Breathe in.
Breathe out.
Breathe in.
“Rachel!” Dr. Smith breezed into the room, interrupting her thoughts. She usually enjoyed his upbeat nature, but today Rachel wanted nothing more than to smack the smile off his face.
She’d spent hours offering up her vital fluids, her anxiety ratcheting up until she thought she’d explode. Her phone buzzed with incoming emails, text messages, and missed calls, further aggravating her migraine. Her face felt warm and she was certain her blood pressure had risen 100 points in the last fifteen minutes. The phone buzzed again.
“Do you need to get that?” Dr. Smith asked cheerfully.
“No,” she said sharply.
“I’ll get right down to it then!” he chirped. Rachel leaned forward, her manicured fingernails threatening to punch through the blue vinyl on the table.
“Good news, Rachel. No cancer!”
She blew out a breath of air and relaxed. No cancer. She was fine! Or was she? She frowned.
“Then what is it?” she asked.
He grinned. “You’re pregnant!”
“Wait, what? You mean, I’m going to have a baby?” She grabbed his arm, eyes narrowing. “Are you sure?”
Dr. Smith’s face softened. “I know this is unexpected,” he said gently.
“I can’t be pregnant! How did this happen?” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
He shifted awkwardly. “Uh, well—“
“I know how the reproductive cycle works, Doc,” she snapped. “I meant, how could this happen to ME?” She stared at her hands.
“It could be worse,” he reminded her. “I’ll have the front desk pull a list of doctors for you in case—,” he paused, searching for the right words. “In case you wish to go a different route.” He exited the room.
A baby. This didn’t make sense, she thought. She couldn’t be a mother. She didn’t have a maternal bone in her body. She never babysat. She wasn’t married. She didn’t even have a boyfriend!
She felt disoriented as she donned her carefully folded Armani suit. Her designer wardrobe! The six figure salary! She wanted to run back to her corner office as fast as her Jimmy Choo’s would take her. This wasn’t part of her plan to conquer the advertising world. She’d worked hard to get here; she couldn’t throw it all away now. She wasn't ready for this. She clutched her belly and fought the urge to vomit.
Swallowing her guilt, she made her way to Billing. She quietly placed her credit card in the receptionist’s waiting hands, signed the receipt and shouldered her purse. The woman pushed a manila envelope towards her.
“What’s that?”
“The list Dr. Smith promised you.” Rachel searched the woman’s face, but couldn’t find anything. She sighed.
Something bumped into her as she took the envelope. A pair of green eyes, sparkling with mischief, peered up at her.
The little girl was angelic with her round cheeks and soft golden curls pinned back by a huge pink bow. She grinned at Rachel and ducked behind her legs. Tiny warm hands gripped her knees, surprising Rachel and forcing the breath out of her body.
“Callie, where’d you go?” a voice called. A woman appeared and Rachel stood frozen, watching her with widened eyes. The child giggled.
“Callie!” the mother admonished. “I’m so sorry!” she apologized to Rachel. She scooped up little girl scolding her. Callie looked back at Rachel and waved.
“Ma’am?” the receptionist asked, breaking into her thoughts.
She stared at the envelope clutched in her hands and laid it on the counter gently.
“Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be needing this.”
This post was written as part of The Red Dress Club's Red Writing Hood. This week, we were asked to write a 600 word piece (fiction or non-fiction) about a time when we took a detour: where were we going and where did we end up? As always, constructive feedback is most appreciated!
Cheers,
Kelly
Showing posts with label Red Dress Club. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Red Dress Club. Show all posts
Friday, March 18, 2011
Friday, March 11, 2011
Red Dress Club: Ugly as Sin
“We are NOT keeping it.”
“Please?” Myra’s hazel eyes begged.
A dog, she called it, though it hardly resembled one at the present moment. Its ears were torn, tail crooked, and fur caked in mud. Mud that also caked my daughter’s new dress and freshly cleaned kitchen floor. The “dog” snuffled and ran a pink tongue over its nose.
“Did that thing just eat its boogers?” I asked in disbelief.
