Ghost Beauty

This is my try at responding to the prompt to write flash fiction.

Ghost Beauty by Alexandra Evans

The air seemed to be filled with the pungent smell of death as Johnston Murphy dreamed of intertwining his fingers with those on the hand of his fiancé. Caroline was an enchanting girl, a ghost-like mystery of porcelain skin upon a thin, shapely frame. Her father was infamous for choosing the man each of his daughters would marry, even more infamous for doing whatever it took to stick with his choice, regardless of any feelings on the daughter’s behalf. The four sisters before her were all settled down with elegant, respectable men, though all notoriously known for being those men- the ones not unlike her father, the ones who kept the year of 1839 one Johnston would despise until his death.

Such as it was, Caroline’s father had not picked Mr. Murphy to marry his daughter, but rather Benjamin Heartling, the Virginia governor’s son. A defiant child who refused to marry for anything but true love, Caroline packed a parcel and quietly left her father’s house on a night in June, the time of mosquitoes and trickles of honey on the vast wood of Oaks. She and Johnston escaped together with plans of marrying in the next town while working so they could move further north and raise a child. Although the beehives were in view, each bumble seemed to smile upon the couple, deciding to waste their sting on someone else’s skin, for Caroline was far too beautiful.

After five weeks in lodging with a kind neighbor who opened her door to the couple, they had heard word that Caroline’s father and Heartling were embarking on a trip up North to find their porcelain beauty. Terribly afraid, the couple continued their Northern journey, clinging on to the bit of hope that they may someday be able to be married and raise a family. However, the stars didn’t seem to in their favor; even the kindness of the bumble bees could not spare them from the more powerful men. Heartling was determined to claim his prize, and Caroline’s father was even more determined to have boasting right that all five of his daughters were well off, (not to mention the contracts he had each prospective suitor sign stating that half of their fortune would be passed down to his three sons who would keep up the family oil factory after their father’s death).

This much seemed true: there was no possible way the couple could live happily, considering their hunters were traveling in carriages, much faster than traveling on foot, as Caroline and Johnston were. Accepting this, Caroline sat down and wrote her love a letter while he was asleep, to be read after her father had taken her back to the family’s estate. She and Benjamin were married five days later, and word now had it that they were expecting a child soon.

As Johnston read the tear-stained letter, shortly after he had woken up in a cold sweat from dreaming of his ex-fiancée, he realized just how lonely he had become without Caroline by his side. It was just as well that he had dreamt about touching her copse, as her last moment with him was something similar to those last moments when a husband watches his bride slip over to death. She had left him just as she had entered: a surreal beauty, ghost-like, frail and pale, pulled in the direction of the stronger wind.

Flash Fiction- Avery

This is a sort of first attempt at magical realism. Sort of.



It was a big day, the day she died. Voluminous flowers burst fitfully from their copper-knuckled buds; multicolored birds trumpeted songs just small enough to fit into the crevice of your ear, just hungry enough to eat your eardrum whole. With all of this, the flashing color, impossible music, skies frighteningly expansive, hardly anyone noticed when Rosita Winston sighed gently, tipped back in her rocking chair, and died.

I was in the room at the time, and watched as her soul came pouring from between her slightly parted lips like honey and evaporated rapidly towards the ceiling, concentrating around the lamp that clung there, full of the carcasses of insects. The gold liquid glow disappeared suddenly, taking the light from the lamp with it.

The room was full of carcasses, I the only living thing.

Aunt Frieda came in the room then, and when she saw Rosita, all soulless and still, she began to cry, letting the bowl of soup she had been carrying fall to the floor. The carpet drank in the pale broth, and burped up the celery and carrots. It probably would have lapped up Frieda’s tears thirstily, too, but instead of falling down, they fell up, following the soul of the woman who was once Rosita.

Men wide as elephants came to take her away, and she was just a little husk of a woman. It had been her soul that had been heavy; heavy and sweet. Frieda ended up carrying Rosita out in her arms, too bereft to consider one of these crushing men stealing away her dead mother. I looked around at the room: the furniture was springlike, bright and colorful, and there were pictures framed in gold hung upon the teal walls. A cactus protected one corner, a turntable another. The room closed its eyes gently, as if asking to be left alone awhile. A bee buzzed in the curtains. I shut the door.




One day, a month later when the grief had caught up with me and I was tired of crying but couldn’t yet stop, I walked almost by accident into the room where she had died. The curtains hung lankly across the windows, too stubborn to be moved by the breeze. The plants had been dipped in plastic. The pink chairs held very still, refusing to beckon as they usually did. Instead, I lowered myself into her chair, the rocking chair, and waited.

A ticking interrupted my vigil, frustrated its silence. I turned to look at the clock, which Frieda had turned back one minute to rest at exactly 4:39, the moment when Rosita had died. It remained perfectly still. The ticking stopped.

A humming sound was making the back of my head ache slightly. I turned to interrogate the record player. The needle was settled in its groove contentedly, not making a sound. The humming paused.

