#Scintilla13: Letting Go

Going back to a previous prompt for today's Scintilla post.

B: What have been the event horizons of your life–the moments from which there was no turning back?

Letting Go

She stared at the little black box, which held the promise of one particular future life. Marriage, kids, a house and a job most likely within twenty miles of the small town where they'd grown up. In theory, they could make their own path - create any kind of future their hearts desired. But somehow she knew if she said yes to her high school sweetheart right now, just days after they'd each graduated from college, it would be The Life Script all the way. For both of them. It wasn't a bad future. She just wasn't sure it was the one she wanted. There were things she wanted--needed--to experience first. There were things he should experience, too. Maybe they could experience them together. But not if she said yes. Not right now.

She stared at the little black box until he closed it and shoved it in his pocket. She started to apologize, but he cupped her face in his trembling hands and kissed her with more passion than he had in a long time. Between urgent kisses, she whispered that she loved him, and he whispered that he loved her too, but he had a job offer in Seattle and she should go to Europe just like she'd always wanted. He kissed her mouth and her cheeks and her eyelids, and he apologized, and then he thanked her. Thanked her for having the courage that he didn't have--the courage to let go, even though they loved each other.

She stared at the taillights of his car as he drove away. Her heart was heavy and her eyes wet with the sorrow of saying goodbye to the life in that little black box, but also with excitement at the life tomorrow would bring.

#Scintilla13: Baby Fever

Today's Scintilla prompt:

B: Write about spending time with a baby/child under age 2. If you’re a parent, do NOT write about your own child.

And today's fiction:

As soon as my sister Caroline walked through the front door, I plucked baby Isabel from her arms and whisked her away to the den. It would take Caroline at least ten minutes to unload her massive diaper bag and portable playpen. Having an infant seemed like a huge hassle.

Izzy smiled and babbled as I removed her mittens, hat, and coat. She was pretty hideous right when she was first born, but I suppose most babies are. In the nine months since, she's gotten cuter every day. Those chubby cheeks are so pinchable and kissable, I can hardly contain myself. Something about high levels of cuteness makes me aggressive. I could almost literally gobble her up.

The baby seemed sleepy, so I cradled her against my chest and walked around the room. As her eyelids drooped, my heart swelled. This is how I love them. Docile, tiny, peaceful.

"Thanks so much for babysitting," Caroline said, coming into the room.

"Of course. You know I love to."

She peeked over my shoulder. "Oh thank goodness. I thought she'd never fall asleep. She's been fighting it for a while."

We were silent for a moment, both studying Izzy's little face. The impossibly smooth, porcelain skin. The round nose. The eyelashes I would kill for.

"I can't believe she's nine months already," I said.

"I know. It's gone by so slow and so fast at the same time."

"You ready to start trying for another one yet?"

She laughed. "You could always get one of your own, you know. You and David will be great parents."

"Nah. I'll just borrow yours." Izzy began to feel heavy in my arms.

"When do you think you guys will try?"

"We won't."

Silence. Caroline stared at me.

Awkward silence.

I tried not to imagine what was going through her head. I'd heard it all before. How can you not want kids? You'll change your mind. It's different when they're your own.

Babies are great. Toddlers and teens are not. I loved Isabel almost like she were mine, but I loved being able to give her back. I'd never had any urge to have one of my own, though.

I looked at Caroline, silently daring her to take her best shot.

"Cool. You'll get to spoil Isabel all you want."

Caroline smiled. I smiled. In her sleep, I'm pretty sure Izzy smiled.

#Scintilla13: Getting There

I know, I've been sporadic with this project. But here's some more Scintilla fiction.

A: Talk about where you were going the day you got lost. Were you alone? Did you ever get to where you meant to go?

One day I looked around and he wasn't there. I woke up to realize the trappings of the life I'd built were unfamiliar and unsatisfying. When did collecting casual acquaintances like trophies become my measure of success? Around the same time he stopped calling, I think, though I couldn't fool myself about which event had led to the other.

One day I looked around and wished he were there. There, at the dinner parties, the clubs, the black tie galas. There, in bed, next to me every morning. There, at the end of the last known telephone number, now disconnected, or on the other side of the last known email, which goes unanswered for weeks. Maybe I'm grasping at straws, trying to reclaim the wholeness of my youth by seeking out the boy who was at my side through most of it. Maybe he wouldn't like the woman I've become. Probably.

One day I looked around and there he was. At my door, my email in hand. And the moment I saw him, I knew, and he knew, he was there for good. In my life and in my bed and in my future. And in finding him I found the comfort and certainty that nothing else in my life had been able to fill. I didn't realize I was looking for the place where I fit until he showed up, and then suddenly I was there.

On a Trans-Atlantic Flight

I was thrilled to get a message from a fellow writer the other day who had just finished reading The Fall. He said he really enjoyed my story in the anthology. It's flash fiction, really. It's quite short. We talked for a little bit, and the conversation turned to the fact that my first published short story also had a flight theme. The story was originally published online with Divine Dirt Quarterly, which is now out of print. So I thought I'd post the story here for you all to read. If you like this one, I'm sure you'll enjoy my story "Flight Plans" in The Fall.

