On Air

It was impossible.  It had to be.  Blacksmiths don’t even exist anymore, do they?  But, there it was on the teleprompter as clear as black and white.  And since it was on the teleprompter, I read the story:

  

“In a piece of shocking news, authorities on the Eastern Shore have reported that 23-year-old Baltimore native, Jonathan Rogers has been found dead near his workshop in Centerville.  Rogers was allegedly crushed by his horse while engaged in a sexual act with the animal.  Rogers, a professional blacksmith, provided iron working services for many of the farmers in the area.  His exact cause of death is still under investigation.

Huh.  Well.  And now, here’s Stan Santoni with this week’s weather forecast.  Take it away Stan.”

As I shuffled and organized the papers on the expansive desk in front of me, I turned to my co-anchor, Hank, and whispered to him while elbowing his arm, “What a way to go, right?”

Hank and I had been working together side by side on the evening newscasts for nearly 12 years.  Every day we joked together off camera about the ridiculousness of the news while grateful it gave us a name and a face.  Waiting for his always quick wit, I leaned back in my swivel chair to eye him.  In my periphery, Stan motioned in front of the big green screen that most likely pictured a map of Maryland for the viewers at home.

Hank leaned in close, his strong, low voice wavering, “That was my sister’s kid.”  He paused.  “Her only child.  My nephew, my godson.”

“Oh, Christ.  Hank, I’m sorry.”  An unfamiliar mix of emotions rushed through my body.  This was not news.  This was not public information.  This was the world on its head.  This was personal pain.  And I decided to hell with it all.

“I’m not going to read that story again next hour.  More information will probably come in and they’ll add it to the script, but I’m not going to read it.”

“But Grace, what are you going to do?  What about Pete?”  Hank began to prepare his appearance for the cameras that were headed our way. 

  

“Oh, screw Pete.  He’s just my boss.  You’re family.  I am not going to splash your stuff all over the screen.  It’s just a few seconds.  I’ll fake a coughing fit or something.  I am a professional.”  I comically adjusted my glasses and smoothed down my blouse.  

“You’re a piece of work, Grace.  You really are.  And I love you for it.”

“I love you, too.”  

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This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to (in under 500 words) use the first line, "It was impossible" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks! 

Under the Overpass

A flash sparked across the sky as the train's wheels wailed overhead.  Shannon braced herself against the wind and the noise, hugging her maroon corduroy blazer tight.  Waiting under a bridge on the other side of town after dark was no picnic.  Overnight, or so it seemed to Shannon, her entire life had become an endless reel of scenes just like this.  And it was beginning to feel dangerous.  

From deeper under the overpass, Shannon heard a subtle rustle.  She snapped her head in that direction and squinted her eyes, scanning the area.  Her only source of light was a blinding spot shining from the deserted parking lot across the street.  And then he came into view.

It was not who Shannon expected.  Her breath caught in her throat and she clenched her fist to her gut.  Adrenaline flooded her system "Wh-who's there?" she stammered, starting to slink behind a concrete pillar.  

"Hi there!  Welcome.  I'm Dan."

Dan's genuine tone instantly put out the fire burning in her chest.  Her confusion at his response encouraged her to inquire, "Welcome where?"

"Welcome to my home, darling."  Dan gestured at the illuminated area before them and the small nook from whence he emerged.  Shannon imagined that was some sort of bedroom, if this was really this guy's home.  He was probably just out of his mind.

"What brings you to this hairy neck of the woods?" Dan asked with concern in his clear green eyes.

"Oh, I'm just waiting for someone."  Shannon kicked the gravel at her feet.  "I didn't know anyone lived here."

"Here, why don't you have a seat while you wait?"  Dan brushed off the top of a cinder block.  "Do you have a match?"

Shannon audibly exhaled.  Hopefully Dan would offer her a cigarette, too.  "I do, actually."  She rummaged around in her bag. 

"Great!  Now we can have a fire.  It’s getting chilly."  Dan proceeded to toss one of the lit sticks into a metal barrel, causing its contents to ignite and create a beautiful bounty of warmth.

Not knowing what else to do or say, Shannon accepted the seat Dan offered.  He quickly plopped down next to her on his own cinder block seat.  Shaking her crossed legs, Shannon looked around a bit anxious, but no one else was there.  "So, do you ever think of living somewhere real?"