My eyes were drawn upwards towards the light fixture, a dark nimbus, Unidentified Soul-Zapping Object, and a humming and a ticking and a scratching all ensued, furiously scrambling at the inside of my heart. I couldn’t turn away.

A golden-striped honeybee arose from the basin of the lamp like the Lady of the Lake, ethereal furry body too round to be lifted by such translucent, tear-shaped wings.

Flash fiction, Chelsey Shannon

This isn't meant to be specific.  

Any feedback is appreciated.

Nature

There were innocent bystanders. Pure, unsullied bystanders, tainted without permission by the stain of coincidence. There were always innocent bystanders: children subjected to parental arguments, chanced witnesses of accidents and mistakes. Victims of happenstance.

But there were also guilty bystanders, those who stood by, fully aware, even involved in whatever travesty they stood by wordlessly. Perhaps they’d caused it. Perhaps it was entirely their fault.

So is the case here. She has caused it all. And it is bigger—much bigger—than the silent child standing by as his classmate is bullied, the silent woman who does not tell her best friend that her husband is unfaithful. It is worse, she knows, than anything so petty, so easily resolved. It is more vital. It is more.

Irony strikes her as a childhood fable flits through her mind:

A scorpion and a frog meet on the bank of a stream and the scorpion asks the frog to carry him across on its back. The frog asks, "How do I know you won't sting me?" The scorpion says, "Because if I do, I will die too.”

The frog is satisfied, and they set out, but in midstream, the scorpion stings the frog. The frog feels the onset of paralysis and starts to sink, knowing they both will drown, but has just enough time to gasp "Why?"

Replies the scorpion: "It’s my nature..."

She almost chokes on the pertinence as she laughs and the world burns around her. For she’s born under the eighth sign, the stinging, stunning set of stars and it is her nature. She is a guilty bystander. And she does not disown her guilt. So she can laugh as the world burns around her. And she can laugh as she goes down with it.

Scoundrels

All these Angels really want is

To lift you up and kick you out

They lie and cheat

Just to get by

They bum from the rich

And steal from the poor

All these Angels want

Is to sell your soul

To keep the profit

Never turning back

Turn Around

The freeway sign read “San Diego, 89 miles”

When the accident occurred. 

It wasn’t my accident, 

Nor was it my fault - 

But I still felt the need to apologize.

Maybe because I could feel the shock.

I wasn’t even close though -

Going the opposite way.

Or maybe part of me just wanted to be the hero?

What a day.

The freeway sign read “San  Diego, 53 miles”

When the incident occurred.

I know my car’s old,

I thought I could make it -

…no, I didn’t.

Maybe I needed a break,

I needed some time away -

Not from any thing in particular.

Or maybe part of me was hoping for this to happen?

What a day.

The freeway sign read “San Diego, 45 miles”

When it all went to hell.

I had it under control,

I thought I did - 

I had it under control?

Maybe it just was not the right time.

What was I doing -

I was going the wrong way.

Or maybe I was trying too hard?

What a day.

The freeway sign read “San Diego, 26 miles”

When I realized that I was in love with you.

What a day.

Time Travel

This isn't the workshop piece I read in class (I read a scene from my play) but I've already heard comments on that so I wanted to post a poem on here. I wrote this a few weeks ago. I'm in the process of revising (this is the first draft) so any comments/ suggestions are appreciated! The title is working; I'm not sure what the final one will be.
Oh- I also have this one posted on my blog, Words of Couture, if you'd like to check that out :)

Time Travel
By Alexandra Evans

When we turn on the senses, prisms and light,
Waves on transcendental perceptions,
Surround a blade of grass-
An overload of cornea exposure
To saturate the concept of seeing.
And it is there when the dangling strings of mind
Begin to clutch to fragments of dust
Left scattered on the memory's floor-
An ink stain left on brittle parchment
A crumb of opportunity pushed to the side.

But it is by corners that man has made his numbers
around one wall we react by solvent
A cell for those particles gone astray
Where the eye can see its prey
And is reflected upon the gentle waves
of nerves twitched underneath the lash
Blink once for understanding

Or twice for no such comprehension,
Confusion
True of such rays of light
That color knows not of
Only travels through
To send a signal:
Wake up behind that pupil
For your precious metal eyes,
Stones of stormy aftermath
Can't even capture this moment
Due to harsh winds
Predict but never follow through
So vague that the newscast
Seems blank today,
So interfered that even the weatherman
Is glazed by bolts of light that
Block the colors in the prism
A hinder, a sty ingrained in grey
Storms not recognizable by us today.

So that we never sit through casting blind, we
Are given forms and figures
Temperate colors
That are not inside the rainbow
And imagination is the only vice
We have to ever see,
We have to ever separate
Of black and you and white of me.

Chelsea White ~ Workshop Piece

"Holder 1918"

By Chelsea White

((A note to you guys: You know the word verifications you have to type into a lot of websites now before you can post? I used that as my prompt and made it my title for this poem.))

