300 words.

To read others take on this prompt go here.

Attempting to Write Dialog

“It is mocking me.”

Watching the little black line blink on and off, tapping the keys lightly. The sound is oddly comforting even though no words are appearing on the blank screen.

“What?”

“The cursor; it’s mocking me.”

The light from the screen is blinding in contrast to the rest of the room but I refuse to turn on a light for fear of letting the rest of the house know the failure that the darkness was hiding.

“I really don't think that the cursor is mocking you,” the reply came laced with condescension.

“Why is it so hard to write dialog?”

“Dunno.”

Sitting, hunched over the keyboard, no one could tell if the words where meant for anyone to hear, but that did not stop them from coming.

“It should be easy. I have conversations everyday. Why can't I put it down on paper?”

“Paper?” Openly mocking me now as I sit at the computer.

Tap, tap, tap. Delete, delete, delete.

I rolled my eyes, “This should not so difficult.”

“Yep.”

“Don't do that,” I spat.

“Okay.”

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“You are just agreeing and saying things to shut me up.” Anger was rising as was my agitation.

“That's wrong?” I could hear the sneer.

“It's not helpful. I have a real issue here and you know it.”

Trying to suppress the giggles I hear, “Yep, you certainly have issues.”

“I want to write a great dialog between two people...” I stopped; it was no use to continue with conversation. “Why am I doing this to myself?”

“Because you are masochistic?”

Write a conversation. But not just any conversation…Using surroundings, body language, visual cues and blocking, in addition to the spoken words, show us who they are and what their relationship is without coming out and telling us!

All that, in 300 words or less.  Read what others wrote here.

On Those Stairs, Fiction Happened.

They had fought.

His unrealistic expectations of their relationship weighed heavy on her.

Relationship.

Not sure if that truly describes what they have, had.

She leaned against the heavy wooden door, starring at the staircase that lead to the rooms they had just occupied. Impossibly complicated and beautiful.

How did I get here? she wondered to them.

Needing to escape the world, she took a flight out of town and he followed. Not asking, just showing up.

The intrusion was welcomed. He was part of her fantasy after all but he was a distraction. Why ruin this? Why be more then we are when it was doomed?

She thought she was living a fantasy until he whispered those words. Not ready to hear them, her body went  still and cold to his touch. She had told him of her expectations. Why change the game now?

He spit words at her in his anger for wanting more. She knew his pride was hurt that she did not reciprocate his words but she was not ready. She countered right back hoping her words found their mark.

How dare he, she mused, but to be fair it was not that she did not feel the same it was that she could not. He did not fit in her real world and she was tired of having this conversation.

Sadly, she knew it was time that her fantasy ended. She could feel the anger leave her. She was not mad at him but at the impossible situation. Forgiveness was already given, she just did not know if this was the last time. Would this be how they would end?

Tap, tap, tap. Brass to brass the door knocker brought her back to reality.

Opening the door was not necessary to know who it was on the other side but she slowly pulled it open anyway. She peaked through the small crack she had made to see those eyes pleading with her to let him back in, pleading for forgiveness she had already given him.

His pride would not allow him to speak and for that, she was grateful. Those eyes, so blue, yet so cloudy at that moment. Worried she would not open the door; relived that she did. That small opening was all that was needed and he pushed the door open more, falling in to her waiting arms.

She held his face in her hands for a moment, wanting to see the clouds move and when they did, she kissed him. He clasped the back of her head, pulling her tighter to his body. His hands tangled in the long dark ringlets of her hair, his lips found hers over and over again and words were not needed to know that they were both sorry for what was said.

Her arms wrapped around him and held tight as if the floor was falling out from under them. They moved as one to the stairs, dropping clothes as they went. Off came his shirt, followed by his belt; she paused long enough to move her hands over his chest. Her robe was next and they were at the stairs. He fell backward and took her with her, they did not stop and inched up one step and then another.

Forget the real world, forget reality, forget the fantasy, she wanted him and he her.

Need rising she gave in to her wants on the stairs she...

This week, we want you to be inspired by pictures.  Write a piece – fiction or creative non-fiction – based on your reaction to either of these photos. Or both.  Word limit…600

To read other entries to this go here.  To read more creative fiction from me go here. Constructive criticism welcomed, I can take it.

Must Like Kids

This week’s assignment was to write a personal ad, looking for love.

It could be from the perspective of a character.

The word limit was 300.

Read more of what I have written for Red Writing Hood.

I've Always Wanted a Stalker

I feel you watching.

I sense you near.

My skin tingles.

My throat tightens.

Every inch of my skin is electric.

I feel like I am on fire.

I wonder if I imagine you.

I worry that I did not.

Did you come to me during the night?

Was that just a dream?

Do you stand under my window, watching?

Am I the fantasy?

By breath quickens.

Words catch in my throat.

Do I phone or are you somewhere near?

Do you watch me as I leave?

I think you do.

I hope you do.

I want you to.

Will you stop me?

I want you to.

I imagine that you do.

You pull me into your arms.

The heat from your lips on mine make my knees weak.

Your hand at the small of my back makes me sure.

Am I wrong?

Should I not admit these things out loud?

Do you watch me twist my hair round my finger?

Do you watch me stroke my neck?

Do you know what I am thinking?

Do you know what I can do?

Should I keep these thoughts to myself?

I think that you are watching me.

I don't mind.

I've always wanted a stalker.

And you will do just fine.

I am participating in Mama Kat's  -Pretty Much World Famous- Writer's Workshop - trying my hand at free writing and Red Writing Hood.