Frugal

I don't ever want to be frugal with compassion. Even when I am forced to be frugal in other ways-- financial, time, sharing of talent-- I hope that I can still be compassionate. It doesn't have to cost much to be understanding, to stand up for those who need someone to do it, or to empathize. And when I have the time, money, and talent? Then, I hope I can model compassion by providing for those who don't have the things I do.

*** One Minute Writer ***

Habit

She walked with her head held high, a poise many felt unbecoming of her considering her chosen profession. Smiling graciously, she watched the young boy drop a few coins into the small kettle and then blessed him in the Lord's name. More people were enticed to drop spare change by her habit and persistent bell ringing.

*** One Word ***

Cold

"What is wrong with that child," I wonder. I watch him dance pass the windows again, his arms flailing and his voice joyous. I shutter and wrap the blanket around me tighter. It's barely 40 degrees outside and I don't remember the internal fires of childhood that used to keep me warm out of a coat.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Glove

Swathed in velvet and jewels, Cinderella pulled on a white satin glove. The lace band squeezed her flabby arm. "Maid," she called, a thin note of disdain in her voice, "I believe this pair, too, has shrunk from carelessness. Please bring me a pair that you haven't taken to be laundered and find out who's mistake this was."

"Yes Your Highness," came the young girl's response. Quickly the girl picked the dropped glove from the floor and put it in the pile with the other discarded gloves. She handed the Queen a new pair of gloves, which she assumed would also prove to be too small.

*** One Minute Writer ***

Dirty Work

Cinderella stood in the window, looking over the vast castle gardens. Below, she saw several men clearing dead branches and yellowed stalks for that evenings party. She remembered how dirty that work was and made a mental note to stay out of the area until her husband summoned her for the party. "Your Majesty," came an older woman's voice, "another of your ladies is here to help with the corset. If you are ready madam, we can lace you in."

Together, the women worked to reign in the aging queen's spreading girth. Once the strained ribbon was tied into place, they helped place the heavy velvet robes over Cinderella's frame. The older woman silently buttoned the tiny pearls from the small of the queen's back to the nape of her neck. The young girl fetched appropriate accessories at Cinderella's command. Both received their daily ration of subtle abuse.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

The Detective

"Henry! Henry!" Phoebe's head stuck out of the third floor window. "Henry!" she called again, but he kept walking away from her. Even from the street, I could see her body shutter, her angst shaking her more than the cool autumn wind. She continued to stand there, staring at the path he had taken. Looking down the street, I couldn't see him anymore and assumed that he must have turned by the Johnson and Son's Family Grocer.

Phoebe continued to stand in the window. I could hear her crying now. It sounded guilty. Still I watched her, the silky white night gown clingy softly to her body. She was gorgeous, but every fellow in these parts knew that. Pulling her robe around her, she stood up tall, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. I noticed that her cherry red lips were still quivering. I licked my lips just thinking about them.

She closed her window and moved more to the interior of the house. That's when I made my move. Dropping the newspaper in the garbage on the curb after I crossed the street, I bounded up the stairs and pulled the door open. The elevator sat a few yards from the doors. I pushed the button to summon the elevator. The doors opened immediately. It wouldn't take long to get to the third floor.

Deposited into her hallway, I smoothed down my coat and slacks. Three ladies came around the corner. Smiling I tipped my hat to them before proceeding the rest of the way down the hall. I was in a good mood. Apartment 321 stood in front of me. The heavy oak door and gold paper almost made me feel like a rich man. I expected to half to knock, but the door was open slightly. Looking around, I let myself in.

"Phoebe," I called into the empty room. "Are you in the bedroom?" I made my way through the tables and chairs and to her room. She was sitting on the bed, her right leg thrown over her left and bouncing in the air. Smoke swirled toward the ceiling and her long fingers wrapped firmly around the cigarette holder. I remained leaning against the door frame, just watching her gather her composure.

"So, how much did it cost you this time?" she asked without looking at me.

"Not much. A $10. I told him there was an extra $5 in it for doing a good job." I smiled. I had a knack for getting cheap labor off of newbies.

Phoebe inhaled deeply and let the smoke come out slowly. "Well, he earned that $5 and apparently a whole lot more."

"Yeah. That good a job, huh?" I said peeling myself from the door frame and starting to approach her.

She didn't say a word, only tapped some glossy photos on the bed and then stood up, walking to the dresser. I picked up the photos and the smile slipped from my face. They were pictures of Phoebe and I together. The pictures looked innocent enough, but I knew that restaurant terrace was where we met for business. Paper clipped to the last picture was a note. The handwriting was neat and orderly, but still clearly a man's. "Read it," she said, stubbing out the cigarette as the last stream of smoke lifted.

I began to read it. Three pages detailed the meeting we'd had the day the pictures were taken. My mouth fell open. The meeting had been about how Phoebe should close the Henry scam and how much money she thought she could get from the bastard. I looked at her disbelieving what I'd read.

She had a coat pulled around her nightgown and proper shoes on her feet. Next to the dresser was her suitcase, fully packed. "Next time, make sure the detective you hire isn't already working for our target." She turned her back on me and walked away just as Henry had done to her.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Duck

The fight had been going on all day. A literal line had been drawn across the living room, marking sides. Joanna sat behind the over turned couch, carefully planning her next move. John knew something was coming, and that it would be big, but wasn't sure what and so stayed hunkered down behind the love seat and winged back chair. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. John stood up to answer. Interruptions such as these marked a temporary truce. Opening the door, he found Joanne's friend standing on the stoop.

"Now may not be the best time, " he said as Marcy stormed in. She looked upset.

Turning to face him, she put a finger in John's face. "What have you...."

"Duck!" yelled Joanne as her head popped above the couch. Nerf gun in hand, she aimed it at John and took her shot. Rapid fire foam missiles shot across the room. Two hit Marcy in the back before she managed to get out of the way. Three more hit John as he dived for the safety of his refuge. The last hit squarely on his heart. "Games over, baby! All's fair in love and war!" Joana screamed as she did a happy dance.

In her excitement, she missed Marcy grabbing one of John's guns and firing back. The little yellow dart smacked her in the butt. Marcy blew over the top of the foam gun, set it on the table, and stormed out marginally less irritated than when she had come in. As the door shut and Marcy's profile disappeared from the window, John and Joanna burst into large bubbles of laughter. It had been a good day.

*** One Word: It is suppose to be a timed one minute writing experiment, only I didn't realize that the sound on my computer had been turned off. By the time I noticed, I was too far in to trash it and start over. Plus, I was having fun watching the scene play out in my mind. ***