How to use this Page

Fiction Friday Challenge for February 15, 2008:

Tell the story of a character’s physical scar.

_________________________

Unbuckled

Lindsay’s mouth was wrapped around a huge turkey bacon deli sandwich when she heard THE question. She hated THE question, dreaded THE question and yet, here was her best friend from the last five years asking her THE question.

“Hhmm?” Lindsay mumbled around her sandwich. Perhaps if she distracted her friend, she wouldn’t be forced to answer the ONE question she hated above all else. “Mpghmfphy!” She garbled behind a huge bite. She nodded her head toward the entrance, hoping to divert her friend’s attention to the hunk-oid that had just walked into the café.

“What?” Rochelle laughed, her eyebrows lifted in confusion. “What are you …” she twisted around to look in the direction Lindsay nodded. “Oh him. Yeah,” she shrugged. “I dated him once.”

Lindsay rolled her eyes and finished chewing her bite. “Of course you did,” she muttered as she swallowed the overly large mouthful. She really must concentrate on eating slower. What was the rush? She had all afternoon. Well, not technically, they only had about two hours before they had to pick their children up from middle school. She delicately dabbed at the corners of her mouth, hoping to negate her rather piggish behavior. “When did you date him?”

Rochelle sighed and took a sip of her tea. “It was ages ago.”

“But he’s so … young.” Lindsay snuck a peek at the blonde cutie over her friend’s shoulder.

“Exactly,” Rochelle said with a Cheshire cat grin. “And it ain’t workin’ girlfriend. I asked you a question. What is this?” She leaned forward and flipped Lindsay’s bangs out of her face.

“Cut it out,” Lindsay hissed. She hurriedly fixed her bangs “It’s just a scar. No biggie.”

Rochelle studied her for long seconds. “That’s not just a scar, that’s a huge-ass line nearly from the top of your hairline to your eyebrow. How in the world did that happen?”

Lindsay absently ran her fingers up and down her glass collecting condensation on her fingertips. “You’ve been my friend for five years, Rochelle, and you’re just now noticing this? You’re not exactly the sharpest pencil in the pack, are you,” she snickered. Perhaps if she insulted her friend’s intelligence it would distract her from having to explain the most embarrassing moment in her entire life.

Rochelle simply sat there and stared at her. Lindsay squirmed at her scrutiny and attempted to take another bite of her sandwich, which stuck in her throat and triggered a severe coughing fit. Two minutes later, she had it under control, her face flushed from the exertion.

And still, Rochelle sat there and stared at her.

She sighed. “It’s a long story.”

“We’ve got time.” Rochelle pointed to her watch. “The kids don’t get out for a while. Spill it.”

“All right,” she spat out in disgust. “I’ll tell you. But you must promise me you won’t think bad of me.”

“Think bad of little Martha Stewart?” Rochelle snorted. “No worries there.”

“I’m not a …”

Rochelle held up a hand. “Stop right there. We’re not going there. At least, not right now. Right now, I want to hear the story behind that scar.”

“How did you even see it, anyway? We’ve been friends for so long …”

“The light,” Rochelle said while using her eyes to point to the overhead lamp above them. “The light caught it just right. Now stop stalling and just tell me.”

“It’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And …” she hedged. And what? So she had an accident, was that really so bad? People had accidents all the time. Hence the reason her ambulance driving husband was so busy all the time. “And,” she sighed. “I’ll tell you. Brace yourself, it isn’t pretty.”

Rochelle simply scooted her sandwich wrapping away from her and settled back in her seat, crossing her arms. “I’m all ears.”

“I was 19,” she began. “It was my birthday. I remember I was wearing my favorite white top with this funky blue fold-down snap flap.”

Rochelle snickered.

