Friday Fictioneers – Doorway from Hell

Photo courtesy:  Rich Voza

Photo courtesy: Rich Voza

Doorway from Hell

Word count:  101

The set was ready.  The doors were pegged behind to make them appear freestanding.  The girls, languishing by the crew mess table, were dressed in the usual naughty maid outfits, and Mr. Hill was in his trailer getting his face made up.  And, running a hand up a staffer’s leg no doubt.

Terry flicked his cigarette in a high arc to the right and leaned in to check the camera focus.  Astonishingly, the red door opened and from it a gruesome creature emerged, with more behind reaching fiendishly forward.

Instinctively, he pressed Start and captured everyone’s (his own included) grisly end.

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The gift of the future

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Let a child be what they want to be, right?  Be free, be easygoing, be fearless, be you.  The spirit is so very important.  Until you see their future fluttering ahead of them like a long, unstable red carpet.  Attached to a rope bridge.

You want to ensure their future.  Give them opportunities.  Provide encouragement.  Want them to excel in one thing, or many things, just be good at something.  Something that can be a springboard for something else that will help propel them forward with self-esteem and self-confidence.

But what if the opposite appears to be manifesting?  What if your kid seems to be a drifter?  A dreamer?  At times, unwilling to try for fear of failure.  And at others, doing what you’ve asked of him but in such a way that it pleases him, risking taunts or becoming  an outcast?

Your fears abound that history is poised to be repeated.  You find yourself pushing back the notion from the cliff edge, glancing fearfully over your shoulder at fate, future, circumstance and know that although you have taken steps to steer them, ultimately the force will outweigh you and whatever happens, happens.

The best we can do is keep our eyes peeled in helping them find a path.  It’s not a time for anger…at them or at ourselves.  It’s a time to let them experience all they can with stuff that costs money and stuff that doesn’t.  Make sure they work hard to get good grades, support them, make them laugh (a lot), hold them (a lot), let them know that they are loved (every day, several times a day) and above all, be open to them.

My parents were of a different generation – closed off, emotionally absent, and unpromising discouragers.  (Definitely not a word but I like it, so there).  But I’m not here to whine about my childhood, all I will say is that I practice daily in breaking the cycle.

Whatever my son decides to do with his life, I hope that he will be happy, healthy and aware.  And, that he carries with him into adulthood, the ever-present traits of affability, empathy, and an even temperament.

Friday Fictioneers – Trapped

I confess that I have been watching a buttload, yes, a buttload of my favourite show lately.  Ergo, the theme.

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Photo courtesy – John Nixon

Trapped

Word count:  101

Was that him?  Her globulous flesh snaked with glee around the inside of the plastic body.  It had to be; she sensed it.  He had kept his promise; returning to save her from this cursed hell!

Daily, and for years, she had hoped with each male shopper that the time had come. She pushed herself against the right eye and became alarmed to see that he simply loitered in the doorway, indecisive.

Panic turned to terror when The Doctor withdrew.  He suffered the effects of aging and failed to hear or see the mannequin leap and fall short of the door.

 

Fighting the good fight

battle_scars_by_avengedjusty-d4o4qtv External forces create internal rife and the war rages inside between what is right and what is wanted.  It seems to go on for far too long, like most wars, with individual battles won or lost. I thought that in this particular war, the right was winning.  Hard fought, but winning nonetheless.  However, like the twist in a tale or the flick of the hand of fate, the opposition jerked around and pulled me into the foray as I was leaving the field.

And I am tired of this fight.  Truly, I want to just throw a damp towel on it to douse the flames, turn off the light, close the kitchen door and pack off to somewhere infinitely more steady and calm.  What is there left to learn?  I believed I was living with the questions just fine.  Why does it insist on reigniting?

Perhaps it’s simply another downturn along the journey.  A dusty, hillside trail strewn with initialed stones, stones with phrases, words, places, names that I kick angrily over the edge and which magically reappear further down the path.  I have felt foolish and childish, angry and scornful.  These feelings are not me, I know that; they are insidious scabs that I keep picking at instead of allowing them heal to the scars they need become.

So, a little downtime was necessary, a snapshot of time to lick the old wounds.  But the war, I find, still goes around and around.

Meditation is necessary and I absolutely have to find the time to practice.  Searching for more truths. Investigation and discovery.  Honesty with the self.

But, I am so tired.

Surrender, I have just thought.  What would happen if I simply surrendered?  Fine…..Wanting wins the battle but when the hungry beast finds that there is nothing left, that what it wanted is no longer available, what happens then?  When the truth is completely and utterly accepted, will it fade away?  And quite how I surrender is a mystery to me.  I have written of acceptance in the past, of reliving and releasing and I had thought to be successful in doing so.  This feels like the final desperate grip of a creature who has absolutely nothing else when in fact, the opposite is so very true.