On A Trans-Atlantic Flight

I used to think I could see God in the clouds. Not in an indefinite expanse of clear blue, calm and crisp and quiet, desperate in its infinity, but somewhere up there, among the water vapor masses between us and eternal sky. Not in gray and grumpy nimbostratus, nor fine feathered cirrus, but in a fair weather cumulus blanket and the sun beams like knitting needles that pierced it, the ends of which, I was sure, illuminated some somber earthly occasion - corporeal cessation. But certainly God was in the clouds, sending forth that sun vector to call an angel home.

Necks craned and twisted, bodies pressed forward against restraints just for a glimpse out of the small windows of a 757. My first flight. Even as we lifted from the ground, the Earth tried to pull me back, urging me not to endeavor to things for which my body was not made. Or perhaps the weight on my chest was God, knowing the human race was too curious for its own good, placing a firm hand of protection, holding us close, leashing our titanium bird lest we flew too close to the sun.

My head swam, unsettled by artificial air pressure, though it may have been the sight of the clouds that did it. Nerves and terror and elation and uncertainty coagulated in my stomach. Expecting a breeze, a mist, a warm breath on my cheek, I considered holding my breath, eyes squeezed shut, as white opacity filled the tiny bubble windows. Curiosity, though it may or may not have killed a cat, overtook my timidity, prying open my expectant eyes just as the clouds broke.

Did you know the sky goes on forever anyway, that you could follow it and it would never lead you anywhere, not to peace, nor to happiness, nor to god, and did you know that the sun knits blankets of cumulus clouds to shield my fragile and naïve heart from such despair? I used to think I could see god in the clouds. But there, above it all, atop a secular cumulus quilt, I saw that my geometry was all wrong: the gilded shafts I had been certain were line segments, with an Alpha and Omega – originating from the hand of a benevolent god and ending far below, soul escalators bringing the dead into eternal bliss - were instead rays, of all things, capped at one end by the stinging sun, extending onward forever.

On a trans-Atlantic flight, I searched urgently for validation, winged hope. I found only science and weather, impressive but not divine, water vapor polluted by a need to push our limits, to stretch, to disintegrate our mortal restrictions. Puffs of little substance whose mass is no match for the hard nose of human determination, pierced by a persistent sun whose light will outlast even the clouds as it is reflected back, changed by the tangible clutter of temporal curiosity, fractured, bounced, splintered, and so on, et cetera, ad infinitum.

I may never fly again.

Short Stories Published!

You may already know, but I had two short stories accepted into an anthology put together by some fellow writers at Agent Query Connect. I'm pleased to tell you that Spring Fevers is now available! Even better, it's free! Download from Smashwords, B&N, or Amazon. Fair warning, though, it's NOT free on Amazon, as they haven't price matched it. Any money from Amazon purchases will be given to charity, so if you want to spend the $0.99, go right ahead. If you read and love it, we hope you'll leave a review! You do NOT need an ereader to read the book, either! If you don't have one, there are free Kindle and Nook apps for your computer and smartphone, as well as Calibre, which will read all ebook formats.

About the anthology

An anthology of short stories, Spring Fevers is an exploration of relationships in their varied states: love -- requited and unrequited -- friendships discovered and lost, family in its many guises, and the myriad places in between. Created by Cat Woods and Matt Sinclair, Spring Fevers arose from their work with the Agent Query Connect online writing community, and while membership in the free site was not necessary for inclusion in the anthology, the ten writers whose stories appear are all members. Authors include MarcyKate Connolly, S.Q. Eries, Robb Grindstaff, J. Lea Lopez, Mindy McGinnis, R.S. Mellette, Yvonne Osborne, Matt Sinclair, A.M. Supinger, and Cat Woods. The debut publication of Elephant’s Bookshelf Press, Spring Fevers was edited by the team of Robb Grindstaff, Matt Sinclair, and Cat Woods, with cover design by Calista Taylor, and book design by R.C. Lewis. A new anthology is scheduled to be released in the fall of 2012. 

The beautiful cover was designed by Calista Taylor, who has been a great friend/beta reader/coach and taught me a lot about creating ebook covers, though my skill is amateur to say the least. If you're in the market for a book cover, check out her website Covers by Cali to learn about her incredibly affordable options and to check out the gallery of other covers she has done.

About my stories

I have two stories in this anthology.

The Adventures of Sasquatch is the story of a single mom's desire to assert her fun-loving nature despite the opinions of her coworkers, and maybe even find love in the process. It all starts, and ends, with the most unlikely catalyst: her big feet.

The Haricots Verts is flash fiction, capturing a moment of uncertainty between two potential lovers.

Noirotica: A Subgenre Mashup!