“It was the 80’s! What do you expect! I thought I looked quite cool.” She sat up a little straighter in her seat. She wasn’t about to apologize for her fashion sense 20 years ago. “I was driving my ’72 Silver Monte Carlo. It had electric windows. Which was considered high tech back in those days,” she chuckled. “Only mine didn’t work,” she rolled her eyes as if to say, ‘of course.’ “I was on my way to meet my parents for a birthday lunch, but I needed some cash. So, I went to my bank, drove up to the, uh, tube thingie, and opened my door in order to conduct my transaction.”

“How much did you withdraw?”

“What difference does that make?”

“I’m just trying to get a feel for the story here.”

Lindsay sighed and flushed lightly. “Five dollars.”

“You were going to lunch and you only withdrew five dollars??” Rochelle sputtered a disbelieving laugh.

“Well, yeah. I didn’t have a lot of money back then and five bucks was a lot to me. Now shut up so I finish this story.”

Rochelle held out a hand, inviting her to continue, though she barely suppressed another chuckle in the process.

“Anyway, I got my money, closed my door and took off. I was late, you know, in a hurry.” She paused. “Remember that.”

Rochelle nodded, but kept quiet.

“By the time I got to the intersection, the light was changing. So, I went a little faster in order to try and beat the light. I turned right and …” she swallowed, “and …” She blinked. She hated this part. She would never forget this part.

“And what?” Rochelle was sitting on the edge of her seat.

“And, my car door flew open.”

“What!” her friend gasped.

She nodded, as if the physical movement would confirm what she was saying. “It’s true. Apparently, when I closed my door back at the bank, it hadn’t latched all the way, and when I turned right, it was enough momentum to cause it to open.”

“Oh my God, what did you do?”

“What any inexperienced 19-year old girl freaking out would do, I made a grab for the door.”

Rochelle gasped and clamped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were round and looked a bit like the black knobs on Lindsay’s dresser. “Weren’t you wearing your seatbelt?”

“Wearing seatbelts back then was considered uncool.” She shrugged as if to say, ‘I know, I was an idiot.’ “Of course, I fell out,” she said in a matter-of-fact voice. Only, the fact that she fell out was anything BUT common. “I remember sliding out of my car. I didn’t really have time to react, it happened so fast. But, and here’s the part I don’t remember but was told witnesses saw, I must have subconsciously known I needed to get out of the way because I started rolling as soon as I hit the ground. They say my car came within inches of running over my legs.”

Rochelle blinked, then blinked some more.

“Yeah,” Lindsay responded to her stunned reaction. “It was scary as hell.”

“Then what happened?”

“The next thing I know, I’m looking up at this strange woman’s face. I remember her saying, “It’s okay, honey. You’re okay. I’m a nurse and an ambulance is on its way.” Lindsay tilted her head to one side. “I wonder if that’s one reason why I married an ambulance driver,” she chuckled.

Rochelle gave her a half-hearted chuckle in return and motioned for her to continue.

“So, they took me to the hospital. I found out, on the way, that my car had continued on without me and wrapped itself around a telephone pole. And it’s a good thing, because it had so much momentum it would have crashed into the chicken restaurant on the corner. Can you imagine?” She shuddered at the thought. “What if someone had been hurt, because of me?”

“How badly were you hurt?”

“Well, I didn’t know, exactly. I had this strange numbness here,” she motioned to her scar area, “and they wouldn’t let me touch it. They kept lowering my hands every time I reached up to touch it.”

“Did that freak you out?”

“I was too freaked out by that point to really register what they were doing. Anyway, I got to the hospital and they had just put me on a bed when my mom rushed in. She took one look at me and every last tinge of color left her face. Though I had no idea how bad it was, it had to be pretty bad to get that reaction. She told me later she nearly fainted.” She grimaced at the memory. “I asked for a mirror. They wouldn’t give me one.”

“Wow, it must have been bad,” whispered Rochelle.

“It was. When they weren’t looking, I reached up and touched my wound. I could … um … feel my skull.”

Rochelle squealed and turned a soft shade of green.

“Aren’t you glad you’re done eating,” Lindsay laughed.

“Then what?”