The number stands beside the hour,
listen now and and do not cower.
My words are not that to fear.
I am simply stating what you must hear.

When traveling to the land you seek,
many temptations at your feet.
You must hold fast to your determination,
for turning to those are false salvation.

If what you seek is the land of gold,
then to the gold wind you must hold.
The fear is not within the number,
the holder is that to encumber.

With words false as the absence of truth,
this being shall offer you the fountain of youth.
Do not accept his false proposal,
your life will be at his disposal.

Nineteen- seventeen lives he has stolen.
Though only with one more will his stomach become swollen
- with that of hunger forever gone,
from his belly more will spawn.

And with that final life he takes,
nineteen-eighteen will be man kind's mistakes.
So please, my dear, let him remain unseen,
and do not turn to the holder of nineteen-eighteen.

Religion, Chelsey Shannon

You were like a good book,
drawing me in with your charms,
keeping me in with honeyed words
and a sad story.

Or perhaps you were like
The Good Book,
feeding me the sweetest lies
i happily swallowed,
hopes of eternal love
in our version of heaven.

I'm saying goodbye to you here
because i cannot say it to you.
You wouldn't understand why i have to.
But i do.
I've given up on believing.
I've lost my faith in you.

I want
more substantial spiritual food,
stronger than
broken promises
—still hymns to my ears—
deeper than
i love yous and babys
handed out like communion
to anyone who comes to you on their knees
for salvation.

I deserve more than a rootless faith.
I deserve more than you,
my preacher, my priest,
my charlatan.
But i'll remember
the psalms of your words,
will never forget
the holiness, the wholeness
of being near to you.
I love you:
final prayer
on these lips.

The Businessman

The Businessman pressed the thick sheets of smooth and pale blue stationery on which he had been engraving his graduated handwriting into his leather briefcase. He could see his face reflecting pallidly back at him and considered the idea of a haircut, crisp and chaotic, the scissors cutting halos around his head. He allowed the individual planes of the Venetian blinds to descend from their divine repose. He felt godlike as his thumb fondled the light switch and he watched on as the room swam in deliberate darkness in front of his eyes, completely expected, producing the perfect, desired, effect. He closed the door with care, smiling slightly as the lock clicked shut, leaving his large mahogany desk, his luxurious blotter, the sepia tinted gold of his letter opener to hum with the motion of atoms, delicately, unseen.

His steps crushed the pile of the amber-hued carpet satisfactorily as he perambulated toward the ornate grille of the elevator, which opened seemingly of its own accord as he approached, the doorman more a creature of the dark than the light. The grille shut, a rich man’s toy accordion, and the Businessman was pulled a little less willingly towards the bottom of his building—well-proportioned as it was, it seemed only appropriate that he was positioned at the top.

He strolled across the gently illuminated lobby—everything marble and sumptuous sofas and lighting like lime, greenish nimbuses thrown against the walls, floating islands between the Black Seas of his shadow, the only part of him which drifted, disconnected, from the rest of the earth, his anchors of limbs, blood and bone. His carefully constructed feet, the web of slender tendons each supported by strips of muscle and vein. Feet had always fascinated him, the fluted way they slipped from heel to instep to pragmatically ordered toes—their practicality paired with pleasant panache.

The Businessman steered his feet in the coffins of their shoes over the resplendent threshold of the restaurant that glimmered on the first floor of the building—they moved forward in well-measured increments until the net of nerves in his extremities caught up with the realization of his retinas. She stood behind the polished podium, dark hair shining around her oval face, her eyes like tumbled jewels still shining with movement as they roved thoughtfully, lazily over the room. She caught sight of him, stranded in his movement across the floor, and smiled—surely this must mean something—her lips revealing stripes of white that seemed to burn against his eyes: a camera flash, a fork of lightning.

Was she saying something? Was her unseen but already beautiful tongue touching letters meant to reach him? He shook water out of his ears.

“How many, sir?” She murmured, her breath somehow reaching him across the room like the draft from a wing fluttered. He gasped a solitary response, his loneliness as sharp as if the letter opener left gleaming on his desk was slicing through the top of his head. Was he just getting a headache? Or had he never noticed before that he had no one? The grey graves of his mother, his father, his sisters, grandmother, grandfather, ancestors galore making perfect, even pairs for him to adorn with flowers that weren’t as perfect anymore—nothing was perfect but

Her hand as she poured a slip of red wine into his blown glass like the bubble of his eyes as he felt his pupils enlarge by her nearness, an incredible red brown pale magnet, shining and shocking the domes of his eyes. Had he asked for this? No matter. He wanted it, he wanted anything she had to give, even this poor reflection of shine that he was already cataloging against the blood of her lips, the glass, too, somehow substandard now that he’d been exposed to the translucence of her skin. He could see her veins. They tracked like moving roads down her arms, concentrated in a snarl in her chest, flooded downwards to the flowers of her knees, the contraction of her ankles, the unimaginable fans of her feet.

