Idols For Writers Week Four

This week's prompt was The Golden Rule. I wanted to be original and also try writing something using a theme I've wanted to explore for a while now. So I was doubly thrilled (given the subject matter) when this entry picked up the most votes - over 60% of voters chose it!

JUST KISS ME

Harold, who is definitely in his dotage, thinks Maddy is the best thing since sliced bread.

Twenty years ago, she used to curl up on his lap and whisper little-girl secrets in his ear and he loved it, shameless old flirt that he is. Now she’s all grown up, a streamlined blonde with a degree in Economics and a part-time career as the drummer in an all-girl rock band. But she still likes to perch on Harold’s knee and tease him the way only a favorite granddaughter can.

“Come to a gig with us, Gramps!” she’ll say, tickling his nose with a feathery strand of hair. “I promise you’ll love it!” But Harold puts on his stupid-old-man face and says “Gig? What’s a gig?” “Don’t pretend you don’t know!" she says and then he heaves a vast and sorrowful sigh and says, “Sorry, sweetheart. Your grandma hasn’t let me out on my own since long before Noah built the ark!” He winks and we all laugh, co-conspirators in the idea that he, at the age of 82, might yet run off with one of the teenagers who frequent the city cafés where Maddy and her group perform on Sunday nights.

This weekend, Maddy and her best friend Jane are visiting us. On Saturday night, the girls go out for a few drinks, but on Sunday morning we’ll all be going to church together, something Harold has been looking forward to all week. Like her grandpa, Maddy can carry a tune, but Jane has a voice out of all proportion to her petite frame and when she sings, even the ancient vergers at our chapel sit up and take notice. “I’m probably just a silly old fool," he mutters to me as we wave them goodbye, “but it bothers me that at twenty-four, there’s still no sign of a husband.” He slips his hands deep inside the pockets of his comfortable old corduroy pants as he puzzles over this conundrum.

I link my arm through his. “Give her time,” I say. “We should probably be grateful she didn’t do something stupid, like getting married at eighteen.” Harold turns and gives me a smile that carries me back nearly sixty years. “Didn’t work out so badly for you, though, did it?” he says, his brow creasing slightly. I laugh, and tilt my face up to him. “Just kiss me, you old fool,” I say, and he does, his thin lips brushing my cheek with deep affection. There’s a lot to be said for marrying your best friend.

Later than night, Harold’s snoring wakes me and I realize I need to pay a visit to the bathroom. Barefoot, I shuffle down the hall, wincing as the arthritis in my left knee slows me down. The light is still on in the spare room and I glance in, but there’s no one there. Girls still out, I think, then I hear a muffled giggling coming from the living room and my heart balloons with relief. Even though they’re all grown up, I’m always happier when I know they’re safely home. I head past the bathroom, thinking I’ll just say goodnight, but as I reach the door, Jane’s voice stops me dead in my tracks.

“Think they’re asleep?” Her deep contralto is huskier than ever.

“I’m sure of it.” Maddy’s voice is soft. “They probably both take sleeping pills.”

“Good,” says Jane and it sounds as if she’s smiling. “C’mere, you.”

There’s a subdued scuffing noise, like satin sliding on skin. “Damn.” There’s more stifled laughing, then Maddy’s voice again.

“Aw, forget it, honey. We can fix that later. Just kiss me, OK?”

For an instant, my heart stops and I forget to breathe. Then it’s as if a herd of wildebeest have been let loose and are thundering through my chest. Heat floods my face in a wild rush and I clutch my robe tight.

Oh dear God.

Appalled, I peer round the corner. Wine glasses on the table, shoes on the floor. Maddy and Jane are curled together on the sofa by the window, oblivious to their surroundings. Arms wrapped around each other, hands sliding over smooth skin, hair drifting and flowing through fingers, soft sighing and tiny breaths—

I shut my eyes and step back. I’m worried now that my legs won’t carry me all the way down the hall and back to the bedroom, back to my husband of sixty years, peacefully ensconced in the dark oblivion of sleep. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other and step by step, I make it. Ignore my bladder, ignore my shaking, just slide under the covers and lie there listening to Harold sawing away next to me. But I still hear the quiet padding of feet in the hall and the distinctive click of the spare room door as it closes.