"This is my real home," Dan answered.

"So you’re a junkie then," Shannon stated, not bothering to ask.

"Not at all, but it appears that you are."

Shannon blurted, "No!  Not that it is any of your business.  I just happen to be a person who enjoys recreational drugs."

"And, I just happen to be a person who enjoys living outside."

Shannon jumped to her feet as the first car of the night rolled by.  As she hopped in the back seat she scoffed, "Whatever, DAN."

"Good luck writing your story, darling," he called back.  "Good luck."

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This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to use the first line, "A flash sparked across the sky" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!

Closer

When we walked into the hospice that bright, blue September day we knew we would walk out changed.  When we walked down the long, carpeted halls we stole unsure glances into other rooms while we looked for his.  We did not want to be here, but we did not want to be anywhere else.

With a deep breath we entered his room anxious about how he might look.  But our eyes fell on Aunt Lesly.  This was the first time we had seen her in 17 years.  Why does death do that?  Why does death bring to life what we had long left buried?

Our next concern was Mom.  She stood as we approached and hugged us hard.  She cradled her healing arm, a new baby to which to tend.  She had already delivered her father to this place, carrying him his final weeks. Now, her true children were with her.  We felt sure she was ready.

Dad was there, too, of course.  He had been right by Mom, right by us, for as long as we could remember.  Our barometer by which to gauge life's required events.  

Finally, our eyes and our hearts settled on Papa.  It had been nearly a week since we had seen him.  He had been in a hospital gown then and so he remained.  It fit him loosely, but we knew he no longer cared how he looked.  We believed that he still cared dearly about who was near.

So, we sat and we waited.

The nurses came in from time to time.  They always brought relief.  They might have been angels.  Once, they shifted Papa slightly to the side.  That's often all we need to get going, really.  After they left, he stopped.  The rattle had been released.  Everyone in the room stood, moved by the presence of absence. 

We truly knew Papa had left when Dad looked at his watch.  Daddy always knows the time, the weather, the score.  We expected him to drop his arm to look at the digits on his wrist.  We did not expect him to place his strong, tan, daddy hand on Papa's pale forehead and bestow a kiss. 

We had never been there before when someone had died.  It was finished.  Our lives minus one had begun.  We held each other.  We even hugged Aunt Lesly.  We cried.

Walking out into the crisp, cleansing September evening we knew we were closer.  We knew we were closer to each other.  We also knew we were closer to doing this again. 

We are seven years apart and therefore very different.  We are from the same parents and therefore very similar.  We are siblings.  We are sisters.  We will change, but that never will.  We have, but that has not.  We live in different houses now, but we still grow up together.    

In the Presence of Absence

When we walked into the hospice that bright, blue September day we knew we would walk out changed.  When we walked down the long, carpeted halls we stole unsure glances into other rooms, while we looked for his.  We did not want to be here, but we did not want to be anywhere else.

With a deep breath we entered his room anxious about how he might look.  But our eyes fell on Aunt Lesly.  This was the first time we had seen her in 17 years.  Why does death do that?  Why does death bring to life what we had long left buried?

Our next concern was Mom.  She stood as we approached and hugged us hard.  She cradled her healing arm, a new baby to which to tend.  She had already delivered her father to this place, carrying him his final weeks. Now, her true children were with her.  We felt sure she was ready.

Dad was there, too, of course.  He had been right by Mom, right by us, for as long as we could remember.  Our barometer by which to gauge life's required events.  

Finally, our eyes and our hearts settled on Papa.  It had been nearly a week since we had seen him.  He had been in a hospital gown then and so he remained.  It fit him loosely, but we knew he no longer cared how he looked.  We believed that he still cared dearly about who was near. 

So, we sat and we waited.

Oddly, it was Aunt Lesly who told Papa we were there.  She had been gone for so long, yet she was was the one who set the scene.  She spoke boldly into his ear, announcing each person by name.  We were grateful she knew what to do.  We were so glad she told him.

And then we waited some more.

"Aunt Lesly, we are going to welcome a new little one into our family soon," we said.  We didn't know what else to say.

"Oh, I didn't know.  Congratulations."

Of course she didn't know.  Papa didn't even know.  What would he say if he could hear us?  Could he hear us?  We could certainly hear him.  Unlike us, he was not afraid to breathe. 

