DWP - paranoia: prompt

paranoia

Kalan knows this business of killing and murdering people for money has got to catch up with him sooner or later and he has wished it would have been later, much, much later. All these times that Kalan has come to Father Richard for confession, is it possible that, no matter the two of them have been kindred spirits ever since their young years, Father Richard is actually a spy and an assassin? And now that Kalan's thinking about it, in all forty of his missions, Father Richard has always suddenly and conveniently appeared.

And Kalan thinks that perhaps, the priest has sold him to his enemies.

DWP - blame: prompt

blame

"Maddie, please. We discussed this a number of times. No one's to blame."

"But he's hurting, Cynthia. Lee's been hurting for so long." Maddie coughs on the phone; she's been smoking again. "Why can you not make up with him. Aren't you lonely? The trouble with you is you are so proud. Why can't you just make up with him? You know you love him, and he loves you so much. That's why he's been single all these years."

"Maddie, please." I say again.

"And you, none of your relationships amounted to the degree that you and Lee had. You yourself said that a number of times. Why can't you...?"

"Maddie!" I interrupt her. "Maddie, listen to me. Lee and I will never be again. It's been twenty years, for God's sakes!"

"But, I'm just worried about you. Lee still wants you and he's been very good to you. You should consider getting back together." I roll my eyes and put the phone away from my ears. I feel blood rising to the veins in my temple and I am about to explode. But Maddie's been a very good friend, both to me and to Lee, but at times like this, when she's keeping at this drama, I feel like she's more on Lee's side than mine.

"Maddie, you only know one side of the story and that's Lee's side. Once again, I tell you that I will not discuss what transpired then. So you do not know the complete story. Please, if you're my friend, you'd skip the drama."

There is a long pause then I hear Maddie coughs hard. When she speaks again, her voice is hoarse and she sounds tired. "Okay, so what are you making for New Year's eve then?"

DWP - moving on: prompt

moving on

The Christmas card arrived two days early, just as it had been in the last twenty-some years. With the same wishes, that he hoped I have found happiness. As usual, he signed it "I love you. I wish we're still together. Lee"

This year, I sent him a reply card and in it I wrote: "Lee, as I said a number of times, you should be moving on, because I have. Yes, I am very happy. Alone, but happy."

DWP - home: prompt

home

"Yo, honey I'm home!"
he shouts loud and with gusto.
Her note says, "Good-bye".

---

the weary mind finds
while its soul searches the world
home is in the heart.

DWP - the record: prompt

The Record

For the entire month of September it rained, not continuous but the heavy downpour came at various times of the day, sometimes heavy, sometimes quite light, but rain it did. It was the record rainfall that the entire country had not expected and by the end of that month, the waters rose and flowed into the streets in every city.

It spared no one, not even the most powerful politicians, not even the most popular celebrities escaped it as streets turned into rivers and parks into lakes. A Mercedes Benz was treated the same way as a rusty rundown old car - carried by the strong current, turned over and left unusable. The only difference was that the owner of the Mercedes had insurance coverage and the rusty rundown car did not. Over and over, news showed pictures of the famous actress on the roof of her expensive home, devoid of makeup and the expensive clothes, wet from the pouring rain.

People tried to rescue whatever belongings they could - a woman held her family's clothes in a plastic basin on her head, as she walked the chest-high flood water; a child rode on the shoulders of an old man as he treaded along, looking for a place high enough for the child's safety; a policeman carried a dog and a cat while the owners chose to remain in their houses.

An old man refused to leave his home, telling everyone the water would soon recede. He knew these waters when they came and he knew they could only rise so high. But when the waters reached just below his shoulders, he was forcibly removed from his single-storey home by his neighbours and brought to someone's second floor home. A woman sat on her refrigerator to prevent it from being carried by the raging flood, a possession she knew she would never again have, as she held the statue of the Virgin Mary in her arms.

The pictures were devastating and heart rending, especially of a five-year old girl huddled on top of a shanty's roof illegally built underneath an overpass; of people who used the high voltage wires to traverse the streets - they figured since there is no power, the wires were safe. When one wants so desperately to survive, you hold on to anything, you count on anything.

And when the waters receded, the pictures of devastation, the chaos of retrieving one's possession from the knee-deep mire; the despair of people hugging their expensive sofas, crying over their damaged material possessions, feet buried in mud, faces buried in their hands, crying over their loss.

Those were but few of the images recorded caused by the record rainfall that caused the record flood that wreak havoc to the lives of so many people.

And then how soon they all forgot.

DWP - snowy woods: prompt

In the Snowy Woods

When Kalan regains consciousness, he finds himself inside an old musty log cabin. Where this cabin is, how far it is from the city, and how the white-haired woman got him here, are the questions that he lets his mind ponder for a brief moment. As a matter of reflex, his hands travel down the inside of his suit and finds his gun is not there, nor the spare he keeps strapped in his left leg.

He stands up and paces around the small bed. He stares at the door and contemplates opening it and escape. He assumes the white-haired woman is outside and God knows who else. His eyes chance upon the window that has a picturesque view of the tall trees, dressed in the white of the snow that whirls in the wind outside. He assumes he is in the back part of the cabin. It looks familiar, the lines of the trees, but Kalan admits to himself instantly that he has seen so many similar landscapes it's hard to know if he has been here before or not.

A figure, dressed heavily in downfilled coat, appears from the side of the house towards the tall trees. His eyes strain to see the face of the person, whether it's a man or a woman. He examines the window and chuckles at the fact that all he needs to do is lift the lever on either side and the window will open. The ground below is more or less four feet and the snow would protect him in any case. He knows he has more chance of survival, and ultimately escape, in the snowy woods beyond.