“Will you be having anything else tonight, sir? I would be happy to bring you a menu,” she whispered and the sheer delicacy of her voice already put the untasted wine to shame. He couldn’t manage his esophagus, the ribbed inside of his throat. He merely closed his eyes. (Say something. Tell her what you want. Tell her you want the world, in her hands. Tell her the world is her hands. No, no, no tell her. Tell her the world is under her feet. Tell her you are under her feet.) And so he muttered something he’d never heard before and had still never heard because his vowels became consonants and the inside-out envelope of his voice reached the wrong addressee. But she understood, didn’t she? Of course she understood. She didn’t smile because he wasn’t trying to be funny. She just lowered the fermatas of her eyebrows, her eyes singing arias as she turned like the earth, she was the earth, she was gravity, she was water and the hot sun over the desert she was everything he’d ever thought before compounded into one being with her feet aching. All he wanted to do was call her back as he rose through the same air that had clung to her and take her back against his arm, drape her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweep her through the restaurant and into the wild world which he would shield her from, his suit impeccable and impenetrable, pinstripes of chain. (This is all you want? Then you must have it. If the snow starts to fall, it is your birthday and if the smoke from his cigarettes curls into the air you have blown out the candles and your wish is your power, your wish is her feet between your hands).

As she takes another step and her ankles hold her barely because she’s been turning all day long, she’s been gravity all day long, how weary the world must be!, the smoke from the Banker’s cigar is caught in the draft, the empty space, created by her absence. Snow materializes outside. He’s given himself reasons and he doesn’t accept excuses so he stands and he calls her back as he rises through the same air that had clung to her and he takes her back against his arm, drapes her knees over the fold in his elbow, sweeps her through the restaurant and into the wild world.

Somehow she is unsurprised, and only asks “Why?” so he touches her spiked feet and mentions that they are sore. She tells him she dances all night long and he can understand as he soars down the street like an angel with a broken child in his arms. He turns corners like they are the flaps of letters, he cuts them open and doesn’t stop. The snow melts moments before it touches her skin though it settles in his hair. She is warm but not soft in his arms, her body made for precise results, she dances ten hours a day for the ballet but she is nothing, she says, she is nothing. (She is madness and glory. You are nothing). And her feet are already worn when she is born from the dark backstages of randomized theaters into the shock of the sunlit, snowy world, hurrying like a peacock among pigeons to the dance of table for two, table for two, table for two?

(Speak to her: let me rip off your shoes). Let me take off your shoes his hands mutter as soon as they let the snow disappear into the world sealed by the inch of wooden door and he barely knows her name is Magdalene, he only knows that his fingers aren’t trembling because this must be perfect as she reclines in plum velvet and he lifts her skirt in thirds of inches to reveal just the spires of her ankles. He traces them. He considers the reflection of his fingers in the black shine. He slips off shields. This must be rebirth.

Or maybe he has just dug up a grave. The span of skin is scabbed. The toes twist under like they are insects afraid of light. Scars tattoo the places where her nails should be, torn down, worn down, white eyes blind. (You wish you were blind.) These feet should be white like porcelain. They are red like a baby crying. They bulge in the wrong places. They are patterned like the bottoms of fountains swimming with algae on the surface, sun shining through unevenly, dying stretches beet, stretches almost blue.

“I’m a ballerina!” she snaps, her voice suddenly loud because the snow has stopped and her feet have already been stepped on by dirty shoes, unpleasant, rusty imprints. The Businessman closes his eyes. (You consider everything you could say. You couldn’t love her. But maybe you could say something). He opens his eyes. He closes his eyes again because her toes are near his nose. They might bleed. He might cry.

“Here are your shoes.”

Along the way

Autumn Marie Foster

I've been looking; searching for new ways to complete myself. I've been restraining every bone in my body from everyone and everything and this has done no 'good' for me. I am a beat within every measure and still, most of the world wishes for me to be the common one sided, blunt, one beat note, the everyday working man, woman, and teenager that everyone is brought up to be. If you look me in the eyes, you will get lost forever. If you take the time to hear; not the "last minute, belly aching, I don't really care" hear... I mean actually listen. You will learn a thing or two about me. Maybe it's me too, that needs to listen. I see the world but do I really feel it? I won't walk away from you, and to me, I am a fault, at fault. Perfections are just a waste of time anyways. Know how many times I have been defeated, given up on, left. I am no fool and I will determine myself to you soon. The fire has yet to burn out. After all, freedom is the chance to spread your wings and not change for anyone.

