Mark & Sophie

Her eyes were so crisp and bright, but he couldn’t see them. Instead he was greeted by her long brown hair that smelled of vanilla and practically brushed the top of his desk.

He wanted to touch her long locks, to run his fingers through the ends of the hair that sat just above the pencil holder. He wanted so desperately to let the hair tickle his fingers, but he wanted to see her eyes more.

And he wanted to see her mouth.

Taking a big breath full of vanilla and feeling himself harden, he placed his feet on the metal book rack under her chair and rapidly started bouncing them, shaking the chair she sat in.

Her hair bounced a bit but there was no reaction from the girl.

He picked up his pen and placed it between his fingers and started drumming the desk with the pen.

Still nothing but a couple glances from other classmates.

He needed Sophie to turn around.

He stopped playing with the pen and resumed shaking her chair with his feet again as he fixated on the hair that practically tickled his fingers. And that’s when it happened. Finally, her hair brushed his fingers as it swirled a bit before she whispered, “Please stop.”

It happened so quickly, he missed seeing her eyes—her mouth—as she faced forward just as quickly as she had whispered for him to stop.

The fidgeting ceased, but it was as if the whisper was directed at his penis because it throbbed so much that he instantly placed his feet back onto the back of her chair and bounced it with even more vigor.

“C’mon, Mark,” she said turning around to look at him. “Stop.”

He tried pretending like he was looking out the window, but he had to look at those eyes, that mouth. He smiled at her and when she grinned back, he prayed not to explode.

Mark’s feet slipped off the book rack under her seat and onto the floor where he continued to bounce them.

She turned back to face the front of the class and as she did, her long brown hair slowly danced near his fingertips.

Mark sat there looking at his hand and the brown hair that kissed it. He wanted to say something more—do something more—but wasn’t sure what, so he continued to sit there for a minute before his shoes found their way back onto the book rack under her chair and started fidgeting again.

“Mark,” she whispered as she turned to face him. Her mouth was closed and wasn’t grinning.

“Sorry, Sophie,” he said shyly, sitting up straight in his chair, flipping his long blond hair in front of his face as he looked down into his book.

Sophie turned back around more slowly this time, but Mark wasn’t able to watch. He wished they weren’t in the classroom together. He wished the other classmates weren’t around. They didn’t like Sophie. She was the new girl and nobody liked the new girl. But Mark did. And he wanted her to know that he thought of her often, and he wanted to let her know how sorry he was about confronting her with the others when she first started at the school.

But he couldn’t tell her there in the classroom.

So he sat there with his hair in front of his face, thinking of Sophie’s beautiful blue eyes; wondering if she thought about him as much as he thought of her—or at all, for that matter; wanting to rub himself into oblivion but trying to focus on the teacher’s drone in hopes of calming everything down.

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change

Things have changed even around here since the last time I blogged. That’s what life is about, really: change. Without change, you’re stagnate. And who wants to live life like that? Yet it happens all the time.

All the time.

Fear is an ugly creature that prevents many of us from changing.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of the known. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of happiness. Fear of solitude. Fear of being even more motherfucking empty.

As if that’s even possible.

When you get to that empty point… where nothing seems to be going your way and you sincerely wonder why the fuck you’re even still alive… that’s when you need change the most. But it’s probably also when you’re most afraid.

I’ve been there, man. I know.

But that won’t help you and I know that too.

You have to find something. Some.Thing. Anything. Quit thinking about the shit you can’t change. Instead think of the stuff you can change. And do it. Change. Make the change.

It’s worth it.

You’re worth it.

Truly you are.

Not on the Rag but Still Feeling It

incredible!!!
i feel ashamed that the thought of this never even crossed my mind.

Red's Wrap

Is there possibly a more inelegant phrase than ‘she’s on the rag?’

Maybe. I’ll search for it later.

My mother told me that when she was a teenager growing up in a small town during the Depression, she and her sister actually used rags that were washed and bleached and hung out on the clothesline to dry, each rag hand-fed through a wringer washer. Nothing came easy then.  If you were going to be on the rag, you better learn to wash them. Harsh business.

Being on the rag is not a situation for me anymore. One of the many benefits of getting older is being able to wear white pants anytime, not having to rummage through the drawer for a Tampax like I was looking for the last remaining cigarette on earth, the one that would save me from nicotine withdrawal and wanting to kill all my children…

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the ugly is resurfacing

In a strange, strange place right now…

I’m generally a pretty happy person these days, but then there are moments when the darkness creeps in a bit and right now that darkness is starting to take over.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

I’m sure this has nothing to do with the fact that I’ve been waiting for my period to show up for weeks now, certain that today would be the day only for it not to be. My personality becomes extremely short-tempered during this time. I feel and act quite ugly during this time.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

Faithfully I take my “happy pills” that have helped me immensely the past several years. It used to be that the darkness would manifest into a monster. Inside and out. It used to be that I had absolutely no control over the monster I would become before getting my period. Because of those happy pills, I have more control. But it’s slipping lately. I feel that control slipping away a little more each and every day.

I don’t like it.

Not one bit.

 

branded

I’m the youngest of three, the baby of the family. This isn’t something that I’m just coming to terms with now at 40-something; it’s something that’s practically been branded.