Myra snickered. “It’s a dog, Mom! Isn’t he adorable?” She pressed her dirt-streaked face to his and was rewarded with sloppy kisses.
I fought back the urge to vomit.
We’d wanted a dog for some time, but my heart was set on a Black Lab or German Shepherd, the sturdy farm dogs of my youth. I wanted a large dog with glossy fur and excellent breeding. Not only was this dog’s parentage a mystery, he was small, crusted in filth, and looked like he’d hit every branch of the Ugly Tree on the way down.
I wanted an All-American dog, not an All-American reject.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“In the park. Another dog was attacking him and I saved him!” she said proudly.
“You got between two fighting dogs?” I gaped. “Myra, that’s dangerous!”
"Mom, he would’ve been torn to bits!” she argued.
“He already has, if you didn’t notice.”
“Don’t worry, once he’s cleaned up a vet can fix it!”
“He’s ugly as sin! Nothing can fix that!” I protested.
Ignoring me, she carried the dog to the sink and filled it with soap and water. I rolled my eyes and set about mopping the floor. Patience is a virtue, I reminded myself.
After a few minutes, I snuck a peek at Myra’s progress. She sang softly as she scrubbed, and I paused to watch.
A ray of sunlight caught on the flaxen highlights in her hair and dust motes swirled in the air. I smiled, remembering the word Myra used for them as a toddler: fireflies. She would jump and clap her hands trying to catch them, leaving me in tears from laughing so hard. Now on the cusp of adolescence, the buds of breasts beginning to swell under her clothes and baby fat melting away, my chubby toddler was a young woman.
Bubbles zoomed skyward as the dog slipped in the water and he snapped at them. Myra laughed, that deep belly laugh I rarely heard these days, and I should have known then that I’d lost.
Watching her bathe the dog, the trappings of adolescence fell away and for just a moment, I got my baby back.
I wiped a tear away and sighed, startling Myra. The pre-teen mask snapped back into place as she watched me warily.
The dog’s tongue lapped at my fingers as I examined her handiwork. His sparkling white fur was dappled with black patches. He didn’t look half bad now that he was clean, but he would need some work. I cupped his face with my hands and stared into liquid brown eyes that mirrored my own gratitude and love. How could I refuse him when he’d given me something I thought lost forever?
“I think Waverly would be a good name.” I said slowly. “To match his tail.” I gently ran my finger over the kinks and he barked happily.
Myra stared openmouthed.
“You mean I can keep him?!” she shouted. She swung the pup in her arms, flinging water across the kitchen. “Hooray! Mama says you can stay!”
I’m such a sucker, I thought. But it was worth it.
Word Count: 600
This post was written as part of The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt asked us to write a 600 word maximum piece about something ugly–and to find the beauty in it. Feedback is much appreciated!
“Please?” Myra’s hazel eyes begged.
A dog, she called it, though it hardly resembled one at the present moment. Its ears were torn, tail crooked, and fur caked in mud. Mud that also caked my daughter’s new dress and freshly cleaned kitchen floor. The “dog” snuffled and ran a pink tongue over its nose.
“Did that thing just eat its boogers?” I asked in disbelief.
Myra snickered. “It’s a dog, Mom! Isn’t he adorable?” She pressed her dirt-streaked face to his and was rewarded with sloppy kisses.
I fought back the urge to vomit.
We’d wanted a dog for some time, but my heart was set on a Black Lab or German Shepherd, the sturdy farm dogs of my youth. I wanted a large dog with glossy fur and excellent breeding. Not only was this dog’s parentage a mystery, he was small, crusted in filth, and looked like he’d hit every branch of the Ugly Tree on the way down.
I wanted an All-American dog, not an All-American reject.
“Where did you find it?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“In the park. Another dog was attacking him and I saved him!” she said proudly.
“You got between two fighting dogs?” I gaped. “Myra, that’s dangerous!”
"Mom, he would’ve been torn to bits!” she argued.
“He already has, if you didn’t notice.”
“Don’t worry, once he’s cleaned up a vet can fix it!”
“He’s ugly as sin! Nothing can fix that!” I protested.