Banana Popsicle

2 feet hang over the side of a porch swing, one tiny, one big, both with metallic purple toe nail polish
2 giggles break through the muggy hotness of summer,one loud and deep, the other soft and high
1 banana popsicle is taken out of the wrapper
1 smile breaks out
2 pleading eyes look at the 2 brown hands holding the cold treat
1 mouth opens, "Y'know I don;t share my banana popsicles with just anybody, and this is the last one."
1 lip pokes out pleading; a cold trickle of juice runs down the popsicle
1 mouth opens, "Oh please? Just this once?"
1 brain begins to think
2 hands break the 1 popsicle into 2
1 hand greedily accepts it's half
2 sisters happily lick away on thier sweet banana popsicle watching 1 sun set
1 little sister leans on her big sister
1 big sister embraces her in a hug
2 sticky sticks are discarded
1 bond is made stronger

Paris Talk

Autumn Marie Foster

A woman by the name of Daniella sits at a table, sipping her hot Oolong tea with a few of her close friends, Sophia, Allie, and Bree.
"So have you called the mystery man yet? Sophia gasped with excitement. Daniella blushed with vibrant, unwilling nervousness.
"Well," she exclaimed. "He hasn't called me yet He doesn't know yet..."
"Know what?" Allie sneered viciously.
"What, do you not tell me things anymore?" Bree started to cry out.
"How could you tell Sophia all this, but never tell us? Are we less important?"
"Let me explain," Daniella stumbled upon her words.
"Allie heard me talking on the phone."
They all turned to Sophia.
"Well, Sophia, tell us what you've heard."

Sophia blushed, almost in aggravation and unruly embarrassment.
"I do not wish to be in the middle of this. Let's
just end it. If Daniella wants to tell you two about it then she will. I will not be help accountable for something I overheard."

Allie scaled.
"So you agree that you overheard?"

"Now, girls let's forget about Sophia being involved in my little secret. I didn't know if you two would ever understand I was nervous to tell you."

"Let's hear it, if you please." Bree craved.

"I fell in love with an American young man. His eyes, green, hair raven black; a beautiful soul he was. The last I remember of him was that he was standing on my balcony, french doors open, starry sky out as we sipped Jean's french brewed coffee."

"Sounds ravishing, my dear. What's the kind sir's name?" Bree jolted.

"His name is Isaiah. Beautiful, green eyes I call him." Daniella sighed.


Allie began to get frustrated, She could never be happy for her friends. He friends would even call her 'argumentative Allie' when she got moody.

"Does this 'champion' of a man have a last name or is he just a mystery to you?"

"Well, no, I do not know. He was always so sweet and gentle though. He bought me flowers for my elanniversaire." She blushed a bit while grasping her beaded necklace her grandmother bought her when she turned eighteen.

"Let's be specific, now. What kind of flowers? That should tell us how serious the man is!" Bree was filled with excitement.

"Well, red roses." The girls screamed in excitement and joy, lots of big smiles were obvious on the young women's faces.

"Good gracious!" Allie and Bree smirked in harmony.

"Well, where is this man?" Sophia wondered once more.

"Has he called?" Allie demanded.

The girls bombarded Danielle with extensive questions.

"He left for London where the rest of his family had moved to. He hasn't called. I am a bit worried."

Sophia was quiet through out the whole time until the conversation struck her.

"I think you should tell them Daniella."

"Tell us what??" Bree was anxious.

"I didn't know if I should. I didn't know if you'd abandon me because...just...I don't know! I'll just say it. I am pregnant,"

"That's great hunny." Bree explained.

"yeah, I know but, he doesn't know it either." All the girls sighed and shook their heads. They couldn't believe what they just heard.

"How are you gonna tell your husband, Josiah?" Allie complained.
"He left me already. He found a pregnancy test in the bathroom trash bin and knew it wasn't gonna be his child because we hadn't been trying. I tried to call Isaiah, but some girl answered the phone. He said he had a daughter and a house cleaning lady, but I don't know anymore girls!"

Bree smirked in pure sarcasm. Why don't you email him. It's so much easier and you don't have to be put on the spot."

Allie laughed. "Just forget about the low-life. Do you really believe that he's got a daughter that sounds 20 and a housemaid? Forget him."
Sophia just started crying.

"What's the matter?" Daniella worried.

"Because he's your lost love and you hold the only thing you can of him; his child, his baby, your baby. You were meant to be! I bet he's trying to reach you."
Sophia chanted on. She was known to watch several hundreds of love stories and "chick flicks" more than the average, or average being all together.


"I highly doubt that Soph. I think he just might be ignoring me. Maybe he never wanted to see me again."

Suddenly, a tall dark shadow appeared at the coffee shop door way. It was a male figure and his hair was gelled spiked and sported a suit with an urban touch. Daniella saw the man walk to her and gaze at her as if she just appeared from heaven, ab angel.

"Daniella, I've gotten your messages,"

"Let's step outside if you please." She became so serious.
The girls gallantly thundered past everyone sitting down and followed Daniella and the mysterious man, looking just outside the door. The girls heard arguing.

"Can you explain to me where you've been the past two months? I've been trying to reach you. Why haven't you called? I've been needing to talking."
Daniella stuffed her hand in her pocket to pull out a balled up wad of tissue from her front pants pocket.

"My darling, why are you crying? I was...I mean I am...I'm scared of...I'm scared of being abandoned. I'm scared of being forgotten, I'm scared of being in love."

"Yeah?" She pryed out of her mouth.

"I'm scared of being alone while I'm pregnant."

His mouth dropped, moved by what she had just said.
"Pregnant? You're pregnant?"