As he reaches for the lever to execute his idea, he hears the door unlock. At the same time, he sees Father Richard walking towards the cabin from the distance, his arms stretched open towards the figure. His brows furrow, remembering that hours ago at the church, Father Richard lay dead on the floor with a bullet through his head. So, what gives?

DWP - Santa Claus: prompt

Santa Claus

The Santa looked so real with his snow-white beard,
Big tummy, rosy cheeks and his suit of white and red.
But when little Jimmy sat down on his big fat knee,
He shouted, "Ewww, his breath smells not so funny!"

DWP - elves: prompt

elves

Mila, the daughter of the groundskeeper at the large house on our street, was a skinny, dark-skinned and plain-looking girl who was also painfully shy that everyone was surprised when word got on the street that she was pregnant and that Antonio was the father. Antonio was a handsome, fast-talking man, being the product of an American service man in Subic and the "laundry woman" at the little inn that the soldiers frequented when they leave the base for good time. People were divided as to what actually transpired between Antonio and Mila, with one group saying Mila, for all her shyness must've seduced Antonio beause no one else would pursue her, while the other group said Antonio must've fast-talked Mila and raped her because, really, who wants a handsome midget (yes, he's a midget) for a husband if you're tall and lanky like Mila.

So when people heard that Mila had given birth to twins, they asked Antonio what he was going to call his children, to which he replied with a mocking smile on his face, "Since you refer to me as an elf, I guess, my children are 'elves'?"

DWP - traditions: prompt

traditions

The one Christmas tradition I like best is the Noche Buena, the midnight "supper" on Christmas eve. In our household, when my five siblings and I were young, our mother would wake us up at midnight to have our Noche Buena. Because we were really poor, she and my father would cook a special meal for us: a whole egg for each child, cooked sunny side up, with a piece of hotdog, fried, and my father's specialty, spaghetti with corned beef sauce. Instead of the cheap margarine, we had on the table half a pack of real butter, and instead of the daily morning rolls, we had a loaf of bread, the one in white plastic bag with colourful circles. The meal was repeated in the morning for breakfast, after we had opened our gifts.

Intead of stockings, we used old socks that each child hung on the Christmas tree (which was a large branch of a tree with lots of twigs in it, leaves pulled out and the branch painted with white, and instead of the shiny Christmas balls, we hung our little toys, then Mother finished it off by tying the multi-coloured lights around it). I can still remember those socks stretched and bulged to the max with the little toys our parents painstakingly wrapped and put inside the socks. In any case, the gifts were little toys, and back then, we never asked what we wanted for toys. Our mother seemed to know which ones we liked.

After breakfast on Christmas Day, Mother dressed us in our new clothes - the only new ones we would have all year - and hauled us all to the church to hear Mass. Then we either walked or took jeepney rides to our relatives' homes, where they have all kinds of special food on their table. Our aunts or uncles would give us money. Of course, there are favourite aunts and uncles, and there are favourite homes where the food was really abundant.

Christmas in Manila was not complete without the carollers. They could be anyone, from a man playing a guitar or a group of young people with really good voices, to an annoying drunkard who just wanted to have more money to buy booze. The unforgettable ones are the group of little children in the neighbourhood, each one clutching an improvised "musical instrument": a makeshift tambourine made of flattened bottle caps (cork underneath removed) and stringed into a wire; a discarded Dole pineapple can for a drum beaten with a little branch from the neighbour's tree; and best one is a comb covered with cellophane from cigarette packs.

These children would sing, mostly desafinado, mostly yelling to make sure they are heard, as there would be other carolers nearby or other loud sounds from other houses, and of course the barking of the dogs. If they didn't get the houseowner to come out to give them "alms", they kept singing in front of the house, until they got money or they got shooed away (some people would throw water at them if they're really bad). After they sang, and they got money, if they didn't have someone in charge of getting all their collections, you'd hear them bickering.

"We should divide it," one says.

"No, the lady gave it to me!"

"Yes, we agreed that we take turns in taking the money."

"It's not fair, you got twenty-five cents and I only got ten!"

"I sing the loudest, I should get more."

"You suck!"

Sometimes a fist fight would settle the matter, and yet, on to the next house they go carolling afterwards.

-o0o-
Other readings on the Christmas theme:

Silent Night

Christmas past 1

Christmas past 2

Christmas past 3

Christmas past 4

DWP - the flood: prompt

the flood

Manila, May 1960
The day started with beautiful sunshine, vivid blue skies and just a touch of breeze. But my mother, having lived in the farm, thought there was something odd in the air. She was supposed to have washed the sheets, but she changed her mind and she said she would do it tomorrow.

We went about our chores around the house and, as usual, at noon, we sat down to eat lunch. Simple stewed fish and boiled rice. Mother kept saying all morning that there was something odd in the air. The skies couldn't decide if they were blue or gray or a mixture of both colours. Then we noticed that water was flowing inside the house. Outside, the streets suddenly became flooded.

Mother said, "The river is rising in the middle of the day." High tide at noon wasn't normal in our place. Also, my mother commented, there is a strange noise with the rising water which by now is ankle deep for her. I was seven and small for my age so my feet were above ground when sitting. Still, we continued to eat.

But within two minutes, the water rose to her knee and almost to the bench we were sitting on. She ordered us to carry our plates up the stairs to the second floor of the house. By the time we finished eating, just at the top of the stairs, the water inside our house was almost near my mother's waist, her skirt billowing in the water as she carried some foodstuff from the kitchen.