“Then they stitched me up. I was blessed to have a really talented emergency room doctor. There was talk that I might have needed plastic surgery at some point, but as you can see, the scar is nearly invisible, so he did a pretty good job putting me back together.”

“But … how did you get that big gash? Was it the concrete when you landed?”

“No actually, it was my sunglasses. I guess they shattered and cut me when I landed on my face.”

“Oh geez,” she responded while holding her stomach.

“Yeah well, in addition to my Frankenstein scar, I had two black eyes and a broken nose, WHICH they couldn’t do anything about until the swelling went down. I was quite a mess for a few weeks.”

“I can imagine.”

“And I worked at a fast food restaurant at the time,” she chuckled. “They made me work in the back while I healed so I wouldn’t gross out the customers.”

Rochelle frowned in sympathy.

“When the swelling finally went down, they had to re-break my nose in order to set it. That was a strange feeling. And the sound,” she reached up and touched her nose. “A sickening crunching sound. It was quite gross.”

“Yeah,” Rochelle held up a hand. “No more details, I get the point. So,” she leaned forward and gently lifted Lindsay’s bangs away from her forehead. “Is that why you wear bangs?”

“That’s exactly why I wear bangs.”

“Well, it healed nicely; I barely noticed it until the light happened to catch it just right.”

“It really doesn’t bother me that much anymore. I’m used to it. But as you can imagine, I don’t exactly like telling the story. I mean, how stupid am I? I fell out of my car.”

Rochelle waved her justification aside. “It could happen to any of us.”

“Oh really,” Lindsay laughed. “Somehow, I don’t buy that.”

Fiction Friday Challenge for June 22, 2007:

Write the first thing that comes to mind when you read this line: Bad news cures all things.
_________________________

An Unfortunate Accident

Caitlin stared at Addy, her best friend, with wide eyes. This couldn’t be happening to her. Please God, not now.

“Are you totally sure?” Addy asked. “I mean, you took one of those tests and everything?”

Caitlin nodded and absently rubbed her flat belly.

“You peed on the right spot?” Caitlin nodded. “And you waited the right amount of time?” Again, Caitlin nodded. “And you’re sure the response was positive?” Addy squeaked in what Caitlin thought sounded like a little girl’s voice.

“Yes Addy. God, I’m not an idiot.”

Addy cocked her head and gave her friend a sarcastic look. “Yeah, you’re not an idiot, you’re just pregnant.”

Caitlin fell back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. “This was not supposed to happen. This shit happens to other girls, not me.” She lifted a hand and covered her eyes. She wouldn’t cry, not again. She wasn’t even sure she had any tears left.

“How long have you known?”

Caitlin could feel the mattress sink as Addy sat down.

“A week.”

“A week?! And you’re just now getting around to telling me?”

“I … wasn’t sure what to do, Addy. Cut me some slack.”

“Does anyone else know?”

Caitlin parted her fingers and looked at her friend in between her first and second digit. “Are you kidding me? Who else would I tell?”

“Your mom for one?”

“And be sent to some convent so she could spare herself the humiliation of having an illegitimate grandchild?”

“Come on, she’s not that bad.” Addy swung her legs onto the bed and leaned back against the footboard.

She sighed, rolled onto her side and stared her best friend. That was true. Her mother was Mother Teresa compared to Addy’s mom. “I can’t tell her, Addy. I couldn’t bare to see the disappointment in her eyes.”

“Does Sean know?”

“No,” she whispered.

“He has a right to know, Catie.”

“I know.”

They were both silent and lost in the horrific reality of the situation for long moments.

“You could always …”

Caitlin stopped plucking at the loose threads in the bedspread and lifted her eyes to Addy. “Could … what?”

“You know.” Addy shrugged and blushed softly.

Caitlin released a long pent-up sigh and finally shook her head. “I can’t … do that, Addy. I don’t believe in abortion.”

“But … it would solve all of your problems.”

“Yes. But I couldn’t live with the guilt.”

“So … you’re going to have the baby,” she stated flatly. “Are you going to take care of it?”

Caitlin shrugged. “Maybe.”