I’m numb all the way to my toes and my thoughts whirl in useless circles, making me dizzy. How could I not have known something so fundamental about Maddy? Is she just experimenting, trying a new identity on for size? But no—Jane’s been coming with her to see us for at least two years now. It’s a two-hour drive from the city so they don’t come all that often, but still… Is our little Maddy really—I stumble over the words, even in my mind, then force myself to face them. Gay? Queer? A lesbian? Abruptly, I bunch the sheets in my fists and bite my lip hard, trying to hold back the torrent of tears that threatens to turn me into a sodden heap of old emotion and new fear. Mustn’t wake Harold, I think, he’ll be so hurt, so upset …

When the sun finally rises, I’m dry-eyed and in control again, but sleep is only a distant memory. After a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast all round, I take an extra pill to quell the whining of my arthritic knee. Harold drives us to the small village church, where Jane’s voice infuses Hymns Ancient and Modern with new vigor, Maddy’s eyes close in quiet reverence as she takes the sacrament, and I pray as never before. By the end of the service, I’ve decided what to do. I’m a woman of faith and I know I can handle this.

“I’m going to walk back,” I announce as we leave the building. “Won’t you girls keep me company?”

There’s a chorus of concern about my knee and the distance and Harold’s inability to drive a mile or two on his own, but the dissenters are easily quelled and we’re soon on our way. Harold is a bit disgruntled, but he’s not the one I’m worried about now. He can put the kettle on and have the tea ready by the time we get home. I’m sure we’re all going to need it.

I insert myself between the girls, claiming a supporting arm from each of them, because the grass is bumpy and treacherous roots can upset an old lady’s balance. As soon as we’re off, I plunge right in.

“Remind me,” I say, striving for a mild, chatty tone, “how long have you two been friends?”

Maddy plucks a long stalk of grass and flicks it to and fro between her fingers. “Oh, about two and half years now,” she says. “We met when Jane joined the band.” Jane grips my arm as we negotiate a rocky patch.

I draw a deep breath. “Hmmm. And how soon after you met did you become lovers?”

We keep walking but the silence is deafening. Then simultaneously Jane says, “Almost right away,” and Maddy says, “We aren’t lovers,” and right there, it all breaks down. Both girls let go of my arms and we come to a halt. Maddy’s cheeks are flushed bright pink, while Jane’s mouth is set in a mutinous twist. They stare at one another, almost ignoring me.

I reach out and take Maddy’s hand. She shoots me a quick look, shame in the downward angle of her head. “Gran, I don’t know what makes you think—” but I stop her with a look.

“No, Maddy. Don’t make it worse by denying it.” I pause, holding her gaze as best I can, seeing as she is at least six inches taller than me. “I just want to know one thing. When were you planning to tell me?”

Maddy stares at the ground. But Jane turns defiant eyes on me. “Maddy’s refusal to tell any of you about us has been the cause of most of our arguments. I hate it. I’m sick to death of pretending I’m just the best friend whenever I’m around her family.” She lifts her head high, earrings swinging and short auburn hair gleaming in the sunlight. “I’m sorry, Mads, but if she knows already, then why not admit it? What more have you got to lose?”

The fear on Maddy’s face as her two worlds collide is almost more than I can bear and I realize that this is not the time for speeches and homilies and warnings. This is the moment for action. So I step forward and I give her the only gift I can, the gift that was denied me all those years ago, the gift I yearned for when I was eighteen and head over heels in love.

I cup her sweet face between my hands and look deep into her eyes. “It’s okay, my darling. You are who you are and you have the right to love whoever you want. I accept you, sweetheart and I love you.”

As her eyes fill with tears, I bite back the rest of it, the words I’ve kept buried for sixty years. Don’t make my mistakes. No matter how good it may be, second best is not the same thing. Instead, I deliberately thank God for Harold, who knew and who married me anyway. And with the ease of long practice, I block out the memory of the day my darling Catherine was wrenched from me by parents unable to comprehend or accept that the love and passion we shared was real.