The nurses came in from time to time.  They always brought relief.  They kindly answered our quaint questions.  They calmly made sure Papa was comfortable.  They might have been angels.

Once, they shifted Papa slightly to the side.  That's often all we need to get going, really.  After they left, he stopped. The rattle had been released.  Everyone in the room stood, moved by the presence of absence. 

We truly knew Papa had left when Dad looked at his watch.  Daddy always knows the time, the weather, the score.  We expected him to drop his arm to look at the digits on his wrist.  We did not expect him to place his strong, tan, daddy hand on Papa's pale forehead and bestow a kiss. 

We had never been there before when someone had died.  It was finished.  It had just begun.

We held each other.  We even hugged Aunt Lesly.  We cried.

And then we waited some more.  We did strange things like make jokes and sit on the edge of his bed and drink soda.  Even though he was gone, we stayed.  But then it was time for all of us to go.  

Walking out into the crisp, cleansing September evening we knew we were closer.  We knew were were closer to each other.  We also knew we were closer to doing this again.

We lost our grandfather that day, but we gained insight into more than we might even realize this day.     
We are seven years apart and therefore very different.  We are from the same parents and therefore very similar.  We are siblings.  We are sisters.  We will change, but that never will.  We have, but that has not.  We live in different houses now, but we still grow up together.    

Retaliation

The smell was noticeable.  My nostrils recognized it immediately.  Stepping into Brad's apartment transported me directly back to college, to that part of campus that was as exhilarating as it was exhausting: the boy's dormitories.  His place reeked of testosterone mixed with feet and a hint of Old Spice Sport.  My suspicions were true.  He even smelled like a prick.

Two months ago, things were going great.  Brad and I saw each other nearly every day.  We met up with friends for drinks after work, we cuddled on the couch in the evenings, we even had dinner once with my parents.  Life was beautifully mundane, peacefully normal.

And then he gave me a key to his apartment.  According to my friend Cindy, I overreacted.  In my defense, I was perioding.  When Brad handed me my own key on a well worn UNC lanyard, I cried.  I swooned.  I supposed he was committed.  Clearly, I was wrong.  This is my first time here since.

Our nearly daily dates dwindled to one or two a week.  We still talked, texted and tweeted regularly, but it was mostly to realize our schedules would not line up.  Brad got really busy at work.  I got really busy at the business of backing up Brad.  Cindy kept harping on me to get to the bottom of all of the mess, but I was too blind to embrace her concern. 

And then, in my way, I just let life happen to me.  I let Brad pussy foot around his reasons for being absent.  I demanded no information.  I basically enabled his affair.  So what did I do the minute I saw him with his hand on her thigh at his favorite pub down the street?  I used the key to his apartment the way he had used me; behind his back and in order to have the upper hand.

Standing in the middle of Brad's living room I felt equally foolish and furious, embarrassed and entitled.  The combination must have been just the medicine I needed.  I began scanning the room for ways to make him feel the same way.  Holding the key between my thumb and forefinger, palm to the ceiling, I slowly walked around pointing at what I might take, break or both.

Lucky for him, his two most prized possessions, his phone and his penis, possibly in that order, were on his person.  Then, the invisible, vengeful eyes of the key landed on something new to me in the room: a gigantic, gleaming flat screen TV.  I am not sure how I overlooked in before.  But, the important point was that and I saw it now.

Like magnets the key and the television connected before I could give the attraction a second thought.  Careful not to shatter the screen, I etched a simple message into its surface, "YOUR KEY."  I then drew a two foot arrow pointing down to the top of the dusty piece-of-crap cabinet on which the television stood.  Tossing the key to land below the end of that liberating stroke, I waltzed out of Brad's life and let the door slam behind me.

Running down the stairs on a wave of ecstasy I hadn't felt in weeks, I dialed Cindy.

"Hey!!" she yelled over the bar's banter.

"I'm coming out," I unnecessarily shouted back. "Is that guy Nathan still meeting you all?"

"For real?!  I thought you were waiting for Brad to call."

"Game. Over.  It is my turn to play."

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This piece is a work of fiction and was inspired by this week's the speakeasy writing prompt.  For the challenge we had to use the first line, "The smell was noticeable" and refer, in some way, to the photo above.  Click on the button below to read the prompt and the other beautiful writers who hang out there.  Thanks!