Yes is all she could say at the time without bursting out with tears.
Daniella gave a quick glance over her shoulder to see where her friend were; somewhat hoping they would steal her from him. The didn't. Instead, he took her in his arms and kissed her forehead, concerned about her every emotion.

"I'm never letting you out of my site," Isaiah admitted. "I'll never leave you."

Walking back in the cafe, Daniella's friends, Allie, Bree and Sophia all glanced at the man in front of them.
The couple stood hand-in-hand taking quick glances at each other. You could tell Daniella was 'showing' a bit and Isaiah noticed; even though she wore a more flowy shirt. Isaiah bent down on his knees to kiss her 'baby bump'. They both sat down. Daniella introduced her American love she found once again.

ABCD Prompt: The Twenty-Year Secret

The Twenty-Year Secret
By Alexandra Evans

Isabelle always gets herself into trouble and now I have to be in the middle of it all. Why are girls so stupid sometimes? Don’t get me wrong; I don’t hate females. I am one of them, after all. But I’d rather have a night out on the town with my boys, not sit at a Bistro all afternoon comforting a broken-hearted girlfriend whose American lover left her pregnant in Paris. It had been two weeks since she left him and she had gotten no call, no text, nothing. Kind of the modern French version of Madame Butterfly, you know? Anyway, this was twenty years ago, a time when we were young, around twenty two years old. Isabelle was sobbing about this baby that (surprise!) Wasn’t her husband’s. He was away on business at the time, which set the scene for that American man to have his perfect little rendezvous. Janice was just lonely, is all.

So we had the husband, Jacque, away on business. His wife, Isabel, stayed home and got herself pregnant by an American. This was the dilemma she posed us with twenty years ago. Our other friends told her to contact the secret lover, but that would have been the most ridiculous choice in the world. I mean, Isabelle was drunk 75% of the time she spent with him. It was just a mistake. So I told her to forget about him. Her husband had been wanting a baby, anyway. Why not just pretend the little Parisian American was half of Jacque? So that’s what she did. The happy family lived without knowing the truth until now. And all of the sudden I get a phone call from Isabel claiming it’s my fault. Good lord, what a mess.

This whole predicament seemed to come back into my life right when I answered the phone just a few minutes ago. Isabel was sobbing in-between exasperated breaths as she told me that her husband had just found out that his son wasn’t biologically his. It really was a heap of irony but Isabel found it absolutely devastating. Jacque is even threatening to leave her now because of this! In fact, they’re probably arguing about it right now. It was extremely difficult to hear her over her sobs but the story seemed to unfold somewhat like this:

Clyde, Isabel’s son, had just finished his sophomore year of college and was interested in applying for an internship with a company in France. His study at the lycee is marketing. Evian Water’s commercials appear in this US in English as well as here in French, of course. Clyde’s an amazing linguist and applied for an apprentice marketing manager that keeps in contact with American media in order to promote and sell the water in the States. After a series of interviews and waiting period of a few weeks, he was told that he got the position. This was during the family’s golden time, about a month ago. Jacque and Isabel were the perfect couple. Many people around here were jealous of how well they seemed to get along, manage their household, and take care of a son, who turned out to be quite exquisite. Jacque and Clyde went through their entire life thinking they were father and son while Isabel hid the secret, finding it rather easy to do so considering how well her family had turned out.

Such secrets are often revealed at some point, and this one was revealed through a partner of Evian that Clyde had to correspond with. His boss had asked him to get in touch with some American magazines and ask about pricing for ads in their upcoming issues. He called Elle, Good Housekeeping, Vogue, Seventeen, and Cosmo Girl. Then, he got to Women’s Health, the head of marketing of which was a man by the name of James Hubert Maxton III. They struck a deal, and Clyde’s boss was so impressed by his work that he allowed him to fly to America to oversee the photo shoot that was to take place in New York City at Hubert Maxton’s request.

Much to Clyde’s disappointment, he actually ended up being a nanny for Hubert Maxton’s children during the duration of his stay. On the plus side, he was given free shelter, food, and nightly talks with Maxton himself during which Clyde acted as a type of therapist for the poor man. His family was in shambles; his wife was having an affair with the cook’s brother and his children were all failing in school and proclaiming to drop out when they turned sixteen and get tattoos of their favorite movie stars on their necks. It was a rather sad situation, but the worse of news didn’t come until Hubert Maxton started to go deep into his past, telling Clyde that he still felt guilty for never contacting his French lover back in 1988. He wanted to come back and visit or at least call but felt guilty because he didn’t want his girlfriend (now his wife) to find out.

“Why don’t you try to contact her now?” Clyde asked.

“Oh, God no, my boy. I could never go through with it.”

“Well, why not? I’m sure she would love to hear from you again.”

“I just don’t think I can do it,” Hubert sighed. “It was such a horrible thing for me to do- to just run off like that and never call again. Perhaps it’s better if I let her think I forgot about her. Maybe she’s happy and married like me. I should just let it go.”

