Motel

I looked at the paper. "Number 13" it said. Glancing at the door just before me, I saw that I was standing just two doors down. Quietly, I set my bag down and withdrew my.22, screwing the silencer I had handcrafted specially for the job onto the end. I loved motel jobs. The approach and the escape were easy.

*** One Word ***

Compass

Michelle sat at the dining room table cutting chicken into bite-sized pieces for her children who were being none too patient. "Mark, could you...... What are you doing?" she asked as he sat oblivious to the demands of the kids while shaking his new phone in sharp circles.

"I'm doing what my phone told me to," he stated with a big goofy smile as he showed her the compass face on the screen and began to explain how it was calibrating to True North.

"Yeah, well your phone is about to text you this message: Help your wife or you'll find yourself buried 6' due South."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Plumber

Thanksgiving is always hectic. This year it was made more hectic by the fact that my husband and I were moving into our first home. It was only 2 miles from our apartment, but the distance felt immeasurable as I basted the turkey and wondered how much longer before my glass baking dishes would arrive. I picked up the phone, which I found buried in a pile of clothing, and called. "Hi sweetheart. Have you found the baking dishes yet? No. Okay. Keep looking or our feast will be lacking. Oh, and I can't find my teaspoons. Can you look for those too? Great! Hope to see you soon."

I hung up and went back to what use to look like a kitchen. The counters were covered instill packed boxes. Old newspapers littered the floors, once having served as coverings to keep glass items from breaking. The sink was full of discarded potato peels, onion chunks, dried bread, etc. I'd set up a card table in the dining room for food preparation, but the actual cooking and clean-up had to occur in what had become a tiny space barely large enough for one person and an oven door.

I breathed out. It was useless to put the casseroles and desserts together without the proper dishware or measuring devices. I walked over to the sink and glanced down at the impressive mound of food. After turning th water on, I flipped the switch for the garbage disposal and listened to the mechanism below grind up the food. Suddenly, it began to choke. I turned the machine off and sent more water down the drain.

Only it wouldn't go down. It simply continued to rise in the sink. With it came small pieces of food. I grabbed a spoon and unpacked the food from the drain, assuming it was just too full. I turned the machine back on. Water bubbled up at me and I heard the machine grind to a nasty halt. In my shock, I didn't notice that even though the machine had stopped, the water continued to flow up and then over the sink and onto my brand new floor. I slipped and fell on mushy bread, my new pants ruined.

As I used the edge of the sink to pull myself up, water flowed over my arm, carrying bits of onions, lettuce, and carrot. I slapped the water off and ran to the closet for towels, forgetting that they hadn't been brought over yet. Dripping with frustration, I dialed my husband again. "The garbage disposal just threw up. I need someone to bring over towels."

There was a mute moment on the phone. In the background I could hear the grunts and groans of men moving heavy items. Tink, tink, tinkle. "They must be moving the piano," I thought.

"What do you mean the garbage disposal threw up?" he finally said.

"I mean I turned it on and it kind of worked in reverse. The floor and me are covered in turkey stuffing and mashed potatoes. Could you please bring over several towels?"

He sighed heavily. "Call a plumber."

"Seriously? On Thanksgiving?"

As I finished asking, I heard him yelling to whom I presumed was his father. "Why don't women know you can't put potato peels in a garbage disposal?"

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Swing

Only Squirrel noticed that she had arrived with less joy than previous years. He sat silently among the cheerful woodland creatures, listening to their incessant chatter while observing her. Spring wandered slowly, examining the brown sticks and hard clumps of Earth that sat humiliated in their nudity where every one could see. She would touch them gently, whispering consoling words, and promise deep robes of green with jeweled flowers as decoration. Her prophets helped spread her promise from the tops of the trees in little chirps and tweets and whistles. But she didn't twirl. Her hair was limp, it's bright golden color hidden behind a veil of sadness.

Quietly, he left and scampered up an old arthritic tree. "Dearest Spring!" he called. Nerves caused him to dart between branches and the old tree shook them, annoyed to have the extra weight of Squirrel for fear his branches would snap. "Miss Spring!" Squirrel called again.

She turned and came over, stroking the old tree, relaxing his tired joints. He relaxed and the Squirrel stood still. "My dear Spring," Squirrel began and then hesitated at the stormy grey of her eyes. He was accustomed to eyes of brilliant blue with flecks of white in this young maiden. "I beg your pardon, miss, but what keeps you from your twirling dance and babbling laughter?"

Her eyes darkened. A dangerous light flashed across them for such a brief time that Squirrel thought perhaps he was dreaming this encounter. She looked at him intently. "A woman aught to be entitled to a mood swing now and then!" she stormed and her tear drops soaked Squirrel and the Earth as she turned away and left with a great wind at her heels.

*** One Minute Writer ***

The Collector

Alex sat quietly outside the door of his home breathing in the crisp air of a Wisconsin autumn. The chill of the day bore into his arthritic knuckles bringing his advancing age sharply to mind. It was his 75th birthday and he would likely spend it alone. He smiled at the thought. He'd finally achieved what he had wanted most of his youth. Peace and quiet. He'd never imagined that the phrase was a fancy way to say loneliness. Taking a deep breath, he felt an ache in his lungs. It wouldn't be much longer, he knew, before that life affirming pain was no longer felt. Cancer had ravaged most of his family and he believed from an early age that it wouldn't be any different for him.

Looking at his watch told him that his only possible visitor would not be coming. His mailbox would remain empty. Not even a coupon would bring him a little company. Slowly he shuffled through his door, up the staircase, and to his balcony. "At least," he thought as he looked over the numerous collections that had overrun his home and extended into the adjacent buildings, "I'll have hundreds of visitors after my death."

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Gravity

I sat quietly in a group of strangers trying to stay still and silent so as not to attract attention. The person to my right kept rocking back and forth, whimpering as if his emotional pain were expressing itself physically. To my left sat a 'popper', or at least that is what I came to call those like her. She sat still, attentive, but then would suddenly 'pop'. A muscle would noticeably jump or she would make a noise, fidget, adjust. It was always something and always sudden. Before and behind me sat others. Some were fidgety, some were quiet, some seem dazed. As far as I could tell, the only thing we all held in common was that gravity held us in place. So far, kindergarten was not all that socially impressive.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***

Involved

Sometimes I wonder about my role in life. I want to be involved in my children's upbringing, but when is it too much? At the same time, I can't help but question the lack of involvement I see from others, including my husband. I think the real problem is the varying definitions of being involved.

*** One Word ***