BABYbrand

When I was little, Marco (3 years older) and Melinda (7 years older) would tease me all the time. That’s all I really remember about my youth with them– the endless teasing and taunting. Marco wasn’t so bad; he just didn’t want me hanging around him and his friends which was hard for this baby to comprehend because all I ever wanted to do was “boy things.” Melinda, on the other hand, oh was she ruthless. Actually it wasn’t so much teasing that she would do either. She just had these ridiculous expectations and when not met, she could be darn right brutal doling out her punishment.

It’s probably typical sibling behavior, but it doesn’t negate the fact that I very much felt like the odd one out when it came to my siblings and family.

When my parents split when I was 9, both Marco and Melinda instantly sided with our mom, leaving me, the baby, to vacillate between Mama and Papa.

Soon, it became quite clear that I was used as a fucking pawn.

Papa would ask me about Marco and Melinda; Mama would ask me if I had the child support check. Neither of them ever asked me about me and that’s not me being a baby, that’s me being a pre-adolescent needing reassurance, love, guidance and getting anything but.

Poor me, I know.

Every single time my dad would ask about Marco or Melinda, I would feel a sting inside. A slice to my heart. I tried convincing myself that I was being dramatic and that of course Papa loved me like he did them. I tried convincing myself that the only reason he always asked about them was because he missed them and they refused to have any contact with him. But. The bottom line is that it made me feel like… well… nothing.

brand NOTHING

I honestly started wondering if maybe the only reason my dad picked me up for weekends was to get details about Marco, Melinda, and my mom. Yet I never said anything to him about how it made me feel; I never told him to stop.

I would continue gossiping and when it would be time to go home, I’d inquire about the check to give to Mama when he dropped me off. Lord knows I didn’t want her wrath bestowed upon me if I came home without some money.

Fast forward a lifetime and honestly (and sadly), things haven’t really changed.

Today my 80-year-old dad can’t go a day without complaining that he hears from nobody and that he has to go on The Facebook to find out anything. And he always, always asks if I’ve talked with my one nephew (my brother’s oldest 23 year-old son). Rarely does he ask how my own daughter is doing. Maybe it’s because he sees pictures of her on Facebook; maybe it’s because he knows I won’t ever let that ray of sunshine turn grey.

It’s a damn good thing I have faith in myself.

It’s a damn good thing I’m a great mom.

I may not be the best (attentive) wife, but my mom pants are always on.

I refuse to do unto my daughter what was done to me.

She won’t be getting belittled on the daily. She won’t be made to feel like nothing on the daily. It’s not going to happen.

She won’t be branded to feel insignificant.

 

brand X

caged

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the stars.

The news that occasionally aired on the TV told her she’d been there over two months, but no matter how hard she tried thinking about the last time she laid on the cool, prickly grass with her kids nuzzled into her on either side as they all gazed up at the night sky, she just couldn’t remember.

Oh how she missed her babies.

Ethan was 9 and sure to be quite upset that she was gone; Emily, 6, probably cried a lot for their mommy.

Maybe this is why God took them away from me and gave them to Brad? All that time I spent pissed that they were with him during the week and me on weekends… maybe God knew I’d be taken away from them. Maybe He was protecting them.

Jennifer’s arm started to ache. She had it scrunched below her for too long. She needed to stretch.

But she couldn’t.

The cage wasn’t much bigger than that for a medium sized dog. Like a bulldog. Of course a bulldog would at least have a bit more room to move around than Jennifer whose body folded and remained contorted for hours on end until she was released for cleaning or sex.

Jennifer did her best to keep believing she’d catch a break and be freed, but the days were so fucking excruciatingly long. She even begged the male captor—“Babe”— to shoot her with the rifle he hid behind the door to the mobile home.

Babe just coughed out a laugh. “How you gone make me a baby if I shoo-cha?”

That was the last time Jennifer allowed tears to stream down her face. Inside she screamed and cried all the time, but when Babe and the female abductor called “Kitten” were nearby, Jennifer did her best not to show any kind of emotion.

67elcona

 

The nutty aroma of coffee filled the air. Jennifer tried focusing on that rather than the nearby putrid scent of her own excrement as she opened her eyes to a brightness washing over her.

She was hungry.

It had been at least two days since she was given some food. Her stomach started twisting at the scent of the coffee, and when the sizzle of something frying started to scream out, Jennifer finally couldn’t hold it in any longer and begged, “Please can I have somethin’ ta eat. And some water. Please.”

Kitten’s eyes moved from the TV to the cage. “Maybe if there’s some left over.”

Babe wandered into the room with two paper plates piled high with eggs, potatoes, bacon.

“You should probably save some for her,” Babe said, handing a plate to Kitten. “She gone need her strength.”

Jennifer closed her eyes and started falling.

Miles below her were her children. They were small like ants but she knew they were there watching her fall; she could see their bright eyes, their blond hair. Their arms reached up for her and she reached down for them as she fell. Not a scream came from her, not a worry. She fell and fell and fell. Soon she’d feel their arms around her.

Soon.

 

 

(inspired by this week’s speakeasy prompts as well as this disgusting news story i read yesterday)

sick bastard

On Thursdays, when Matthew’s wife was working late at the hospital, he never missed “snuggling” in bed with their 5-year-old daughter.

And Sundays he never missed 10 o’clock mass.

Matthew prided himself a devoted man, singing his praises and thanks to Him.

 

 

 

i admit to not really comprehending how i came to this piece from the Can I eat this? prompt. i admit to being a bit disturbed by the piece. that’s flash fiction for you.