“Hubert,” Clyde started, “you need to contact her again, just to let her know you exist. I’m sure she’s been wondering about you for years.”

“Maybe. I don’t know if she’ll want to speak to me, though.”

“The choice is up to you. But as an unbiased opinion, I urge you to contact her,” Clyde got up and proceeded with his previous task of organizing the children’s backpacks.

Over the next few weeks, similar conversations arose until Hubert decided to show Clyde some memorabilia from his rendezvous. Upon seeing the photograph of the slender, dark-haired lover from twenty years ago with her sparkling azure-blue eyes matching the crystal waves of the ocean in the background, Clyde suddenly felt his entire being halt.

“Where did you get these photographs?” Clyde spat out, amazed.

“Well, I took them, of course, during my stay in Paris. That’s Isabel, the one I’ve been speaking of.”

Clyde packed his bags and was back in Paris within three days. A week went by before he found the courage to contact Hubert, who was surprised to hear that he had left so quickly. “Why did you leave so suddenly?” he asked.

“I just felt the need to return home,” Clyde said.

“To Isabel,” Hubert stated.

“To my mother,” Clyde replied.

“I hope you find work with an impressive company,” Hubert said. “If you ever need a recommendation, you have my number.”

“Thank you,” said Clyde.

“Of course,” Hubert smiled from across the universe. “Tell Isabel I said hello, will ya?”

“I will,” Clyde said and hung up.

Through a series of conversations with his mother, who eventually broke down and admitted everything to her son and husband, we have come to this point. I sit, thinking of the story ten times over in my head as Clyde, Isabel, and Jacque sort out the messy pieces of the past. Slowly, they’ll pick them up. But unfortunately, the picture will never quite be acquiesced within the frame that Isabel hung her family in so many years ago. As I have previously mention, I suppose things like this come back to haunt us eventually. Maybe she shouldn’t have listen to me at that café on the summer day of our youth.

The family will be fine. I’m banking on a phone call from my dear Isabel tomorrow saying everything’s sorted out. It always is between those two.

Pretty Pink Umbrella - (ABCD)

Well, this was awhile ago, but I just felt like telling a story today. It was a Tuesday, around noon, the girls and I got called together to go out for lunch; well, let’s just say it was an interesting day. We all met at Chez Pierre, y’know, that adorable place in town. It was a beautiful day, the perfect day to balance out the chaos that was to be unleashed.

I arrived at the bistro a few minutes early and I got us a table out side, under a cute, little, pretty pink umbrella. Delilah called to say that she’d be there as soon as she could; she had misplaced her house keys and had just finished tearing up her whole house. Carina was walking up with Angie, apparently something was going on with Angie, she’d been acting strange for the past few weeks - according to Carina, at least.

Finally all of us were settled at our table, under our pretty pink umbrella. Angie seemed somewhat uncomfortable - almost sickish - then quickly blurted out “I’m pregnant, girls!” That was the moment when everything sped up. Oh, my….! It was Chaos Central. After we stopped bombarding Angie with questions and Oooohs and Aaaahhs, she told us the story. 

She met an American man in her shop a few weeks ago, he was a traveling man, venturing around - Paris was his last stop…

Well, she kept talking and I was listening - I was, it was gossip, what girl does not like to gossip!? - but after a few minutes, my attention shot over to a fat, clumsy American couple just walking out of the café to sit outside in the sun. I went back to listening to the story my friend was telling; she was explaining that he had to leave, back to America and had promised to call, but, (at the time) about 2 weeks later, and still no word from him. Poor girl. 

I feel awful saying this, saying how I was there to spend the afternoon with my girls and I ended up zoning out the whole time… At the same time, it came in use. The gorgeous, overly-flamboyant, waiter, Vincent, had just made his rounds and served the American couple their foreign meals, came around to us with more wine - much needed wine, I should say - (all but Angie,) and then back into the bistro. 

I was paying more attention to these tourists, they were loud, fat, and oblivious to all of the above. They were whining and complaining that there was no ice in their diet Cokes, how typical. 

A few minutes later, the wife was, again, commenting on the lack of ice in her drink when the husband began choking…well, it took me a second or so to realize what was happening, I was just not thinking straight. Right when I realized that this man was actually having some severe issues, I was about to get up and help when Angie rushed past me and began helping him - I believe it was her version of the Heimlich Maneuver - but whatever it was, it saved this man’s life. 

His wife was in tears at the fact that her husband had almost choked to death, and that our friend, Angie, had just rescued him. She offered to pay for our lunches and buy us a round of drinks, but Angie said thanks, but no thanks, and she - 

Wait! …Oh, my God! I have to go! Angie is having her baby, she is on her way to the hospital right now! I will finish the story when the time comes…

Chelsey Shannon—ABCD prompt

Harriet

It’s terrible being a tomato—that is, it’s terrible being a sliced up, picked tomato when one once was a live tomato on the vine, and it was infinitely worse to be a picked tomato in a salad, moments away from being consumed, yet still conscious.
Harriet had heard many stories, from the vine to the basket to the cargo hold, about what it was like to be eaten, about how you were lucky if you were eaten by a pretty human, because it didn’t hurt as much; how you were more unfortunate if the human was unattractive; how you were downright unlucky if you were eaten by an animal.