“But Catie, what about school? What about your future? This will –”

“– change everything.” She finished for her. “Look. I made a mistake. It’s not fair to make an innocent baby suffer for my stupidity. My mom will help, after she gets over being disappointed in me, that is. And I’m sure Sean’s parents will help out; they’re like the best people. And, I’ll deal with it. What choice do I have?”

A knock sounded on the door and both girls started in guilty surprise. Caitlin’s bedroom door opened a crack and her mother popped her head around the corner.

“Hey girls. Dinner’s about ready. Addy, do you want to eat with us?”

“Um, no I can’t Ms. Moore. I need to get home.”

“All right then.” Her eyes shifted to Caitlin. “Ready when you are.”

“Okay, thanks mom. I’ll be down in a minute.”

The door closed with a soft click as the girls slid off the bed. Addy embraced Caitlin tightly. “Call me later?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, Catie. I really am. But I’m your best friend and you know you can count on me for … anything, right?”

“Right.” She sniffed and returned her friend’s hug.

“Okay then.” Addy idly slapped her thighs and looked around the room. When it was obvious she couldn’t think of another reason to delay her leaving she headed toward the door. “Hey,” she paused. “Things are going to work out. Believe that, okay?”

Caitlin nodded, suddenly not trusting her voice to respond. She could feel a thick knot of emotion bubbling up her throat and if Addy didn’t leave in the next two seconds, she was going to break down and bawl like, well, like a baby.

Seven hours later, Caitlin woke up in a sweat. She felt both chilled and feverish at the same time. She slapped her hand over her forehead and grimaced at the heat emanating off her skin. Great, just what she needed, to be sick with everything else going on. She sighed and stared up at the shadows dancing on her ceiling. The wind was picking up, causing the branches of the oak tree just outside her window to sway and scrape against the glass. She shivered at the sound; it was if someone was trying to tap a message to her in Morse code. Or was it a warning?

She gritted her teeth and placed a palm on her abdomen. Her insides were contracting and had such a firm hold on her muscles she found it difficult to breathe. She swung her legs over the side of her bed and switched on her table lamp. She gasped when she saw the blood on her pajama bottoms.

“Oh no,” she gasped and ran for her bathroom. She quickly peeled off her pants and sat on the toilet. She wasn’t sure exactly what was happening but she had read enough about pregnancies, and miscarriages, to know that whatever it was, it was happening now.

She remained in the same spot for thirty minutes before she felt calm enough to deal with the situation. She was pretty sure she was no longer pregnant and when she checked the contents of the toilet, she was positive. She started to violently shake from the reality of it all and cleaned up. This solved all of her problems. She felt more sad than relieved.

Fiction Friday Challenge for June 8, 2007:

Write a story/poem about fatherhood with a doctor as the main character and a mug as the key object. Set your story/poem in a garden.

_________________________

“Why is this nasty thing sitting in front of me?” Dr. Mike Samuels stared at the misshapen, yellow and purple polka-dotted mug on his expensive fifty-dollar place mat.

“Would you keep your voice down?” Mike’s wife, Lori, glanced anxiously around the garden to see if anyone heard him.

“No, seriously. What is it doing here?”

Lori sighed and looked over her shoulder. Their six-year old daughter was happily chatting away with her friends at the kiddy table. “Shyla made that for you for Father’s Day.”

“Okay. But why do I have to use it now? In front of the entire hospital board?”

Lori spoke slowly between gritted teeth and attempted to keep her voice light and cheery. “Because, your daughter wanted to surprise you. And you wouldn’t want to disappoint your daughter AGAIN, now would you?”

“I have no problem with that.”

Lori’s eyes narrowed and she glared at him. “You’re a prick, you know that?” She had a plastic smile pasted on her face and by the tone of her voice, a neighboring diner would never guess at the hostility seeping from her every pore.

“I’m not using this mug, Lori. It’s ugly and disgusting.”

“Sort of like our marriage,” she replied and instantly changed her entire demeanor as Mike’s boss appeared behind her husband.

