The light burns brighter as my resolve becomes stronger.
Emotion clings to me,
the weight of it tugs on my feelings one at a time,
my tears drip like the wax of a forgotten candle.
Loss is a heavy burden.
Only yesterday that water seemed to soothe my sadness as it tickled my knees. I stood amidst nature, holding you close in my memory and in my heart. Your ashes soared high on the very breeze that used to carry our laughter.
(image credit: outpostusa.org)
I have to admit, I am loving the 100-Word Song Challenge at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog. This week, after experiencing some unexpected snowfall, Lance and Leeroy have chosen “Route 66” as this week’s song. Here is my 100 word interpretation.
There was something charming in the way he pursued me. If my soul were a road map he would have traveled from one coast to the other exploring every nuance of the highway that led through the heart of my existence.
He stopped to admire the things he would see only on this road. He fondly recalled the route that brought him to me, it was the road less traveled but the road that was meant for him to follow.
It is now a direction we pursue together, an open avenue to our future. It winds us into our reality.
Here is my post for the writing challenge I put up this morning, originally inspired by The Cutter. See this post for more details if you want to join in the challenge. El Guapo entered his in the comments section of my earlier post and the link to Janna’s post is below .
Amy was juggling too many things at one time. She knew that. The hours she was spending at the office were eating into her social life and causing a huge strain on her relationship. She had promised herself she would spend more time at home, be the doting wife she had professed she would be in her vows, but her sunken eyes and dark circles under those eyes did much to disprove her intentions. She was a workaholic.
As she trudged along the sidewalk to head towards the bus shelter she passed the same store windows she did every day. She had never really taken notice of what the stores offered because it never occurred to her to care. The flashing neon signs had never distracted her before but today she decided to lift her head and see what the flashing pink lights were telling her. Her eyes strained to see the woman behind the counter and she immediately noticed how radiant she seemed. Amy deviated from her routine and went in.
The first thing that hit her senses was the smell of cheap perfume. Her favorite Led Zeppelin song, Going to California, was playing in the background so she took it as a good omen. She had no idea what this place was all about but she felt drawn here so she continued to the counter.
Amy realized her mistake halfway through the makeover. Her hair had been teased so much it reminded her of when she was a kid and she created static electricity by rubbing a balloon on her head. The blue eye shadow and pink blush had been applied so liberally she began to look like Mimi from the Drew Carey show and her red lips would give Angelina Jolie a run for her money. All she needed now was a spray-tan and a tiny dog in a purse and she could be a Beverly Hills housewife!
Tissue in hand, Amy did her best to remove the offensive pastels and tame her hair into submission. She left the shop bereft of her dignity and wondered how she would explain the lingering color palette on her face to her husband. She was only doing it for him.
The bus ride home seemed to take twice as long and, after doing her best to become as infinitesimal as possible on the bus, she was only steps away from home. She could see the candles flickering through the window and the shadow of her husband moving from room to room. His movement took her off-guard since he was always comfortably ensconced in his recliner, usually asleep, by the time she got home.
He was there to open the door before she had time to fumble with her keys. The dulcet notes of The Tenors caressed her ears as she took off her coat. A medium boat of sushi was on the coffee table and the wine had already been poured. He understood. He knew her hard work was for a purpose. As he leaned in to kiss her his eyes caught a glimpse of the make-up residue. She simply sighed and shook her head. He knew her well enough not to ask, wiped off some of the leftover lipstick with his thumb and his lips met hers.
Later, as she began to drift into a peaceful slumber, wrapped in the warmth of his arms, she only had the strength to whisper four words, “I’m taking tomorrow off”.
Other stories for the Random Selection:
Back in June, The Cutter gave me a writing challenge. Four random ideas were chosen and I had to write a blog including all four – my attempt is here. I then threw the gauntlet back and offered up five random ideas and the result is here.
It was an awesome challenge and one I have been thinking about since then. It was great having to really dig deep into my imagination and string a group of completely unrelated subjects together in one post and I wanted to put the challenge out there to anyone who is willing to participate. Please feel free to pass this on to those in your blogging circle as well – the more, the merrier.
Be as creative as you want and write in any form you want. There is no word limit. Link back to here so I can mention your post for the challenge.
Have a great weekend.
It seemed perfectly innocent. They were freshly bathed, well dressed, almost too well dressed for a Tuesday morning had I thought about it, and they both presented themselves with an intelligence far beyond their years. Their mother seemed embarrassed when they both ran to me, each clutching one of my hands in their tiny grips. Neither of them seemed afraid, nor did they show much emotion at all, and for a moment we just stood, unmoving, holding hands as if this were a natural occurrence.
Perplexed and without knowing how to react, I looked to their mother for some guidance. Although trying to maintain her poise, she seemed distant and somewhat aloof. When she finally regained her composure, she smoothed her dress, approached the three of us and complimented me on my suit. The children remained reticent as the idle banter of adults hovered like cartoon balloons above their heads, but their grips never wavered.
She asked if I would like a coffee, so we walked a few blocks, sharing idle conversation, the children never losing their hold on my hands. There were no introductions made, so my comments were relegated to generalities. She was referred to as ‘little girl’ and he was called ‘strapping lad’. They seemed content with these monikers and never once did they volunteer their birth names.
When the little girl finally spoke, her voice was so hushed it was almost impossible to hear over the din of the crowd. “My dad died. You look like him.” My heart seemed to quiver in my chest and I felt it break into a thousand shards. I wanted to let go of the boy’s hand and hug her. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but his grip remained firm so all I could do was squeeze her hand and give her a wink.
I had been so distracted by the children that I hadn’t noticed the row of houses instead of the coffee shops I had anticipated. The children had stopped in front of a brick facade and, with their stoned expressions, they turned to face their mother. The camera recorded that moment before I had a chance to react.
With their grips remaining firm, the children guided me up the stairs towards the house. The mother had managed to beat me to the door and fumbled to get the key into the lock. The hinges on the door vehemently disagreed with being opened and argued every inch of the way. Once inside the house, the children released their grip on my hands and stood together, an immovable fortress blocking the way back to the door.
As my eyes adjusted to the lack of daylight, the row of pictures in the foyer began to materialize. Each photo, almost an exact replica of what I suspected the picture would look like that was just taken outside. Although the little girl and the strapping lad were in different colored apparel, the photo would have been an exact replica. My heart rate increased. When the strapping lad finally spoke, my blood turned to ice. “Welcome home, daddy.”
As the words ‘I’m not your daddy’ tumbled from my lips, I felt a dull crack at the base of my skull. It would be the last thing I ever felt.