We have everything and in everything, all we need.

Stop the madness.  Stop the fighting.  Allow me to pry your taut, withered fingers from the past.

Everything will be fine and then some.

Gridless

You know when your mind feels overcrowded, distracted, and preoccupied?  Constantly electrified with technology and communication?   It goes on and on and you deal, meddling in the bits and pieces that take you to so many places until you reach the summit of the feverish noise and the swell.  I broke through the top of the mountain sometime yesterday afternoon, reaching up with both hands outstretched, mouth agape and ready for fresh air, gazing at the blue sky with its lazy clouds while all around down below, the hustle and bustle seamless black moving parts of every day.

I decided to disconnect from the giant grasping hand of Facebook.  It was more of a slipping away really – no fanfare, no coy update or attention-seeking.  I simply…vanished.

I had deactivated my life from Big Blue last year but got sucked back in after only 24 hours.  So far, this time I’m doing very well indeed and patting myself on the back, enjoying the freedom, the looseness, the relinquishing of the hold.  I am free and cool – as in temperature cool – an odd sensation attached to an arms-wide grin.

I am enjoying my life in the present.  The extra internal dialog that usually runs alongside, like a friendly dog is fairly quiet.  I don’t need to tell everyone that I figured out how to drive a forklift this morning, all by my ownsome and that I really have a knack for spatial awareness and driving things.  The posse of my friends does not need to know that I had a good run today and stopped to take a great picture of the misty morning with its foggy bottom and pink hues.

I love it.  My husband would twerk an eyebrow at the very admission because I am usually a constant Facebook checker, check-in-er and updater.

I don’t know how long I’ll be disconnecting but quite likely, for some time.  From Facebook that is.  For without the mind redirected, I am resolute in cultivating other talents.

misty

 

See past the bathrobe

There is a woman who walks with her two sons to the bus stop every morning.  She wears a faded, puffy pink bathrobe and carries a mug of hot liquid.  She has the kind of walk that makes you think she’s got attitude, like she doesn’t give a shit what you think of her; she’s comfy and that’s all that matters.  The first few times, my internal eyebrow shot up and I thought she was ‘one of those women’ that blabbered to all and sundry about achievements and what she’d been up to and generally just being nosy.  I judged her, I admit it.  Because I’m the opposite.  I would never been seen outside in my bathrobe.  Perhaps if I lived in England still, I might be seen opening the front door to retrieve a pint of milk on the doorstep before sliding inside with a panoramic glance to see who might be watching.  I am not that visually comfy sort of person.  And because this woman was so different, I turned my nose up and away.

It nagged at me, my reaction to her; she kept invading my thoughts.  This morning, as I bent over to dry my hair, I brought it forward like a subject to his master and decided to consciously process my reaction to her presence in order to find the love instead of perpetuating the cycle of mental sneering.

Today, I waited with my kids and she sauntered toward the bus stop, sans hot liquid but still fully swathed in the bathrobe.  And, today we had a conversation.  It began with the flyers for the lost kitty stuck on all the lampposts then moved to the roofers who had come to fix and repair all around the community, and finally ended with her asking how my weekend was, very sincerely. We commiserated over the never ending loop of laundry, soccer practice and matches, housework and food prep.  She explained the circumstances that allow her an hour of freedom every morning after the kids get on the bus and before she has to go to work.  I bonded with the fact that I have the same hour after work but before the kids get off the bus.

She is a genuinely nice woman.  Chatty, open, warm and welcoming.  Not the sauntering, know-it-all, community gossip I had pegged her for.  Well, maybe she is, I don’t know her that well but in taking the first step to blowing up preconceptions, I am closer to being happy in myself.  And I am loving that.  So much.

However, this does not mean that I shall be walking my kids to or from the bus stop in any kind of clothing that should be worn prior to or after bedtime and shower.  Just so you know.

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Friday Fictioneers: One True Love

Photo courtesy:  Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

Photo courtesy: Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

One True Love

Word Count:  102

After my husband died, our son made the wall shelves to hang in the hallway.  My daughter in law, all fancy and dust-running polished fingertips, calls it a curio. Ralphie was Jewish, I was not; our relationship thrived nonetheless.  My son, misunderstanding, puckers at my keepsakes, memories of trips and days spent.  He’s just like his father – infantile, aggressive, and perhaps he thinks his mother is going senile with her confusing scraps on display.  Ralphie would have loved it though.

“Pet,” he’d say, “it’s lovely and I love you.”  Then he’d kiss and squeeze me hard before returning to next door.