Ignoring me, she carried the dog to the sink and filled it with soap and water. I rolled my eyes and set about mopping the floor. Patience is a virtue, I reminded myself.
After a few minutes, I snuck a peek at Myra’s progress. She sang softly as she scrubbed, and I paused to watch.
A ray of sunlight caught on the flaxen highlights in her hair and dust motes swirled in the air. I smiled, remembering the word Myra used for them as a toddler: fireflies. She would jump and clap her hands trying to catch them, leaving me in tears from laughing so hard. Now on the cusp of adolescence, the buds of breasts beginning to swell under her clothes and baby fat melting away, my chubby toddler was a young woman.
Bubbles zoomed skyward as the dog slipped in the water and he snapped at them. Myra laughed, that deep belly laugh I rarely heard these days, and I should have known then that I’d lost.
Watching her bathe the dog, the trappings of adolescence fell away and for just a moment, I got my baby back.
I wiped a tear away and sighed, startling Myra. The pre-teen mask snapped back into place as she watched me warily.
The dog’s tongue lapped at my fingers as I examined her handiwork. His sparkling white fur was dappled with black patches. He didn’t look half bad now that he was clean, but he would need some work. I cupped his face with my hands and stared into liquid brown eyes that mirrored my own gratitude and love. How could I refuse him when he’d given me something I thought lost forever?
“I think Waverly would be a good name.” I said slowly. “To match his tail.” I gently ran my finger over the kinks and he barked happily.
Myra stared openmouthed.
“You mean I can keep him?!” she shouted. She swung the pup in her arms, flinging water across the kitchen. “Hooray! Mama says you can stay!”
I’m such a sucker, I thought. But it was worth it.
Word Count: 600
This post was written as part of The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt asked us to write a 600 word maximum piece about something ugly–and to find the beauty in it. Feedback is much appreciated!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Red Dress Club: The Adventures of Capt. Marius, Esq.
With a strong breeze filling her sails, the Queen’s Key raced homeward at a merry clip. Heavy with goods pilfered from Spanish ships, we were riding high on spirits in the bright August sunshine. The waves crested gently across our bow and God willing, we’d be home before Michaelmas.
But as quickly as we’d left port, the waters darkened and the swells grew higher. The blackening sky felt heavy and the winds gusted violently.
“Hurricane’s a-coming!” the crow’s nest called. The crew threw their weight into the lines as the ship strained against the sea. Rain stung our eyes and the decks quickly became deadly slippery.
“Man overboard!” someone screeched.
“Tie your lifelines!” I shouted, but the words were thrown back into my mouth by the wind. I struggled to keep the wheel steady as the Key tossed about, but alas, it was too much! Blinded by rain and mist, I couldn’t see the rocks ahead and the wheel was torn from my hands. The ship shuddered and groaned, splitting in two. The crew screamed as we were pitched into the swirling water.
Desperately searching for flotsam to cling to, I winced as my face smashed into rock by the crashing waves. My hands gripped an outcropping and I clung to it, exhausted.
The wind tore at my back and despair settled like a stone in my belly. How much more could I take? Where were my men? I strained my ears for their cries, but the wind screamed, whipping around me.
Suddenly I heard a voice above the wind’s howl. Could it really be? Was someone else alive?
“HERE!” I cried. “I’m here!”
“Captain!” the voice called, soft and soothing. I stiffened. Something was wrong.
“Curse you!” I shouted. “I won’t be swayed by a siren’s song!”
“Captain Marius,” the voice moaned louder. “Come with meeeee!”
“Never!” I hugged my rock as I watched with dismay as the rest of the Key sank beneath the roiling water. The crew, the goods, my ship, all lost!
“Captain Marius,” the voice tried again, this time with urgency.
“No,” I whispered, shutting my eyes tightly and scrambling further up the rock. “No, I won’t go!” I shouted.
“Don’t be silly,” the voice crooned. “The storm is leaving. Loooook!”
I opened my eyes and blinked. The siren spoke truly; the water WAS ebbing away.
“This can’t be!” I cried. “What’s happening?”
“It’s called ‘bedtime,’ Missy May,” Mama’s voice thundered.