Idols For Writers Week Three

The prompt this time was Reflections, and it was tough! I didn't win - my buddy Kells and I tied on 13 votes a little way behind the leader on 19 votes - but the standard of the entries overall was up by a mile! It's wonderful to see people pushing themselves further every week! So, here's mine:

R E F L E C T I O N S

On a peaceful autumn afternoon in October of the year he turned 18, Adi met the Devil.

Afterwards, he was never quite sure whether it was the actual Master of Hell he’d encountered or merely one of his minions. Either way, it wasn’t until after the death of his mother that he was able to speak of it, and even then, he censored his words carefully. But he never forgot. How could he? Every time he looked in the mirror, he saw the unmistakable imprint on his face—an indelible reminder of vulnerability and weakness.

On that fateful day, Adi found himself alone on a train steaming slowly west through the Austrian countryside. The farmlands and woods beyond the window stretched out in sunlight, mellow and fruitful, but inside, he was anything but mellow. Indeed, the contrast between the bucolic charm of the passing landscape and the bitterness within his spirit served only to deepen his despair.

I have failed, he thought and the taste of his failure was as bitter ashes in his mouth. All my dreams come to nothing, all my hopes gone. I have failed and it is all the old man’s fault that this cannot be fixed. The heavy beat of the laboring engine merged with the dull thud of his heart and he stared out of the window, seeing only the bitterness of an empty, pointless life ahead of him. The sun sank unnoticed and it was dusk before he became aware that a stranger had entered the carriage.

“Would you mind if I sat here?” Adi blinked, taken aback by the sudden invasion of his privacy. A man stood before him, and with his hat, he gestured towards the opposite seat. Adi frowned, then inclined his head in a frosty bow as good manners wrestled briefly with annoyance.

“Of course, please do,” he said stiffly. With ill-concealed discontent, he removed a worn leather portfolio from the seat and dropped it to the floor at his feet. An entirely empty carriage, he thought, and the man has no more sense than to select the seat right across from me? His day, which had started badly and then become worse, was now reaching its lowest ebb. First the unexpected and devastating refusal of his application, then the news of his mother’s sudden deterioration, and now this. Seething inwardly, he turned his face away and stared out of the window at the distant horizon, now tinged with the purple haze of dying day. He clenched his fists, wishing he were still alone.

The stranger ignored his silent messages. “So, you want to be an artist, do you?” Adi’s head snapped up and he stared at the man, wondering if he’d heard him correctly. “It’s a pity the Academy refused you entrance. And all because of a few wretched figure drawings? That seems most unfair to me. After all, isn’t that why you wish to attend? So that you can learn these things?”

Stunned into silence, Adi could only stare. The man’s eyes crinkled and he grinned. “Nothing to say, Adi? That’s most unusual for you.”

“Who are you, sir?” Adi’s voice rose as fear curled in the pit of his stomach. Had the man somehow read his mind? “How is it that you know my business, and how dare you call me by my given name? It is only my intimates who call—”

“—who call you Adi. Yes. But you see, young man, I know you very well. In fact, it is quite possible that I know you better than you know yourself.” The stranger, a slender, dark-haired man in his mid-forties, leaned back, tilted his head to one side and smiled at him. “And no, I’m not reading your mind. I’m simply interpreting what I see and hear. As to who I am—well, you may call me Luc. That’ll do for now.”

“L-Luc?” Adi stuttered, wondering briefly at the lack of a French accent. The man had a slightly exotic appearance, he thought: unusually, he was clean-shaven with short dark hair falling across his forehead in a careless fringe. His suit and tie were of the same dark fabric as Adi’s own, but seemed somehow less tailored, more loose-fitting.

“Yes. Luc. I amuse people by telling them it is short for Lucifer.” But there was no smile on his face and the absence made Adi's skin crawl. Fear affects people in strange ways and this new anxiety, combined with his previous rage and misery, propelled Adi into reckless action. He lurched upright and planted his feet against the swaying of the carriage.

“Sir, I must ask you please to sit elsewhere. I have no idea as to your business here, nor do I wish to know, but I have a right to my privacy and—”

“Sit down.” The voice was low, the menace unmistakable and Adi shut his mouth and subsided, his heart thrusting against his ribcage. Luc leaned forward and stared straight into Adi’s eyes.

