The Waiter

Not that it mattered. Evelyn was the only one who could hear the ruckus she was causing. The cart kept knocking into the wall with each body she loaded onto the dumb waiter. Her fiance, George, with that adorable dimple in his left cheek. It's what first drew her to him all those years ago. Evelyn exhaled slightly, tracing it lightly with her finger before using his suit jacket to move him further into the small space. Her heart twanged a little at the loss. He had been a good man, but he should have trusted her more.

On top of him, his mother, Charlotte. The ashen skin made her make-up even more vivid. Evelyn had the impression that she was a clown, only there was no laughter in her eyes. A sad clown perhaps. A small smile played across Evelyn's lips. Charlotte had kind of acted the clown in this whole mess. She tripped over her final words as if she was wearing big shoes. Evelyn was sure that if she had been wearing a corsage, it would have sprayed water. Charlotte's body folded onto itself as the dumb waiter lowered from the weight.

Finally, came George Senior, ever the clever business man. She was sure it was he had insisted on the pre-nup. But everyone else had agreed, even if it wasn't their idea. Ruefully Evelyn pushed him on top of the pile, the crowning piece of his family and certainly the circumstances in which she found herself tonight. He had grown heavy, not just from his ego, but from the rich pastries he seemed to constantly be eating. His doughy body continued to offer resistance, even after death. Evelyn worked up a sweat. The family loaded in the dumb waiter, she wiped her brow, and with it, any guilt feelings she may have had.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

The Babysitter

The babysitter is my arch enemy. He has been for a long time. I just wasn't aware of it until recently. It was my children who brought it to my attention.

The day I finally understood the rivalry between us was dreary. Cold drops of water fell from the dark sky, keeping us inside for the entirety of the day. The children and I sat snuggled in my bed. The last hour before bedtime seemed to travel slowly, without mercy. My husband had been out of town for 4 days and I was exhausted.

As I began to read the next chapter, the children began to giggle and wiggle. I thought they were just restless. I nudged them and reminded them to listen. The giggling and wiggling continued. Slowly, their heads disappeared under the covers.

"Are you guys done listening?" I asked gently, peeking beneath the blankets. Neither answered me. Both had mischievous grins on their faces. "Isn't the story fun anymore?"

"Mom,last night, when you were gone, Frankie let us build a huge fort with all the blankets and chairs in the house and it so much fun! Can we do it again?" I smiled, glad that they had enjoyed themselves in my absence. Not so much that they had enjoyed themselves, I guess, more so that they hadn't been set mindlessly in front of the TV.

"Not tonight, it's getting too late. Let's finish the story. It's almost done, okay?"

"Ugghhhhh," said the youngest one, "Frankie is the most fun ever. All you ever want to do is homework and reading!"

"Yeah!" intoned the other one before I had fully processed what was said.

"Homework and reading are important. We have to do that. But we do have fun too!"

The conversation went on, the children proving their point over and over. It was loud and clear. I was a parent, a guardian, the adult in their life who told them what to do and when to do it. I was fulfilling the role that the experts said children needed, but the experts must have been wrong. Children wanted and needed friends.

So, Frankie, if you are reading this, we are now enemies. You've been sly, deceptive, and are clearly far ahead as the fun factor in my children's lives. But I wasn't playing the game then. You just wait! I am going to be the most fun person my children have ever known!

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Market

We rose from our beds with the sun and readied to go. It would be the last market for the year and we needed to stock up. I was hoping to find three fast fire automatics while my husband wanted to pick up a few long range rifles, along with the usual handhelds. The government regulation of the black market had made it safer, but the hours were a killer.

*** One Word ***

Jar

Olivia had just stirred the chocolate, sending the delicious aroma to hover in the air. She turned to her list and checked off 'cooking'. Next, she set all the appetizers out on the counter. Several trays covered the small island. Unwrapping each tray with with the same joy children open gifts with, she smiled at her handiwork. All that was left was to add the finishing touch: a scented candle set between a festive wreath as a simple centerpiece.

She struggled with the lid for a couple of minutes to no avail. "John," she called, "can you help me with this thing?"

He didn't answer her. She wasn't surprised. Voices didn't travel well through the empty space and wide hallway occupying the distance between them. Concerned with the impending arrival of her guests, she carried the jar to the bedroom, pulling at the cap. She was so focused on getting the candle open, she didn't notice John was on bended knee.

"Marry me," he said simply.

*** One Minute Writer ***

Pizza

Steve's eyes widened in anticipation as the young man carrying three boxes of pizzas worked to climb up the steep icy driveway. Tiny step by tiny step the man drew closer, his concentration on staying balanced evident in his posture. Hands thrown in the air Rocky-style, a spasm of delight leaped from Steve's lungs as the delivery guy tumbled backwards. "That makes three on one night," he yelled to his college buddies in the other room.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Remembrance Day

I remember the fear that would seize me when I had to wake my father up from his unconscious position on the couch. Most people would suggest I meant a nap, but with the drugs and alcohol that flowed freely through his body, I could never be certain that was what I would be interrupting.

My sisters and I argued over who would do it. We didn't have any money (it was unwisely spent on drugs most weeks) so even flipping a coin couldn't resolve the conflict. Instead, my conscience flipped until it finally landed with the my-responsibility-to-keep-my-sisters-safe side facing up. It seemed to be a trick coin as it rarely landed any other way.

So I would approach him, stretching my arm as far forward as I could while my other arm held tightly to the wall to keep me balanced. For a short while, I used a ruler to gently tap his ankles, but I found it too dangerous after it became a weapon in his hands the second or third time. I used my hands now. My shaking hands. Tap, tap, tap. "Dad," I would call before racing back to an area out of his reach.

Tap, tap, tap again when he didn't respond. Like a Hermit Crab, I would creep a little farther in and tap his thigh. "Dad?" I would call just a little bit louder. Tap, tap.....

His hands would fly at me-- an arm twisted painfully behind my back, my back pressed down into the couch while his hands circled my neck-- on those unlucky occasions. But that wasn't the worst of it. It was the look in his eyes. A look of hatred, of fear, of insanity. A look absent of any compassion or humility even after he remembered that Vietnam was far behind him and in front of him was a girl who hadn't reached puberty yet.

I didn't know my father any other way until I was in my thirties. It took him that long to begin to mature. He stopped drinking and doing drugs by sheer will power. He stopped smoking with a patch. When I visit during the holidays, I have trouble reconciling this father with the one I grew up with. And I wonder, is this the real cost of sending people into bloody conflict? Does either side ever truly win?

***Daily Writing Practice ***

Certain

I am certain that being a single mother would kill me. Maybe not physically, but my energy and personality would slowly be throttled by the experience. They would hang limp around me, clinging to other identifying aspects of myself, as I did the dishes and laundry well after the children were in bed. I'm tired just thinking about the unlikely possibility.

*** One Word ***