“Who is this Missy May you speak of?” I growled. “I’m Captain Marius, the fiercest sailor on the seven seas!”
“You’re certainly fierce!” she laughed. “Come on, out of the tub!”
“Never!” I shouted, diving back under the water. It swirled around me as I searched the bubbles for the plug. Mama snickered and I looked up to see it dangling from her hand.
“I’ve changed my mind.” I scowled. “You’re not a siren. You’re a harpy!” I screeched.
Mama cocked an eyebrow and placed her hand on her hip.
“Out. Now.” Her tone was icy, dripping with venom. I pouted as I climbed out of the tub. Definitely a harpy, I thought.
I stood naked and shivering as she toweled me off, combed my hair and dressed me in my jammies. Captain Marius wouldn’t complain, neither would I. Mama washed the suds down the drain, carefully placing my toy boat at the back of the tub to dry. As she carried me out of the bathroom, I took one last look.
“I’ll be back, me hearty,” I whispered as the light flicked off.
Word Count: 593
This post was written as part of The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write a 600 word piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements: "Water gives life. It also takes it away."
But as quickly as we’d left port, the waters darkened and the swells grew higher. The blackening sky felt heavy and the winds gusted violently.
“Hurricane’s a-coming!” the crow’s nest called. The crew threw their weight into the lines as the ship strained against the sea. Rain stung our eyes and the decks quickly became deadly slippery.
“Man overboard!” someone screeched.
“Tie your lifelines!” I shouted, but the words were thrown back into my mouth by the wind. I struggled to keep the wheel steady as the Key tossed about, but alas, it was too much! Blinded by rain and mist, I couldn’t see the rocks ahead and the wheel was torn from my hands. The ship shuddered and groaned, splitting in two. The crew screamed as we were pitched into the swirling water.
Desperately searching for flotsam to cling to, I winced as my face smashed into rock by the crashing waves. My hands gripped an outcropping and I clung to it, exhausted.
The wind tore at my back and despair settled like a stone in my belly. How much more could I take? Where were my men? I strained my ears for their cries, but the wind screamed, whipping around me.
Suddenly I heard a voice above the wind’s howl. Could it really be? Was someone else alive?
“HERE!” I cried. “I’m here!”
“Captain!” the voice called, soft and soothing. I stiffened. Something was wrong.
“Curse you!” I shouted. “I won’t be swayed by a siren’s song!”
“Captain Marius,” the voice moaned louder. “Come with meeeee!”
“Never!” I hugged my rock as I watched with dismay as the rest of the Key sank beneath the roiling water. The crew, the goods, my ship, all lost!
“Captain Marius,” the voice tried again, this time with urgency.
“No,” I whispered, shutting my eyes tightly and scrambling further up the rock. “No, I won’t go!” I shouted.
“Don’t be silly,” the voice crooned. “The storm is leaving. Loooook!”
I opened my eyes and blinked. The siren spoke truly; the water WAS ebbing away.
“This can’t be!” I cried. “What’s happening?”
“It’s called ‘bedtime,’ Missy May,” Mama’s voice thundered.
“Who is this Missy May you speak of?” I growled. “I’m Captain Marius, the fiercest sailor on the seven seas!”
“You’re certainly fierce!” she laughed. “Come on, out of the tub!”
“Never!” I shouted, diving back under the water. It swirled around me as I searched the bubbles for the plug. Mama snickered and I looked up to see it dangling from her hand.
“I’ve changed my mind.” I scowled. “You’re not a siren. You’re a harpy!” I screeched.
Mama cocked an eyebrow and placed her hand on her hip.
“Out. Now.” Her tone was icy, dripping with venom. I pouted as I climbed out of the tub. Definitely a harpy, I thought.
I stood naked and shivering as she toweled me off, combed my hair and dressed me in my jammies. Captain Marius wouldn’t complain, neither would I. Mama washed the suds down the drain, carefully placing my toy boat at the back of the tub to dry. As she carried me out of the bathroom, I took one last look.
“I’ll be back, me hearty,” I whispered as the light flicked off.