“Relax,” he said, his voice smooth and hypnotic, and Adi relaxed, his sudden panic evaporating like mist on a summer morning. The man had strangely piercing dark eyes, he noticed. The pupils were inky black and even in the half-dark of the carriage, they seemed to glow. Adi stared back, fascinated. Right there, in the centre, he could see himself reflected: an ordinary young man with straight dark hair and traces of puppy fat still visible on his cheeks. A tiny version of himself, perfect in every way. Perfect, he thought, but still rejected and dismissed by men who should have known better. A wave of helpless frustration and self-pity swamped him.

“Adi,” said Luc, pulling him back to the present. “I’m here because I care about you. I’m here to help. What is it that you most desire?”

Adi hesitated, disturbed and confused. He didn’t know whether to cast himself into the caring embrace of this stranger and pour out his heart, or to run away from him, as far and as fast as he could. He had the strangest feeling that if he connected with him in any way, if he so much as shook hands with him, he would be stuck fast as if with glue, unable to ever break free. The thought both thrilled and repelled him. What is happening to me? Why do I feel as if I know this man?

“I’m here to help, Adi,” repeated Luc slowly, his voice caressing. “You’ve had a terrible time today, haven’t you?”

Adi slumped in his seat, giving in to the allure of comfort. “Yes,” he said, his voice thick. “Terrible. They said my talent was not enough, that I should stick to drawing houses and buildings. They told me to forget about art, to perhaps study architecture instead if I wished to build a career. But I cannot—it is just not possible.”

Luc nodded. “I understand,” he said and Adi believed him. “You want to be an artist, don’t you? You want to win, to conquer the world, to achieve glory and honour, to be validated and respected by all. Am I right?”

Adi nodded again, his breathing quickening. “Yes, yes!” he said, becoming strangely excited. Luc understood him. Luc knew the dreams he kept buried in his most secret heart. Luc could be trusted. “I long for this, more than I long for anything else in the world. I could be a great man, if only I were given the chance!”

“Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.” Luc paused. “Recognize that quotation*, Adi? No? No matter. The man is not important, but his words are true.” He grinned and Adi trembled. “Today, Adi, is your day of choice. And when you choose, things will happen because I can make things happen. I am powerful in ways you cannot yet imagine. Do you believe that?”

Again, Adi found himself staring at Luc. There was something disturbingly familiar about him. The web of crinkles at the corners of the eyes, the slightly lopsided eyebrows, the small scar in the centre of the upper lip—all reminded him of someone. But who? From the relaxed set of his shoulders to the glow in his eyes, Luc radiated power and authority, and in Adi’s world, men in authority who cared for him were few and far between.

Adi caught himself. A question had been asked and must be answered. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t know why, but I believe you.”

“Excellent. Listen carefully, Adi, because your future depends on the choice you make now. And choose you must—doing nothing is not an option.”

Adi waited. Time seemed suspended and the rest of the world very far away.

“Your mother. She is very ill, correct?”

Surprised by the abrupt change in subject, but not by the fact that the man did indeed seem to know everything about him, Adi nodded. “Cancer,” he said, anguish twisting his heart. “She is failing fast, and the news of my failure will only make it worse. She has always supported me.” Unlike my father…

“She is no doubt a good woman,” said Luc. “You love her? You wish she were well again?”

“Of course!” How could he even ask such a question?

Luc leaned forward. “This, then, is the choice I offer you. Your mother returns to good health and you live out your life in Linz with her, doing whatever work seems best to you. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker.” He smirked. “Or she dies before the year is out and in due time, you get the glory, honor, recognition and validation you have always desired. The world at your feet, so to speak.”

Adi gaped and Luc regarded him closely, his eyes glowing in the dusky light. “I can do this, Adi. You know in your heart that I have the power. Now you have the choice. Reflect a moment and then choose. I leave this train at the next halt and this moment will be gone forever.” The mournful blast of the train’s whistle echoed through the night.

“But,” sputtered Adi, “How can I possibly…? What if this is all a dream?” The train began to slow and Luc stood up. Frantic and disturbed, Adi jumped to his feet. “What if this isn't real?” He grasped the man by the coat lapels and stared into his eyes. “For God’s sake, tell me who you are!”