By this time, the strange noise that came with the steadily rising water was replaced by the noise of panicking neighbours. The old lady in the house behind us wailed and asked God for forgiveness and to save her soul. She yelled at her grandchildren: "You little pests, come up here and pray with me. It's the end of the world, you sons of a bitch and all you can think of is swim in that stupid flood!"

Another neighbour turned on their radio and tuned in to the news. Apparently, hours earlier, there was an earthquake in Chile and what we were experiencing was a tidal wave, the tail-end of the much larger scale tsunami that formed across the Pacific Ocean.

DWP -outer space: prompt

outer space

an endless darkness
a sea of lonely planets
a stunning silence

---

so, are we alone
here in this vast universe?
we may never know.

Benjamin series: a chance meeting

"You are too short to be a model," Mrs. Leyba tells me. She scans my bio-data again, her round glasses almost slipping off her nose. "I don't understand why they sent you here."

"I'm not really a model," I say. "I was just modelling or sampling the underwear for private groups of women."

"I know," she snaps at me. "But if I hire you, you will have to sample the products at the floor, and if there are a lot of people, only the ones in front will see you." She cocks her head and peers at me through her glasses. "Plus aren't you too thin? I want someone with fuller breasts. You look like you're flat chested and your behind seems flat to me as well."

An emerging brand of underwear uses the Tupperware and Avon methods of selling its products. Instead of selling the products through retail stores, it hires 'independent specialists' to peddle them at offices or private homes. Leony, a friend at the office, starts to sell part-time and takes payment in instalments, something that is attractive to the young office workers who are earning minimum wage. In one of our lunchtime "parties", I would have no qualms about the girls seeing me when I try on the brassieres. A year later, the undergarment becomes popular and the selling trend catches on and the large department stores start to carry the undergarments and would hold private 'fashion shows' for their customers. Leony has asked me to "model" for her group parties because she sells more when the women sees the products on an actual body.

I shrug my shoulders. I take my shoulder bag and stand up. If she's not hiring or using me for the demo that afternoon, I might as well leave.

"Hmmm," Mrs. Leyba pulls the long Mongol pencil holding the bun of her long hair. "Well, since you're here, why don't we try to use you, ha?"

"Will I get paid?" I ask.

"Of course," Mrs. Leyba's eyebrows furrow and she shoots a dirty look at me.


I put on the beige lacy push-up brassiere with matching lacy panties. The five other models, three from the modeling school, and two are daughters of American diplomats, tower over me in the change rooms. Mrs. Leyba thinks I'd make a perfect window mannequin because I can stand still for a long time, that is, after she sees me standing still as I watched the girls practice their routine. She makes me stand in the front window on the second floor of the store, after she has sent me down to the make-up room.

She comes by after two hours and tells me to take a break. She forgets to bring a robe or towel for me so she tells me to dash off across the cosmetics department to the back wearing only the underwear I am wearing.

"C!"

I turn around and Benjamin is standing in front of me. I start to smile when a plump hand whacks across Benjamin's chest. Mrs. Leyba's.

"You're not supposed to interrupt the models!" Mrs. Leyba pokes a finger at Benjamin.

"It's okay, Mrs. Leyba," I say. "He's a friend."

"I don't care. Go on and dress up," she says, then turning to Benjamin, "You, get back to work."

It will be months before I would see Benjamin again.

DWP - the teacher: prompt

The Teacher

None of us knew Fallore’s first name. In high school, we were called and known by our last names. Maybe because he was older than us, by a few hundred years, that we just ignored him and didn’t pay attention to him. Even Fallore himself couldn’t blame anyone for doing so: he was very talkative, always making fun of anything or anyone. And he was loud. Although he was smart, he was nonetheless disruptive.

Now, everyone knew Fallore had a big crush on the science teacher, Miss Lumba, a short, skinny woman, with bronze skin and beautiful big round eyes and short cropped hair. On the first day of our class, Fallore let out a loud whistle. Miss Lumba frowned, clearly not appreciating Fallore’s whistling. She immediately called the class roll and marked Fallore’s name in her attendance book. The next several weeks, Fallore had been sent by Miss Lumba to the Principal’s office for his disruptive behaviour. For example:

Miss Lumba: “What is the symbol for hydrogen?”

Fallore: “Ma’am! Ma’am!”

Miss Lumba tried to ignore Fallore, and scanned the whole classroom hoping another student would volunteer to answer. But when none of the other students did, and Fallore’s hand remained raised, she called Fallore.

Fallore: “The symbol for hydrogen is this”

And he made the shape of a heart with his hands and putting them over his left chest.

Miss: Lumba: “Seriously, Fallore. Stop wasting my time. Now answer the question.”

Whereupon Fallore insisted on his answer.

One day, Fallore was absent from class and for the first time that year, Miss Lumba came to our classroom smiling. Everyone clapped and cheered and you could see Miss Lumba’s relief that for once she would not have to deal with Fallore. She had closed and locked the classroom door and delivered her lecture. It was a productive class.

But when Fallore returned the next day, he interrupted Miss Lumba three times to tell her he missed her and asked if she missed him, too. Miss Lumba tried so hard to ignore Fallore. During her lecture though, Fallore continued to talk non-sense with the other boys who also did not care to listen. In the middle of Miss Lumba’s explanation, she made a pause and quickly threw a whole chalk stick before continuing. Fallore caught the chalk stick and kissed it. The class roared. Miss Lumba got very mad that she ordered us to take a sheet of paper and gave us an instant exam by making us explain the process of how water from the sewer can be distilled into clean drinking water.