Word Count: 593
This post was written as part of The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write a 600 word piece - fiction or non-fiction - inspired by one or both of these statements: "Water gives life. It also takes it away."
Friday, February 25, 2011
Red Dress Club: Free to Good Home!
PLEASE NOTE: This post is a JOKE. It was written as part of The Red Dress Club weekly prompt, which asked us to imagine that we just had a fight with someone and decided to get even by disposing of some of their stuff. The task was to write a humorous listing for eBay or Craigslist and talk about the history of the item and why it must go in under 600 words.
After putting up with the trials and tribulations of motherhood and housewifery, I’ve decided that I need a total change in my life and career choice. I’m donning my pirate hat to embark on a worldwide trek to pillage, plunder, and seek out buried treasure. As this new venture might be quite dangerous and will cause me to move from place to place frequently with nothing but the clothes on my back and cutlass swinging from my hip, my last act of goodwill in the world is to find a new home for my husband and daughter.
Husband is in late 20’s, good health, very few behavioral problems. He does fart a lot, but a change in diet should fix that. He’s sweet, very social, and handsome to boot. He’s 6’0” even, has dark hair, hazel eyes, and weighs 185 pounds. He’s usually pretty good about cleaning up after himself, but you may need to stay on top of him every once in awhile. He’s also very creative and loves to show his affection by writing poetry, bringing home books, and giving back rubs. The husband is very laid back and spends his spare time reading, dinking on the internet, and listening to music. He can be very adventurous and will keep you on your toes with his latest ventures.
Daughter just turned three and is up to date on her shots, also in good health.; She’s a little over 3” tall, has long strawberry blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, and about 40 pounds. She’s very energetic and spirited, so an owner with lots of time and energy to spare is a must! She’s mostly potty trained (still wear pull ups at night), is very intelligent, and has quite the vocabulary. Some examples: “two minits, Mommy”, “Mommy, stay here. Be rye back!”, “NOOOO!”, and “I want Scoo-dee Snacks!” She is very affectionate and quite the ham. She loves chasing laser pointers, climbing things, and playing on the playscape at Burger King after a rousing shopping trip at Target.
Ideally, they’ll go to a good home as a pair, but I’m open to different arrangements. If you’re willing to take them both, I will also throw in my intelligence-challenged cat, Snack. She’s small, gray, fuzzy, and very lovable. Plus, she’s easy to take care of.
Location: Austin, TX
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
After putting up with the trials and tribulations of motherhood and housewifery, I’ve decided that I need a total change in my life and career choice. I’m donning my pirate hat to embark on a worldwide trek to pillage, plunder, and seek out buried treasure. As this new venture might be quite dangerous and will cause me to move from place to place frequently with nothing but the clothes on my back and cutlass swinging from my hip, my last act of goodwill in the world is to find a new home for my husband and daughter.
Husband is in late 20’s, good health, very few behavioral problems. He does fart a lot, but a change in diet should fix that. He’s sweet, very social, and handsome to boot. He’s 6’0” even, has dark hair, hazel eyes, and weighs 185 pounds. He’s usually pretty good about cleaning up after himself, but you may need to stay on top of him every once in awhile. He’s also very creative and loves to show his affection by writing poetry, bringing home books, and giving back rubs. The husband is very laid back and spends his spare time reading, dinking on the internet, and listening to music. He can be very adventurous and will keep you on your toes with his latest ventures.
Daughter just turned three and is up to date on her shots, also in good health.; She’s a little over 3” tall, has long strawberry blonde hair, blue-gray eyes, and about 40 pounds. She’s very energetic and spirited, so an owner with lots of time and energy to spare is a must! She’s mostly potty trained (still wear pull ups at night), is very intelligent, and has quite the vocabulary. Some examples: “two minits, Mommy”, “Mommy, stay here. Be rye back!”, “NOOOO!”, and “I want Scoo-dee Snacks!” She is very affectionate and quite the ham. She loves chasing laser pointers, climbing things, and playing on the playscape at Burger King after a rousing shopping trip at Target.
Ideally, they’ll go to a good home as a pair, but I’m open to different arrangements. If you’re willing to take them both, I will also throw in my intelligence-challenged cat, Snack. She’s small, gray, fuzzy, and very lovable. Plus, she’s easy to take care of.