Lying against a silent, resigned bed of lettuce from an iceberg head named Jill, Harriet knew she was lucky. The face hovering above her was quite lovely. But, Harriet couldn’t help but notice, despite the awful sensation in her body of having been sliced by a serrated knife and arranged artistically on top of Jill’s lettuce, the face was also distressed.

“Angelique,” said a kind voice, also at the table, though Harriet couldn’t see the speaker. “If you want to make sure he’s okay, just call him. He gave you his number. That’s what it’s for.”

Ah, thought Harriet.

“Look, Beatrice,” said another voice, a bit sterner. “She shouldn’t have to call him. If the ass cared, he would have called by now. Sorry, hon,” the voice continued, softer now. “But I think you just should let this one go.”

The face above Harriet looked pained. “But he said he loved me…”

A third, patient-sounding voice chimed in. “Okay, how about a compromise? Why doesn’t Angelique just email him?”

“Claire,” said the first voice, “it’s been two weeks since he went back to America. I think it’s appropriate to call. Angelique’s worried. What if he didn’t get home alright?”

“What does it matter?” asked the stern voice. “It was just a fling.”

“Jesus, Dominique,” said Beatrice. “Obviously it means a little more to Angelique than just that. Look at how upset she is.”

Harriet gazed up at the woman—Angelique. Her eyes had filled with tears.

“American tourists are all the same,” said Claire, not unkindly. “Come to France all ready for some fun, forget you when they return to their real lives. I’m sorry, Angelique. That’s just what usually happens.”

That’s when Harriet heard the secret, a murmur so quietly slipped between Angelique’s lips that only Harriet could heard it. “I’m pregnant…”

At that moment, the bistro door flew open. Harriet couldn’t see who had entered, but the woman at the table tittered. In the distance, Harriet heard a voice in heavily accented, incorrect French state, “Jay suise desoley.”

The woman called Dominique cackled and ridiculed the man’s poor French, imitating his lisp and making a snide comment about Americans. None of the other woman laughed, though for all Harriet knew, they might have smiled.

The tourist must have ordered and sat down, for the conversation turned back to Angelique and her lost American. Harriet was beginning to grow bored with it—no conclusion seemed to be being reached—when suddenly there was an odd choking sound from a neighboring table. Angelique bolted from her seat suddenly.

“Oh my god, Angelique!” Harriet heard Claire intone in awe as, suddenly, she felt herself being picked up, raised from the safe bed of lettuce. No!

She was hovering outside the mouth of a striking brunette.

“Thank god she got up,” said the brunette, in the voice Harriet identified as Dominique’s. “I’ve been eyeing this tomato the whole time.”

And as Harriet sailed toward Dominique’s pearly whites and the bistro erupted into applause as, presumably, Angelique had saved someone’s life, as was declared by the lisping American in poor French, Harriet’s last thought was, “I wonder what Angelique will name the baby?”

Fin

Dear writers,

Welcome to your online workshop space!

For those of you who don't know me because you're incoming juniors, or brand new to the creative writing program, or because it was a long summer and you've forgotten everything that happened last year, my name is Molly Gaudry, and I've been volunteering for Dr. Joy's junior and senior creative writing majors since the beginning of the 2006-2007 schoolyear. For the most part, I bring in published stories from recent issues of well-known literary journals for everyone to read and discuss, and the rest of our time together is devoted to workshopping student writing. In keeping with tradition, I will occasionally post links to such stories or poems, and I hope you will read them with an open mind, and then comment on them in the space provided.

After assessing my experiences of the past two years working primarily with the juniors, I thought I'd try something new this time around. Rather than waste paper making copies for workshop participants, I decided that blogging was the way to go. Additionally (as if saving paper isn't incentive enough!), I'm confident that blogging will encourage more workshop participation, and in a way that caters to your busy schedules.

In the past, I've had problems with some writers participating a lot and others hardly ever saying or writing a word, and this is never fair to the student whose writing is up for discussion. Workshopping on this blog, though, should help to eliminate this problem because now you can post stories on your own time, as you write and revise them, without deadlines. Likewise, readers can provide comments and suggestions whenever they happen to be in the reading/commenting mood. And those who would rather not have anything to do with this process don't ever have to read a thing.

This blog, then, is for self-motivated writers who understand that they are part of a larger community of writers. And, as always, I am happy to provide whatever comments and suggestions I can, in addition to those of your classmates.

Until we meet again in person,
Molly Gaudry
M_gaudry@yahoo.com
http://greencitynews.blogspot.com/

One last thing: In an effort to keep this blog as organized as possible, please write the title of your poem or story (please try to limit short fiction to 1,500 words) in the title box, and write your name in the label box. This way, Dr. Joy and I can keep track of who's submitting, and how often. Thanks!