During the exam, however, Fallore continued to talk loudly, vocalizing his answers as he wrote them. Miss Lumba had enough. In a swift instance, the board eraser which she had just used to clean three full blackboards, flew straight into Fallore’s face, just as he was looking up to ask the boy in front of him a question. His face was all white and some chalk dusts went into his eyes. He stood up and became disoriented. Miss Lumba’s face paled and you could see the concern in her eyes at what she did despite sporting a really stern face.

The class was suddenly in chaos: some were screaming and others tried to cheat with their exam. Then there was a loud thud on the floor. Fallore fell, his back flat on the concrete floor. Some of the students crowded around him.

“He’s not breathing, is he?”

“I don’t know, but I think he’s dead.”

“Don’t believe that stupid boy,” said one of the girls.

But Fallore lay still.

Someone went to call the security guard who quickly came up to the classroom followed by the Principal and the head of the Physical Education department in tow. The students were asked to stand back. Fallore was not aware of this and unfortunately this was the moment he chose to open his eyes, and pointed towards the doorway.

“Look! A nipple,” he screamed. He looked like a mime with all the chalk dust on his face.

Everyone laughed, and at the same time looked out to see where the “nipple” was. Our classroom was on the second floor of the building and the hallways faced the nearby houses.

“Look there, there’s a nipple showing!” he screamed again.

When the Principal looked back at Fallore to see where he was pointing, he saw Fallore had pulled his shirt down so that his own nipple was showing. The boys in the class guffawed, the girls cursed Fallore, but he laughed so hard he had tears in his eyes. When he had calmed down, the security guard picked him up by the collar and dragged him downstairs.

Miss Lumba did not come to class for a few days and we heard she had asked to be relieved of teaching our class. But because the school was short of science teachers, her request was denied. Fallore, however, never came back to class. And to the school.

DWP - strange behaviour: prompt

strange behaviour

colourful clothings, bright candles, merry flowers,
gold balloons, horns tooting, champagne a-flowin'
and in the centre should stand my coffin
this is how you celebrate when i'm a-passin'.

DWP - broken: prompt

Broken
(Continued from the "plugged in" prompt)

Neves can't believe her ears. "What do you mean it's not plugged in?"

"Gheez, Auntie Nev, see this?" Shayla says popping pink bubble gum while waving an assortment of cables at Neves. "Besides, I think the damn camera's broken."

DWP - plugged in: prompt

Plugged In

Neves prances from table to table singing a karaoke of "Big Spender", her hips grinding and sometimes seductively showing her thighs through the high slit of her gown, moving in harmony with the beat of the song. When she returns to the centre of the dance floor, she finishes off her song with her head tilted back, one gloved arm stretched up, legs apart, thus showing her thighs again.

The guests clap and shout "Bravo!" and "More! More!"

Neves curtsies like a ballerina would at the end of her performance. Her audience loves her. She lives for these family parties when she can display her singing talent to their friends and people who had never met her before. She throws kisses at the guests.

She runs to Shayla's table, while she motions back to the DJ to cue her next song.

"Shay," she says, "did you get that on the video cam? I think I was splendid, wasn't I? Did you get a close up of me like I asked you to? Did you?"

Shayla does not look at her as she fiddles with some wires connected to the video camera mounted on a tripod next to her.

"Shay, my mom would like to see this performance. She has a friend who works at the TV station. Make sure you got that first one, okay?"

"Huh?" Shayla asks as if waking up from a deep sleep. "What did I get?"

Neves eyes bulge and her mouth falls open. The intro to her next song has started. "Did you film me when I was singing Big Spender?"

Shayla stares at her with a blank look.

"Did you?"

"Er, no! The camera's not plugged in yet!"

DWP - the river: prompt

Beatha always wondered what life was like in that small village across the river. Every night she watched them dance and sing by the bonfire, old and young people. Ever since she arrived here, they had been that way and she had always dreamed of going there.

She asked Maghnus one day if they can go there. Maghnus had never been there himself. He told her that the gods will curse anyone who dared cross that river and set foot on that part of the land; that even if you survived the raging waters those people will kill you.

"They never liked us, Beatha. They never did," he had told her. He told her about Fiona and Siadhal, two foolish lovers, who long ago escaped and crossed the river. "When they reached the other side before they could leave the water, something strange pulled Fiona underneath and when she surfaced, the current carried her far away and Siadhal could not do anything. As soon as Siadhal stepped on their land, the people took him away. And we never saw him again, not even to dance or sing by the bonfire. A few weeks after, they put that pole with the human skull. Do you see that, Beatha? We all believe that was Siadhal. They killed him."

But Beatha had made up her mind. Tonight, she would go there, if only to meet the young man who always smiled at her whenever she watched them from the balcony of Maghnus' mansion. She would cross that river even if it would mean her death.

DWP - stars: prompt

see that li'l bright star?
over there below the moon?
i'll pluck it for you.

-o0o-

your eyes shine like stars
well at least to me, they do.
(though crossed they might be.)

DWP - on the subway: prompt

On the Subway - July 2010

I am running late and I should have been at the office an hour ago. Subway is delayed again. "Switching problems" according to the announcement that keeps on blaring.

"Well then, fucking do something about it, you idiot people!" one pissed passenger yells, just as a TTC person passes by. He continues to rant and curse, directing his gaze at the TTC person.