Location: Austin, TX
it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
Friday, February 18, 2011
Red Writing Hood: What-a-Shirt
There were two of them.
Large white baseball style T's with bright orange raglan sleeves and the trademark orange W emblazoned across the breast. They were given away as part of a grand opening ceremony for another Whataburger. While they were most frequently worn by Daddy whenever he did any kind of sweaty man work around the house, they were communal property. They performed double duty as nightgowns for me and play shirts for my brothers. They sheltered Mama from the sun when she was outside with the horses. And when one of them was falling apart, it served as rags to clean the crystal. It was Shel Silverstein's giving tree in T-shirt form.
I'd taken one of them to college with me, wearing it as my dad did and then some. It was my armor when I had a bad breakup and needed stability. It was my uniform when I was ill and needed comfort. It was a reminder that I was loved, a physical representation of Daddy's hugs when I was little and thought he was Superman. I would swaddle myself in it, stroking the soft folds between my fingers, the adult version of sucking my thumb. It was instantly subduing and calmed me from within. Nothing could touch me in that shirt.
I wish I had one of them now. In what started out as a decent day quickly turned sour when Michael called with the news that he'd be job searching again. His store was closing, another victim to the economy and changing technology. It seemed like it was only yesterday that we'd finally found calm waters and now we were being tossed around in the storm one more time. I wanted to run from the world's troubles and hide from all our hardships. I wanted to wrap my body in thin, faded orange cotton and curl up someplace cool and dark until the unfairness of life abated.
But the shirts are lost and gone forever. I know, because I've looked for mine every time I clean out my closets. Somewhere in the course of moving from apartment to apartment in the ten years since I left home, it quietly disappeared without so much as a backward glance. I still hold out hope that I'll find it tucked away in a box somewhere, still soft and streaked with ancient grease stains, pocked with tiny holes where the cotton wore too thin. Occasionally I am treated to a tangible memory of the shirt when I pick up a cashmere sweater or silk blouse. It was nothing but simple cotton, but years of wear and love elevated it to the same tactile sensation as those elegant, costly fibers. I've searched my parents' house for its twin, hoping I might find it folded away in a closet or stashed in the bottom of the rag bag in the mudroom, but alas, it too passed from this plane of existence a long time ago.
As I contemplate the day's events and struggle to keep calm and carry on, I think about that old Whataburger shirt. I might not be able to wrap myself up in it anymore, but remembering the shirt is balm for my soul. Its memory serves as a gentle reminder that we'll get past this bump in the road too, just like we have everything else.
Life will go on, with or without a T-shirt.
This post was written as part of the The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write a piece (600 word limit) about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet, letting readers know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.
Large white baseball style T's with bright orange raglan sleeves and the trademark orange W emblazoned across the breast. They were given away as part of a grand opening ceremony for another Whataburger. While they were most frequently worn by Daddy whenever he did any kind of sweaty man work around the house, they were communal property. They performed double duty as nightgowns for me and play shirts for my brothers. They sheltered Mama from the sun when she was outside with the horses. And when one of them was falling apart, it served as rags to clean the crystal. It was Shel Silverstein's giving tree in T-shirt form.
I'd taken one of them to college with me, wearing it as my dad did and then some. It was my armor when I had a bad breakup and needed stability. It was my uniform when I was ill and needed comfort. It was a reminder that I was loved, a physical representation of Daddy's hugs when I was little and thought he was Superman. I would swaddle myself in it, stroking the soft folds between my fingers, the adult version of sucking my thumb. It was instantly subduing and calmed me from within. Nothing could touch me in that shirt.
I wish I had one of them now. In what started out as a decent day quickly turned sour when Michael called with the news that he'd be job searching again. His store was closing, another victim to the economy and changing technology. It seemed like it was only yesterday that we'd finally found calm waters and now we were being tossed around in the storm one more time. I wanted to run from the world's troubles and hide from all our hardships. I wanted to wrap my body in thin, faded orange cotton and curl up someplace cool and dark until the unfairness of life abated.