“Lovely party, Lori. You always throw the best garden shindigs.” He issued a low-rumbling chuckle.

“Why thank you, George. I do try.” Her smile was warm and friendly; her eyes sparkled with tension.

George clapped Mike on the back. “So, old man. Are you ready for …” He paused and both Mike and Lori looked up at him. “What is that?” He nodded his salt-and-pepper hair toward the mug.

“Oh … that,” Mike began.

Lori interrupted brightly. “Shyla made that for him for Father’s day at school. She worked very hard on it.” She gave her husband a warning look.

George chuckled. “Ah, I remember those days. It seems like another lifetime ago I was forced to drink out of leaky clay mugs and pretend it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.”

Mike scowled. Lori chuckled.

“Actually,” Mike began.

“Shyla’s teacher said she worked on this mug for hours. She said she was so excited that she could hardly paint the flowers …”

“Is that what those are?” Mike asked incredulously. He dropped his head and peered at the mug more closely.

Lori kicked him under the table but kept her facial expression sunny and pleasant.

George laughed and again slapped Mike on the back. “I’d suggest a napkin, old boy, or you’ll most likely end up with a wet lap from the leaks.”

They both snickered as he moved off to talk to the people at the next table.

Mike’s smile immediately dropped as soon as his boss’ back was turned. “I’m not using this mug, Lori. It’s embarrassing.”

She wrung the expensive linen napkin with her hands and without looking at him, muttered under her breath, “Mike Samuels, you will use that mug and you will pretend to like it. I’m sick and tired of the way you shrug our daughter, and this whole fatherhood thing off.” She took a deep breath, blinked back the tears and waved cheerfully at Shyla. “You don’t pay attention to her, you don’t act like a father at all. You’re so wrapped up in your career …”

Mike bristled. “A career that buys you expensive linen napkins, I might add …”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken, “ … that you never have time for us anymore. And when you’re here, you’re not here because you’re too tired to give us the time of day. Well you know what? I’ve had it. I’m not going to continue to walk on pins and needles around you anymore. I’m tired of drying Shyla’s tears because of your inattention.” She released a shaky breath, “When this party is over, so is our marriage.”

_________________________

Fiction Friday Challenge for May, 25, 2007:
Write about an argument between two people. Your definition of people can be as loose as you want it to be.

Brace yourselves, this is edgy stuff.

By the way, this is fictional and didn’t really happen.

Or did it?
_________________________

“Yeah! Hang on a sec honey, let me check my emails.”

Karen curled a leg under her and sat down in her brown, and slightly stained, computer chair. She clicked on her Yahoo email box and was surprised to see five messages from someone called LabelGrl. She clicked on the oldest first.

“Hi Karen! Love your blog! Look, I have a question. Could you sign onto your Yahoo Messenger account so we can talk?”

“How did this girl know about my Messenger account?” Karen mumbled under her breath. She proceeded to check the remaining four messages but they all asked the same thing, only the way it was asked changed slightly.

“Uh, okay. Sure, I’ll bite.” Karen signed onto her account and proceeded to check the rest of her messages. She had just clicked on the second one when she received an IM from LabelGrl.

LabelGrl: “Hi Karen!”

Karen arched a brow and typed back, “Hey LabelGrl. What’s up?”

LabelGrl: “Yeah, thanks for signing on. Look, I have a question concerning the YouTube bit you posted today.”

“The … what?” Karen asked her computer monitor as she minimized the chat window and looked at her blog. Was LabelGrl talking about the “Who Owns a Pair of Mom Jeans” entry?

Karen: “Um, okay.”

LabelGrl: “The thing is … why did you post it?”

Karen blinked and typed her response. “Because I thought it was funny.”

LabelGrl: “To whom?”

Karen bit back a grin and was secretly impressed that LabelGrl used whom instead of who. “Well, I thought it was funny.”

LabelGrl: “So you think fat women are funny.”

Karen: “What in the world are you talking about?”