“Don’t you know yet?” Luc lifted his hand and suddenly, unexpectedly, slapped Adi’s face hard. A sharp pain tore through his upper lip and Adi tasted blood in his mouth, hot and metallic. “I am exactly who you think I am,” hissed Luc. “And now I am you. Choose!”

The world shrank to the size of Luc’s pupils. The taste of the blood in his mouth sharpened his focus, bringing with it clarity and awareness and resolution of desire. Adi grew still. Slowly, he closed his eyes and still holding tight to Luc’s lapels, he chose.

***

Excerpt from The History Place**: Adi’s mother’s condition steadily worsened and as the festive Christmas season approached in December 1907, she was near death. In the early hours of December 21, amid the glowing lights of the family's Christmas tree, she died quietly. Adi was devastated. Dr. Bloch arrived later that day to sign the death certificate. He later said he had never seen anyone so overcome with grief as Adolf Hitler at the loss of his mother.

_____________________________________________________________

* William Jennings Bryan, American politician and orator (1860 – 1925)

** http://www.historyplace.com/worldwar2/riseofhitler/mother.htm

Idols For Writers Week Two

This week, the prompt was Broken. I battled to find an approach but in the end, the piece almost wrote itself! This week there were 41 entries compared to last week's 55 - but the standard of writing was much higher, which I think is a really Good Thing - makes it more challenging.

I was once again amazed at how many folks liked it (did I mention that I got the most votes last week?) So this week, I tied for first place and then won the tie-breaker poll 25 - 17. Squeeeee!! It's pretty unbelieveable, but really thrilling! So here is my take on Broken.

BROKEN

Shit, as they say, happens. And when shit happens, things change.

I should know. Pull up a chair and I’ll tell you my story. But be warned: it isn’t pretty.

It was a cold, snowy night in late January when I arrived home and found my wife on the kitchen floor, her head inside the oven. Now, what would you do if you walked in on a scene like that? Gasp in horror, lunge across the kitchen in a single bound, drag her out by the hair and start thumping her on the chest?

Well, I’m less Neanderthal and more Sensitive New Age Guy, so I just threw out a casual ‘Hi honey!” I also refrained from asking when dinner would be ready. I mean, it really wasn’t the time or the place, was it? Give me a little credit here.

I walked into the hallway and shed my coat, hung it on the hook. Placed my keys and phone on the table and whistled a little to demonstrate my sangfroid, (that’s French for laid-back dude in case you don’t know!) Then I poured us both a drink. Whiskey for me, gin and tonic for her. That’s one thing that hasn’t changed over the last five months.

OK, so by now you’re thinking ‘Sensitive New Age guy, my ass! Insensitive New Age jerk is more like it’. But here are a couple of things that you’re probably not aware of: One - what Julia was doing was actually a very important step forward for her. And that’s not just my opinion – my therapist agrees. Number two: we had an electric oven and it’d been broken for about a week. I just hadn’t had the time to fix it. But, back in the day, Julia had taken a couple of classes in home repair and had mastered the art of the fixing broken fuses, replacing light bulbs and so on. So, seeing her down on her knees with her head in the oven—I actually felt really proud of her for getting to grips with something for a change and at least trying to fix it.

So I wandered back in there, ready to offer her a hand, but to my surprise she was up on her feet again, a plate of pie in hand, looking like she was ready to put dinner in the oven.

Pie again, I thought. Damn. But still—one thing at a time. Small steps. Eating the elephant one tiny bite at a time and all that jazz...

“Bravo, sweetie!” I smiled and walked over to kiss her. “You managed to fix it—” That was when I realized that all was not well on the home front. She was glaring at me, her pudgy face pale and her eyes glinting. Whoops. Time for a bit of diversive action.

“Excuse me, ma’am!” I switched to my best Winston Churchill accent, which always made her laugh, and swept her a courtly bow. “Is that a pie in your hand or are you just pleased to see me?”

She slammed the pie dish down on the table, where it came to rest next to a bowl of shriveled brown apples, long past their prime. She stared at me, her eyes narrowing. “No, I did not fix it, Chris. In fact, if you would stop your goddamned joking and fooling for just one second and take a look round this house, you’d see that it’s not just the oven that’s broken. It’s everything!”