Some of the people laugh, some glared, others non-chalantly go about whatever it is they're doing while waiting on the platform: reading books, reading newspapers, bobbing their heads to the music on their headphones, doing crosswords or sudoku. I stare at all of them. Character material for later when I sit down to write.

Outside, the temperature has reached 25 degrees and it's not even ten o'clock yet. It's hot and muggy and my hair, newly washed and styled, looks like shit again. I have a very important meeting at ten and it doesn't look like I will make it in time, especially if I will need to walk it.

After twenty minutes, the overhead speakers announce that the problem has been rectified and that service is now restored. Three jampacked trains pass by. I wouldn't dare get in. Standing here on the platform, where there is more space around me, I could already smell stale sweat and a few, all women, who have alcohol in their breath. Yaiks.

The fourth train that arrives is not terribly full so I get in and stand by the door on the opposite side. When we arrive in the next station, however, the station is packed with people. Suddenly, the train is jampacked and I hardly have room to move. Well, I say in my mind only, at least when I get to my destination, I am first to leave the train because I know the doors would open on the side where I am standing.

That is when I notice the heavily bearded man sitting on an inside seat, wearing a black toque and a khaki trench coat. It is the middle of summer, what a dolt, I say to myself. I see people looking at each other after staring at the man. He looks like...Oh, my goodness! The London and the Madrid bombings suddenly come to mind. I start to sweat. I swear that I will get the hell out of this train at the next station. I swear.

As the train approaches the next station, the man wearing toque and trench coat, gets up and moves his way towards the doors. I am thinking, "Please, God, let him leave and blow himself up elsewhere, just not here." I watch him wiggle his way towards the door and almost miss the stop. I breathe even though an armpit is within a foot away from my face. A few other people breathe a sigh of relief, too, having been thinking the same thing.

A woman says, "Not being prejudice, but with him wearing that coat and toque, in this heat, plus he looks Middle Eastern, I thought he was a suicide bomber!" Everyone nods their head slowly.

DWP - first line: prompt

(Warning: contains indecent language; reader's discretion is advised.)

The burglar moves through the house having disabled with ease the complicated alarm system and proceeded to climb the winding staircase. The master bedroom is at the end of the long hallway but he knows where the “goodies” are. The safe is in the master study located to the right past the master bedroom, up in the split level floor. Just before he makes the turn, he surveys the entirety of the large living room below, admiring the well appointed furnishings and interior decoration. He loves his new infra-red goggles, and he loves that he can see all these in stark darkness.

He turns the corner and slips quietly inside the study making practically no noise, except for the very soft click of the door knob as he locks it once he is inside. He looks out the wide bay window behind the large mahogany desk and surveys the grounds below. His brows furrow when he sees a Lexus SUV parked just behind the rose garden, seemingly in there so as not to be noticed. He knows the “master” of the house is supposed to be out of the country and the rest of the family, the wife and two sons, are spending the night in their condo in the city. He knows the Lexus does not belong there. And it is unlikely the grounds keeper of this property owns a Lexus. He stands for a while and focuses on trying to hear any any tell-tale signs of someone inside the house.

When he does not hear anything, he walks to the walk-in closet where the master keeps his business suits. He kneels down on the floor, lifts the corner of the expensive area rug and a square opening with a mechanical lock is revealed. He carefully enters the combination numbers and he smiles when he hears the small click. He lifts the lid and shoves his arm to the very bottom drawer where he retrieves a small box.

The box is lined with expensive velvet and in it rests a diamond studded necklace. He smiles as he takes the necklace and raises it, the bulk of it, the yellowish pendant swaying and sparkling even in the dark, all of its 300 karats. He fishes out a leather pouch from the side pocket of his pants, kisses the pendant before putting it inside the pouch. He unzips his jacket and places the pouch in a zippered secret pocket. He closes the floor safe and replaces the area rug. He looks out the window and sees that the SUV is still there. He leaves the study and cautiously walks down the hallway.

It is when he hears moaning sounds, softly at first and as his ears strain to find out where the sound comes from, the moaning gradually grew louder and it's coming from the master bedroom. His pulse quickens, nobody is supposed to be at home, more so the mistress of the house. He walks past the master bedroom and enters another room and opens a door that leads to a narrow space, a secret passageway which leads to the walk-in closet of the master bedroom. He can hear the woman’s moaning, now coupled with the heavy breathing of a man. Blood rushes to his head. In the darkness of the room, he sees them, the woman lying prostrate on the large round bed, the man on top, behind her, in the culminating moment of their sex act.

“The asshole has no idea what’s happening when he’s away,” the woman says as she shifts her position and goes on top of the man now lying on his back. They both laugh as they caress each other, calling “him” stupid, idiot, cuckold, dumb ass. "And I know he's going to give me a diamond necklace for my birthday!"

"Ohhh," the man says, "but this is better than his diamond, isn't it?"

He can’t take it anymore. He takes out the Smith & Wesson, switches on the light and aims the gun at the couple on the bed. He smiles at the horror in their faces upon seeing him. Two gun shots ring and envelope the whole room briefly.

He quickly leaves the house, runs to the back garden and out into the wooded area of the property. At a clearing, he recovers his mountain bike and pedals away a good five kilometres before encountering an oncoming pick-up truck. The truck makes a U turn and slows down, slow enough to enable him to throw his bike in the back, open the passenger door and get in.

"The bitch was there," he casually tells the driver. He opens his jacket and takes out the pouch with the diamond necklace. "And you suspected correctly. She was having an affair."

