crawl out of bed
strip the sheets
stumble in the shower
towel off.
throw on some clothes.
avoid the mirror.
Halt.
Walk back to the bed stand.
Pick up the worn prayer card.
Stick it in the bible, place it firmly on the bookshelf.
Revisit the closet.
Shimmy out of the grey sweat pants.
Slide into that purple dress.
Shake it in front of the mirror. Yes.
Grab an umbrella and strut on out of there.
Drink up the rain. Don't drown in it.
Splash out there until you find someone else who is lonely too.
Practice togetherness again.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Sunday Scribblings #198 - "The Good Old Days" (15 minute timed writing)
Melanie swore off men again. She’s not in the mood for entertaining. The doorbell rings and she stays still, eyes wide like a woodland creature, hoping her predator won’t hear her. Two more fairly insistent rings, then whoever it is (is it actually Dick? She can’t tell- ) goes away.
After she makes sure that all her doors and windows are properly locked, Melanie checks her inventory.
The Moosewood Cookbook. That would mean going shopping. Out of the question. There are no sunglasses in the world big enough to cover this bruise. What else?
Five cans of tomato soup, saltines, two six-packs of Dr. Pepper, one slice of quiche in a doggy bag, some leftover zucchini bread, a Yoplait cup, and a bottle of Heinz. She will survive.
Melanie decides to sequester herself in her home studio for the weekend. Conduct her own purification rituals. Cleanse. Sweat it out. Regroup. Rejuvenate. Love herself.
Dick’s no great wit, anyway. His faded jeans and earrings don’t make him George Carlin, despite her best fantasies. Melanie resolves to hold out for the real George Carlin next time. Wait- there will be no next time. A woman would make a better soul mate. She lights a cigarette and walks over to the turntable. She rifles through her albums, searching with her fingers for the well-worn sleeve. Ah. Found it. She plunks the needle on, hears the crackle-pop, and waits. She will settle for no less than Carly Simon.
After she makes sure that all her doors and windows are properly locked, Melanie checks her inventory.
The Moosewood Cookbook. That would mean going shopping. Out of the question. There are no sunglasses in the world big enough to cover this bruise. What else?
Five cans of tomato soup, saltines, two six-packs of Dr. Pepper, one slice of quiche in a doggy bag, some leftover zucchini bread, a Yoplait cup, and a bottle of Heinz. She will survive.
Melanie decides to sequester herself in her home studio for the weekend. Conduct her own purification rituals. Cleanse. Sweat it out. Regroup. Rejuvenate. Love herself.
Dick’s no great wit, anyway. His faded jeans and earrings don’t make him George Carlin, despite her best fantasies. Melanie resolves to hold out for the real George Carlin next time. Wait- there will be no next time. A woman would make a better soul mate. She lights a cigarette and walks over to the turntable. She rifles through her albums, searching with her fingers for the well-worn sleeve. Ah. Found it. She plunks the needle on, hears the crackle-pop, and waits. She will settle for no less than Carly Simon.
Sunday Scribblings
For months now, I've been lurking around at Laini Taylor and Meg Genge's Sunday Scribblings writing prompt site. I think I'll pony up now and post my timed writings based on their fantastic prompts. Here goes!
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