I gaped as she stalked towards the back door and grabbed the handle. The door stuck and she yanked hard two or three times before it finally creaked open. “See? Broken. And look at that!” She pointed a stubby finger at the terracotta tiles in the entryway. Lacy spiderweb cracks radiated outward from several of the tiles, hairline fractures stretching maybe a foot towards the door. “And that’s not all. The paintwork needs redoing, half the doors are falling off the cupboards upstairs, that broken window in the attic—how the hell can you expect us to live like this? This place is a dump!” Her voice rose and cracked. “And you! You don’t even care that it’s all broken. You don’t care about anything any more!”

I swear my jaw dropped at least three inches. Shocked, I stared at her, at this chubby—no, this fat woman in baggy jeans with nothing more than sweat and a smear of flour on her pale, unhappy face. Where was the poised and beautiful girl who’d danced with me in the moonlight on our honeymoon? Where was the tender young mother who’d crooned lullabies to our son while rocking him to sleep? And who was this overweight, angry cow to accuse me of not loving, not caring any more? The absolute unfairness of that took what was left of my heart and snapped it in two.

My new age sensitivity fled out the window, along with my common sense, and it shames me to tell you what I did next. I took three huge steps forward—yes, you could even say I lunged across the kitchen—and grabbed her by the wrist. I put my face close to hers and glared into her eyes. Her instinctive recoil only added fuel to the fire of my hurt and pain.

“Broken?” I said in a low voice. “Broken?” I shook my head and felt my nostrils flaring, my lips curling. “You don’t know what broken is, sweetheart.” I yanked on her arm, spun her round and pulled her out into the hallway. “I’ll show you just exactly what’s broken in this house.”

I hate myself for what I did next. My therapist says that in time I’ll be able to forgive myself, to come to terms with it, but it’s damn hard. I took my wife by the arm and I dragged her out of the kitchen and down the hall, past the door that was always shut, and into our bedroom. She protested loudly, dragging her heels but I was relentless.

“Look!” I thrust her in front of the mirror and held her there. “Look, Julia. That’s what’s broken in this house. Forget the bloody tiles and doors—it’s you. Look at what you’re doing to us, baby.”

Julia clapped a hand over her eyes, her body rigid. Her lips were a thin, bloodless line in an already pasty-white face. “This has got to stop,” I said, my voice shaking. “You’re killing yourself with all this overeating. You’re killing us. We can’t go on like this, pretending nothing has changed.”

“Don’t talk to me about kill—” She stuttered and stopped, and I knew we weren’t done yet. I tightened my grip on her wrists and turned, pulling her along with me again.

She knew. She knew right away what I was going to do. “No,” she said. “Chris, no! Don’t you dare! I won’t!”

I pulled her down the corridor and stopped in front of that other door. The one she’d locked five months ago. “Open it,” I said. “It’s been locked far too long. Open it, Julia. Now.”

She wouldn’t do it. I had no idea where she’d put the key but I knew we had to do this, had to face what lay behind that door, had to root out the cancer that was eating away at our marriage, our home, our life together. Had to fix what was really broken. And if she couldn’t do it, then it was up to me.

So I took a step back and sucked in a deep breath. Then, with all the love in my heart and all the strength in my body, I kicked the door down. Broke it open. And stepped into my dead son’s bedroom for the first time in five months.

The air smelt stale. The little bed was empty, the curtains drawn.

“Julia, it was an accident.” I kept my back to her, didn’t want her to see my face. “It could have happened to anyone, anywhere. You are not responsible. You have to let go—let him go.” I could barely breathe, as tears threatened to choke me. It felt as if I’d been mourning on my own forever. “I miss him too. So fucking much. Not a day goes by when I don’t remember him, don’t think about what he’d be doing if he was still here.”

She was still out in the hall, hadn’t moved an inch. “But—you never cry. You’re always making jokes, fooling around. You don’t care.” Her voice was almost inaudible.

I didn’t know how to explain that every joke was a diversion, another layer in the wall around my heart, a protection against loss and heartbreak and loneliness. I didn’t know how to talk about pain or grief or trying to be strong. But I did know that I needed her. I desperately needed there to be an us again, after months of it being just me, alone and broken.

“Julia, please …” I turned around. Slowly I lifted my head and finally, I let her see my tears.