"Did you see who it was?" the driver asks, in an equally even voice.

"Yup," he says then places the necklace on her lap, and his hand travels inside her skirt, and he smiles at what he finds, and he kisses her shoulder, and then he quietly says, "your fucking husband."

DWP - ice: prompt

ice

big deceiver when it's on the road
looks like nothing, it fools your eyes
but try driving through it at 50 miles
too late to realize it is black ice.

DWP - magic: prompt

First I heard his voice and when I turned around, Benjamin was there, with the same smile, and the same sparkle in his eyes and I felt like I was transported back in time.

"Ben!" I called, the excitement in my voice obvious even though I tried to act cool.

It was like a slow motion scene in a movie, the camera panning between the protagonists, like everything else and everyone else were blurred and there was no one else in the scene except Benjamin and me, as he reached for my hands and our fingers intertwined and we just stood there and stared at each other, just staring and not saying anything. It seemed like magic.

DWP - the professor: prompt

The Professor

Fasiloff leans his back on the brick wall outside the run-down building of St. Lawrence market. As he sucks at his cigarette, he scans the thick crowd of Friday afternoon shoppers and looks for someone he can “execute” with. It takes a good twenty minutes before he spots her. She has long hair, fair skin, a little on the fat side but otherwise attractive. Attractive and has an attitude. Fasiloff finds it easy to read her body language: the way she walks with her straight body, shoulders pushed back, arms slightly swaying, neck straight and the chin seemingly jutting forward, and the condescending look in her eyes. You know she has money by the quality of the clothes she’s wearing, no matter that she is just walking around the market, and the expensive watch on her wrist confirms that fact. Fasiloff knows the make, the model and brand of that watch, one of his talents. There is a shorter, darker woman following her, a large woven basket in her had. It is the maid. Fasiloff nods his head slightly.

He takes one last suck at his cigarette, looks both ways as he discards the half-smoked stick on the ground.

Jared alternates his gaze between Fasiloff on the other side of the street and the throng of shoppers walking past him. He sees Fasiloff casually eyeing one woman and when he sees him throw his cigarette away, he, too, makes his move towards the woman.

The woman stops to examine a large flowery robe hanging at one of the stalls. After saying something to the unseen vendor inside the stall, she lets go of the robe and purses her lips and slightly shakes her head. She continues to walk, giving all the goods a once over. The maid patiently follows her mistress. Fasiloff charges the shoppers until he reaches the woman and deliberately bumps into her with such force she almost fell. Jared, walking towards the same direction as Fasiloff but on the other side of the woman, catches her by her arm.

“You stupid idiot!” the woman yells at Fasiloff as she tries to regain her balance, Jared still holding her.

“You the idiot,” Fasiloff barely looks at her and continues charging the crowd. This only makes the woman angrier and starts shouting expletives at him. Fasiloff flashes a finger.

“Are you okay?” Jared asks the woman who pushes him away and scowls at him.

“Go away!” she yells at him. Jared shakes his head and walks on.

The professor, watching from the window on the second floor of the old building, smiles as the woman goes about her shopping still fuming at the incident. In a few more minutes, Fasiloff knocks and enters the room smiling, the woman’s expensive watch dangling from his fingers.

“Wow! That was easy,” Fasiloff says smiling.

Jared enters the room and casually places a bulging Gucci wallet on the table.

The professor sits on the large arm chair, alternates his gaze between Fasiloff and Jared. He takes two index cards and hands them to the two young men.

Fasiloff gets an “A”. Jared gets an “A+”.

DWP - the time traveler: prompt

Hortense peered at the old woman’s face and said, “I know you; I’ve seen you before. But I can’t remember when. Or where.”

“Yes, we have met before, quite a few times, in fact,” the woman answered.

Hortense examined her face, the droopy eyelids and the little lines around her eyes, the unmistakably high cheek bones and the full lips that now curved downward. Then, as if spark occurred in her brain, she recalled that day when she was five, at the cemetery, her grandmaman’s burial.

It had just rained and the funeral procession started from the little chapel to the family musoleum situated a few meters towards the back of the cemetery. Somehow, little Hortense lost her grip on her mother’s hand and the rush of people walking towards the musoleum pushed her aside. She stood atop one of the old stone tombs, the one with the large metal cross that now gleamed in the light of the setting sun. She watched as the last person in the procession disappeared at the corner. She noticed a double rainbow in the sky, its colours so vivid it made her smile and made her sing.

“Nice song, good voice.” The voice startled her and she gave a little shriek as she put both her tiny hands over her mouth. She was surprised to see an older woman sitting on the little tomb next to her.

“They went over there for Grandmaman’s interment,” Hortense said, pointing to the corner where the procession had turned several minutes ago.

The woman just stood there, smiling at her. Hortense eyed her with curiosity little children always had with people they don’t know. She liked the way this woman smiled at her, like she found Hortense amusing. Hortense was used to being ignored. In her family, the attention is always on her sickly older brother, or her cute little baby sister.

“Look at the rainbow,” Hortense pointed at the rainbow. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it? Have you seen a rainbow like that before?” She jumps down the ground, her feet splashing on the little puddle of water between the two tombs. “Is it really true that there’s a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow?”

The woman smiled at her, but replied, “I don’t know, I’m not sure.”

“What is your name?” little Hortense asked.

“My name is Hortencia.”

“Oooh, we have the same name!” there is giddiness in Hortense’s voice.

“Hortense!” It was her mother.

“Maman!” and Hortense ran to her mother.