LabelGrl: “That video implies that women have to have a nine-inch zipper in order to get jeans over their fat asses.”

Karen thought about that for a moment before nodding at the screen. “And …?”

LabelGrl: “And you thought that was appropriate to post on your blog?”

Karen: “It’s a Saturday Night Live skit, yeah, I thought it was funny. Saturday Night Live cracks me up.”

LabelGrl: “Well, I didn’t appreciate it.”

Karen: “I’m sorry you feel that way.”

LabelGrl: “Take it off.”

Karen: “Take what off.” She knew what she was asking; she just couldn’t believe she was asking it.

LabelGrl: “The skit. Take it off your blog. It’s hateful and derogatory.”

Karen: “Let me get this straight … you’re asking me to remove something from my own blog because you didn’t like it?”

LabelGrl: “Yes.”

Karen: “Look. I’m sorry you found the bit offensive, but SNL has a reputation for being edgy and a tad tacky and though this piece is certainly not the most flattering to moms, I still think it was funny because in some ways, it’s true.”

LabelGrl: “So, you ARE making fun of fat people!”

Karen sighed at the screen and continued to type. “No, I think the skit was mainly making fun of moms and their fashion choices. I really don’t think it had anything to do with a size of a woman’s ass.”

LabelGrl: “So now you’re making fun of moms.”

Karen: “I think you’re putting words into my mouth. No, I’m not making fun of moms. I’ve caught myself falling into this same trap. Hell, I’ve even wore the vest they advertised at the end of the skit!”

LabelGrl: “I’m disappointed, Karen. I really liked your blog and you’ve disappointed me.”

Karen: “I’m truly sorry to hear that, LabelGrl. I know SNL stuff doesn’t appeal to everyone.”

LabelGrl: “I’m not the only one disappointed, Karen. There are lots of bloggers who think you take your humor too far.”

Karen: “Oh?”

LabelGrl: “Yeah, so if you want to continue receiving traffic from (such-and-such) blogroll, I suggest you remove that offensive skit immediately.”

Karen couldn’t resist asking the burning question, “Or … what?”

LabelGrl: “You’ll lose readers.”

Karen: “And that’s okay.”

LabelGrl: “What! How can you say that? Don’t you care?”

Karen: “Of course I care but I’m not going to change my personality every five minutes to accommodate a certain type of crowd, nor do I plan on censoring what I do post, or do not post on my blog. I’m truly sorry if this skit offended you, but I simply posted something that I thought was funny and that I thought other readers might find funny, too. The whole purpose of my blog is to make people laugh and share a bit of my boring, mundane life. That’s it. I’m not doing this to generate hits or gain popularity.”

LabelGrl: “I think it was a bitchy thing to do.”

Karen: “I’m sensing you have issues. I’ve said I was sorry, it’s not like I made the stupid thing myself. I’m simply a messenger.”

LabelGrl: “I DO NOT HAVE ISSUES! I’m only speaking as a concerned reader.”

Karen: “And I appreciate your concern, really. And again, I’m sorry you were offended. But I’m not taking it off.”

LabelGrl: “Fine. I’m never visiting your blog again.”

Karen stopped typing her response as soon as she noticed LabelGrl sign off. “I didn’t mean to make anyone mad.”

“What’s going on?” Karen’s husband said over her shoulder.

“I made a reader mad because of an SNL skit I posted about mom jeans.” She brought up the offending post and sat back so her husband could watch it.

He laughed. “It’s funny.”

“That’s what I thought!”

“And true,” he said.

She blinked up at him. “Do you think so?”

“Yeah. A lot of women DO have fat asses and wear unflattering, frumpy clothes after having kids.”

“Wait a minute,” Karen got out of her computer chair and faced her husband. “You try pushing an 8 pound baby through the opening the size of a straw and think …”

He held up his hands to fend off her temper. “I’m just saying …”

“I know what you’re saying,” she snapped back. Suddenly, she didn’t find the Mom Jean’s skit very funny either.