But the shirts are lost and gone forever. I know, because I've looked for mine every time I clean out my closets. Somewhere in the course of moving from apartment to apartment in the ten years since I left home, it quietly disappeared without so much as a backward glance. I still hold out hope that I'll find it tucked away in a box somewhere, still soft and streaked with ancient grease stains, pocked with tiny holes where the cotton wore too thin. Occasionally I am treated to a tangible memory of the shirt when I pick up a cashmere sweater or silk blouse. It was nothing but simple cotton, but years of wear and love elevated it to the same tactile sensation as those elegant, costly fibers. I've searched my parents' house for its twin, hoping I might find it folded away in a closet or stashed in the bottom of the rag bag in the mudroom, but alas, it too passed from this plane of existence a long time ago.
As I contemplate the day's events and struggle to keep calm and carry on, I think about that old Whataburger shirt. I might not be able to wrap myself up in it anymore, but remembering the shirt is balm for my soul. Its memory serves as a gentle reminder that we'll get past this bump in the road too, just like we have everything else.
Life will go on, with or without a T-shirt.
This post was written as part of the The Red Dress Club. This week's prompt was to write a piece (600 word limit) about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet, letting readers know how the item was found, what it is, and why it's so meaningful to you or your character.
Friday, February 11, 2011
Red Writing Hood: Then the World Shifted
Neither Hair Nor There
I could never have imagined how much it would change me.
It was the stuff of fantasy novels. Not quite curly, not quite straight, and so full of volume I never needed hairspray.The cascade of fiery red locks that fell in waves over my shoulders and down my back drew compliments left and right:
“Oh, it’s such a gorgeous color!” they’d moon.
“Is it natural?” they’d say disbelievingly.
“I wish I had hair that thick and healthy,” they’d pine.
Through the sticky hot Texas summers I bore the weight of that cursed blessing, wearing it piled in a knot atop my head, the massive mop too thick and heavy to do anything else with in the torrid heat. I’d complain and threaten to cut it, always to be badgered by my friends and family: “But it’s so pretty! Why would you want to cut it off?” You can have it! I wanted to scream at them. I’m tired of the ponytail, tired of the nicknames, tired of feeling so plain!
But I couldn’t bring myself to step out of my safe little box.I could never look good with short hair, I told myself.I didn’t have the bone structure, and it would just look awful.My insecurities waged war with my inner hot mama and won every time I thought I might try something different.I fooled myself into believing that the compliments were enough and that it didn’t matter what I thought.
And then came the summer that everything changed.My marriage fell apart and my life went to hell in a hand basket.I lost almost 20 pounds, started seeing a therapist, and had some of my worst mommy moments ever.The woman staring back at me in the mirror was no longer scared and insecure.She was hungry and the look in her eyes told me she meant business.
Suddenly, I didn’t give a rat’s ass what my insecurities said anymore.I didn’t care what people thought.I’d allowed their words and thinly veiled threats to take root in my soul and shred any sense of confidence I possessed. So what if it looked stupid? So what if it looked awful? I didn’t care. It’s just hair, I told myself. Woman up!
I crawled out of the little black hole of despair I’d called reality and started combing Google and gossip websites for inspirations, ripped pictures out of fashion mags at the doctor’s office, and repeated my mantra in the mirror every day: “It’s just hair. It’ll grow back."
I sat in front of the salon mirror, watching as the hairdresser behind me finished picking at individual pieces of the side swept pixie cut he’d razored into those thick red tresses. The remnants of what had been lay on the floor, mixing in with the brown and blonde of previous clientele.
“Well?” he asked.
I stared back at the woman in the mirror and nearly burst into tears.
She was gorgeous. She was sexy. And she was me.
“I love it,” I said with a vehemence that startled everyone around me except the hairdresser. He grinned.
I sauntered out of the salon and the whole world shifted.
Total Word Count: 522
This post was written in response to this week's prompt by the Red Dress Club. The prompt asked to write a piece that begins with the line, "I could never have imagined" and end with the line, "Then the whole world shifted" with a max word count of 600. I welcome and appreciate any and all feedback!
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