“Who is that?” asked her mother, eyeing the older lady suspiciously. “Didn’t I tell you not to talk to strangers?” She pulled Hortense as she walked away, looking back at the woman only once.

Hortencia waved at them. When Hortense looked back, Hortencia was gone.

A switch had been turned on in Hortense’s head. Hortense…Hortencia.

“It was I!” she exclaimed, touching her face and staring at herself in the mirror. “I visited myself when I was five!” Her reflection in the mirror smiled.

DWP - the drunkard: prompt

he goes for detox
but sneaks in with a flask of
gewurztraminer.

---

Hiram Walker Old
Seagram's, Black Velvet Deluxe
his favourite things.

DWP - Christmas lights: prompt

Det. Garreth Jones steps out of his cruiser in front of 393 Gammit Ave. It is a quiet neighbourhood, and this house looks like the model suburban house you get to see only in glossy magazines like Homes & Gardens – an all-brick four bedroom New England classic on a well-appointed lot, with white iron grill fencing that reaches up to one’s chest. The well kept garden is elegantly decorated with colourful LED lights in uniform colour of blue. The house is picture perfect. Except that a man, wearing a red and white suit, black boots and sporting very white beard, hangs from the roof high above the front door, his red and white hat resting on the white awning below, a good portion of the Christmas lights wrapped around his neck. The fascia board is exposed as the cover has been ripped off by the weight of the hanging man, his body dangerously swaying in the minus twenty degree wind.

“Shit! Another one,” Jones mutters.

DWP - the chef: prompt

she chops, dices, slices and minces
whilst making sure the laundry's done
stirs, vacuums, folds and mixes
she's mom, maid, wife, chef all rolled into one.

DWP - the assassin: prompt

This is a continuation of a previous prompt. Click here

The assassin now finds himself in front of the gun of another assassin and Kalan does not understand how Father Richard got involved in this. The white-haired assassin, waves a rolled up document in her other hand, while motioning Kalan to close the door and at the same time telling him, "Well, if it isn't Kalan Sandars, the slippery one, or is that your real name?"

Her voice, exactly like that of an old woman's, squeaky and high-pitched and conveying some sort of kindness, belies the toughness in her face and the determination in her eyes.

"I got me the cake and you are the cherry on top!"

DWP - the library: prompt

The Library

Old Mr. Hillman had a room full of books. All four sides of the room had shelves that reached the ceiling. Even behind the door, there was a four-tiered shelf filled with children’s books and store-bought comics. The bottom of the wall shelves had doors with fancy “gold” knobs that the maids polished every morning. Behind those doors with the fancy gold knobs were glossy magazines, imported from the States, Britain and Germany.

In the middle of the room sat a large leather sofa, two armchairs on either side and two upholstered chairs on the opposite side, surrounding a large coffee table with very thick glass top. An intricately carved ivory chess set sat on top of the coffee table as well as two large crystal ashtrays. My mother used to call the Hillman library as the “bragging” library, for it had expensive volumes of books but none of the ten Hillman children had any desire to read books.

The room had a large bay window with a cushioned sill. Whenever we visited the Hillman’s big house, one of the Hillman children would bring me up to the library and would sit me on the cushioned sill that overlooks the cemetery on the south side. Between the cemetery and the property, there was an ancient mango tree, its branches abutting the large bay window.

The Hillman children had a pet monkey that lived in the small tree house on the mango tree. Often, Moe, the monkey, would tap the glass window of the library and screamed as loud as it could and wouldn’t stop until Mr. Hillman himself opened the window and smacked the monkey.

By the time I was six, I had gotten used to going up to the second floor library whenever we visited, and one day that was just what I did. I had been reading the “G” volume of the Encyclopaedia Britannica when a thick book fell on the floor. I picked it up despite its weight and placed it on the floor by the window. Another book fell and I did the same until there were three piles of books as tall as I was. Suddenly, more books were falling off the shelves and I could no longer cope. I ran out of the room and down the stairs but I slipped, scraping my back against the steps as I reached the landing.

“It’s raining books in the library!” I screamed.

My mother, thinking I did something bad, pulled me aside, despite my bleeding back, and spanked me.

Just then, Moe the monkey started to scream while jumping up and down the steps. The younger Hillman children who were being fed their lunch ahead of the adults, scrambled to their feet, laughing and screaming in delight, as one of the maids and Mr. Hillman tried to catch Moe. It was pandemonium inside the house, knick knacks falling and breaking as Moe tried to elude capture. After Moe managed to bite one of the maids' hand and knocked down a couple of light fixtures, he rested on the shoulders of the oldest Hillman son, Harvey who was then seventeen, but not after Moe had already grabbed and broke Harvey’s glasses. Harvey had a soft spot for animals and begged his father, Mr. Hillman, to leave Moe alone, as it was, after all just being silly.

Mr. Hillman, however, got so mad after seeing the books scattered around in the library upstairs, and the thick glass top of the coffee table broken in half. He took the monkey outside, walked to the cemetery which was several yards away and we heard the sound of a gunshot. At this time, my father arrived to collect my mother and me. When Mr. Hillman saw him, he ordered my father to dig a grave by the fence so Moe could be buried. Later on, Horace, one of the younger Hillman boys admitted to having opened the library window to pet Moe, but had forgotten to close it properly.

DWP - the airport: prompt

Ruth feels a bit of panic as she swipes the passport on the self-serve kiosk beside the Lufthansa counter. The images on the monitor give her options to press and she chooses them diligently until the machine spits out the desired boarding pass. She pulls at the hem of her blazer and straightens her body as she makes her way towards the departure gates. She has exactly one hour to wait until her direct flight to Frankfurt leaves. Reaching the appropriate gate, she chooses a chair at the very corner of the waiting lounge, a vantage point where she can see everyone and everything that goes on until she boards.