This is an entry for Chuck Wendig's Flash Fiction Challenge. This week's prompt was a sub-genre mash-up where we had to choose two sub-genres from his list and mash 'em up into a thousand words or less of flash fiction fabulosity. Thanks to Michelle Simkins and Suzanne Payne who read the first draft of this story. I made some changes (and got it within the word limit, woo hoo!) Still not sure if it's very noir, but I tried! Without further ado, I am pleased to present you my "noirotica" story, Lady Dick.

Moonlight is diffused by the fog outside the window, casting a silvery glow over the chair where he sits. I see what Shelly must've seen in him. But despite the handsome face, there's a meanness behind his eyes, even as he grins up at me now. They match his name, those eyes.

Dan Ire's ads make him seem more like a hitman than a private investigator. Call Dan – he's your Ire for hire! I want to laugh at how pathetic he is. But Dan thinks he loves me. He “loved” Shelly, too. At least Shelly thought so, until she showed up at my office with a black eye and busted lip.

Dan doesn’t know he and I are in the same business. Lady Dick. No better than Ire for Hire, but I don't advertise that way. That’s the nickname some of my cop buddies gave me when I left the force. Sometimes the law doesn't know what's best. 

Dan thinks I'm a lonely widow who needs him to track down money stolen by my dead husband's business partner. Flash a little cleavage, smear on some trashy red lipstick, and Dan Ire will bend over backward to take your case. He's also bent me over a few times since he took the case. Can't say I didn't like it. The man's got stamina.

I sit atop the desk in front of him, sipping the watered-down whiskey from the bottle reserved for clients. I know damn well there's another bottle in the bottom drawer that he keeps for himself. Cheap bastard.

“Like I said,” I uncross my legs and rest one foot on his thigh, “I can't pay the rest of your fee yet. I'm sorry.”

“I don't feel right asking for it, seeing as I didn't find anything.” He talks to my leg, his eyes fixed on the lace top of my stocking. A black garter disappears under the hem of my coat. He licks his lips and looks up. “Let me keep looking. Just a couple weeks.

And then charge me for the extra effort. Scumbag. I put on my best pout.

“I guess by then I'd have the money, if I pick up some extra shifts at work.”

He loves a damsel in distress.

“Baby, I wouldn't dream of taking your money.”

Besides the $5000 I paid up front. I drain the rest of the whiskey in one swallow and set the glass down.

“I know how to pay you back.”

“The money isn't--” He stops when I start unbuttoning my jacket.

These past few weeks I let him think that every time we fell into bed, or I let him shove me up against a building in some seedy back alley and cop a good feel, it was because he was so fucking irresistible and I couldn't help myself, but it was all business. I hadn't expected the sex to be so damn good.

With the last button undone, the coat slips off my shoulders. There's nothing underneath but stockings and a garter belt.

“Christ, Mags.” He shifts in the chair. That bulge in his trousers must be getting uncomfortable. He can't take his eyes off my thighs and their eventual destination. I know he can see how aroused I am.

Despite my hatred, he gets me hotter than blacktop in July.

The hardwood floor will probably bruise me, but I kneel anyway.

“There's a blanket--”

I put a stop to his worry with a kiss. His concern for me was superficial at best until this past week. I was a fucktoy and a source of income, until suddenly I wasn't. I bite his bottom lip.

“Ow! Mags, that--”

I silence that, too, with my hand in his pants. So easily I shut him up. He'll only love me until suddenly he doesn't anymore, and then what? Then it's bruises and broken bones, like Shelly. Or worse.

Freed from his trousers, his cock beckons me, thick, unflagging. I love to make it yield.

He loves the slow movement of my tongue.

“Oh Maggie.” He leans back as I slide him past my lips, over my tongue, to the back of my throat. “Ah, fuck.”

He loves to see my red lipstick smeared up and down his shaft. I hate how much I like seeing it there, too.

Dan thinks he's a man's man – wife-beater, unscrupulous businessman, and all-around sonofabitch. Yet my tongue reduces him to a soft, panting heap. I could overlook all that when the job was over if he'd just keep making my toes curl for hours on end.

But that all changed when I found the videos. The same man who thinks he loves me takes deprave to a whole new level. The thought nearly makes me choke, but I don't.

He loves how I can take him without gagging. He fits just so.

I hate myself for loving how he feels inside me. Do I hate him more?

“Oh Maggie. God yes, Maggie.”

I hate the begging way he says my name. I want to scream at him to be a real man and fuck me, not some girl on a tape who looks like she's barely in high school.

I stand without warning. He's had enough. I've had enough.

“Mags, what in the hell!”

“Ssh. Just wait.”

He settles back into the chair again. I reach into my purse on the desk.

Shelly hired me to find something she could use to drag his name through the mud. I found it. But he doesn't deserve to get up from the dirt, and sometimes the law doesn't know what's best.

I turn and sink a bullet into his forehead before his eyes even focus on the gun.

Then I slip my coat on, pull the belt tight,and steal away into the night mist.