Day Six: 99 Words

Another Carrot Ranch contribution. This week's prompt is rare gems. Surprise, surprise - I'm writing about romantic angst. 

And on the sixth day of flashing, here is what I wrote: 

*****

She’d found the picture the other day. Rummaging through the box that held keepsakes she mostly forgot were important. She’d studied it for a moment and then tucked it into the pocket of her jeans.

But later, when the kids were in bed and her husband was watching the game, she poured herself a glass of wine and held it gently between her fingers.

His smile.
The way her hair had curled gently around her ears.

His hand resting on her elbow.
The look in her eyes. Excitement. Anticipation.

She exhaled and carefully tore it up into tiny pieces. 

I'm Sorry

Simple words. Loaded with meaning. Or not, I guess. Depends on the context. Being Canadian, I use them a lot for all matter of inane reasons. Bumping into someone. Cutting someone off when they're talking. Stepping forward in a line out of turn. But I also say I'm sorry when I feel bad about what I've done. And I wonder whether being sorry - even knowing I wouldn't change a thing - is really enough. Does saying I'm sorry actually help the other person who I'm sure I've hurt? Or does it just to make me feel less accountable for my actions? 

And on the fifth day of flashing, here is what I wrote: 

*******

She watched him drive away and checked her gut for the kick that she hoped would be there.

Nothing.

It was getting worse each time. This lack of reaction. This lack of feeling.

She knew that instead of the emptiness inside of her, there should have been some kind of emotion. But the hollow place within her echoed with silence as the wind whipped her hair around.

She hunched into the coat he’d wrapped around her shoulders before he said goodbye.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he’d said and she’d nodded, forcing a smile.
She didn’t plan on seeing him again.

Say Goodnight Gracie

Some days my head calls the shots. Sometimes it's my heart. But I'm working towards some sort of a compromise and I think the lines of communication are open. 

On the fourth day of flashing, here is what I wrote. 

**********

The zipper broke and she swore as she tried to stuff her sweater back inside the tattered suitcase. She sank down on the curb.

“You staying or going?” the bus driver asked, holding the door open.

She brushed the tears from her cheeks and nodded.

It was time to go.

Day Three: Bad Habits

It's been a crazy fucking year. Straight up. And if there's been a theme, I'd say this just about sums it up. 

So when I woke up this morning and learned the #FP theme was Bad Habits, I smiled, because I've gotten to know mine pretty well in 2014. And yep, I love each and every one of them.
On the third day of flashing, here is what I wrote:
********
Her bad habit was like a knock knock joke. She knew how it would end.

She chose her distraction with care. Looking for relief from grief. Not knowing her bad habit would take up more space than her sorrow.

Smiling, she counted them, remembering how each had come to be. What they meant. She cherished her bad habits as much as her good ones.

Her bad habits made her unpredictable, wild. For years she tried to tame them, contain them. Until she didn't. She embraced them. 

Should I Stay or Should I go Now?

I think about hope a lot these days. When it's helpful, when it's not. How to tell the difference. I'm none the wiser for all my ruminations, but I'm hopeful one day I'll have a better understanding of when to keep going and when to walk away (see what I did there?) 

And on the second day of flashing, here is what I wrote. 

***********

She tricked herself into making it smaller. Shrank it down with critical thoughts. Trimmed the edges with intellectualization. 

She woke each day determined to keep herself safe, keep her expectations reasonable. So she kept her eyes down and tried not to look around. Tried not to see what others had made possible.

She shut out the thrum of her blood, the clutch of her stomach, when accidentally - unsupervised - her mind drifted back to the familiar words and images, drifted back to the well worn places she had created with care.

But hope burned bright, searing her insides. Refusing to die.