Sunshine floods the interior of the terminal and it gives her reason enough to put on her wraparound Serengeti sunglasses. She takes a book from her small carry-on and pretends to read. A group of student tourists converges near her and her attention is diverted to their loud and noisy conversation.

Fifteen minutes later, the overhead speaker fills the lounge with an announcement: Paging passenger Ruth Marowietz of flight United 867 bound for San Francisco. Passenger Ruth Marowietz of flight United 867 bound for San Francisco, please proceed to Gate 3 on Terminal 1 immediately.

Ruth smiles. Flight 867 is terribly late. It should have left twenty minutes ago.

Twenty-five minutes later, she hears the call for boarding to her flight to Frankfurt and she calmly takes her passport and boarding pass out of her purse and joins the other passengers to line up for boarding. The ground steward scans her boarding pass and looks at her passport, smiles at her and gives her back her documents. Ruth proceeds to enter the gate. The security guard, however, stops her, asks to see her passport and requests for her to lift the sunglasses off her eyes. She obeys. He examines the document and looks at her before giving it back to her and thanking her.

Just as she is about to enter the walking tube to board the plane, she hears the call on the loud speakers: Final call to passenger Ruth Marowietz of flight United 867 bound for San Francisco. Passenger Ruth Marowietz of flight United 867 bound for San Francisco, please proceed to Gate 3 on Terminal 1 immediately. Ruth pauses to check the leg of her pantyhose and long enough to hear the announcement before continuing towards the plane.

Once inside and seated, she opens her passport and looks at her picture and the name beside it: Verna Guarin. Born: August 27, 1958. She smiles and puts her passport back inside her purse.

Earlier

Ruth Marowietz smiles and mutters a polite "Thank you" to the United check-in person as she takes her passport and boarding pass. She checks the two stickers on her ticket, the receipt for her two large luggages for which she paid an extra sixty-dollars for one due to its extra weight. She follows the other passengers to the Immigration and Customs Inspection for the United States and is quite surprised at the very brief questioning she has received. She reaches the assigned gate and sits beside an elderly couple. She takes out a magazine and reads it halfway through when she decides to leave her seat and, pulling her little carry-on behind her, she walks to the farthest washroom. As she has guessed, it is empty. She goes inside the handicap cubicle.

After twenty minutes, she emerges from the cubicle, washes her hands and exits the washroom after drying them, pulling her little carry-on behind her. She walks back and past the assigned gate for her flight. She goes past the Customs Inspection area and calmly tells the security guard, "I forgot something." The security guard does not even look at her.

The terminal has become fairly crowded now but she manages to make her way through until she reaches the less travelled part of the terminal, sees a woman's washroom and goes inside. She takes out her toiletry bag and prepares to brush her teeth. When she finishes, she leaves her toiletry bag on top of the counter and her little carry-on on the floor directly below, then goes inside the stall just behind her. She hears someone coming in, the door to another stall opens and closes. Ruth takes her time, she can see her bags through the narrow space between the door and frame. She takes off her moss green sweater and moss green track pants and hangs them on the metal hook of the door. She opens the stall door and steps out to retrieve her toiletry bag. The other person is still inside the stall with a carry-on just outside. She checks her make-up and decides to brush her hair.

She hears the occupied stall's door open. A woman wearing red blazer comes out, and looking at each other through the large mirror, they greet each other with a polite smile and hello. Ruth starts to walk out and pulls the little carry-on bag behind her. She walks back to the busy part of the terminal once again and takes the escalator up to the platform and boards the Skytrain to Terminal 3.

DWP - footprint

i watched you walk out
stared at your back 'til you're gone
footprint stayed behind.

-o0o-

i know who you are
your footprint gives you away
you, tulip bulb thief!

DWP - night shift: prompt

Today is the day, and Belinda takes out the white dress she bought last week for this trip: a white jumpsuit with a square sailor's collar and trimmed with dark blue bias tape. She slowly brushes her auburn hair, gathers it delicately behind her head and holds it with a red scarf, the same colour as her new pair of shoes. By nine o'clock, she is ready to leave although Harold has written he will arrive only at noon.

Belinda takes mental inventory of the important things in her little suitcase, among them, the wooden frame with her and Harold's picture, the porcelain trinket box where she stores the golden bracelet Harold gave her for her sixteenth birthday, the little prayer book her mother gave her when she was six, and the rosary beads from her great grandmother.

She sits in the living room, taking in everything in it so she might remember it in the days to come. At noon, she stands by the door and anxiously awaits Harold's arrival. She feels thankful for the open field that stretches far beyond, as far as the road goes and she is able to see the few passing cars and trucks. She lets her mind wander to a long ago summer and imagines that Harold, all of his 15 years, pedals his bike to bring her flowers he has picked from his mother's garden. Belinda smiles at the thought. She continues to replay that scene in her mind.

At three o'clock, she waits by the phone. Harold is terribly late. He is never late, especially when he tells her he will pick her up at noon or whatever time it is he has to pick her up. At four-thirty, she hears a car pull up, but it was only the postwoman. She sits on the step outside on the porch and stares at the farthest end of the road that her eyes allowed her to see. The skies has changed colours from blue to the gray of the sunset to the velvet black of the night and yet Harold has not arrived. Then as the night shifts into the golden hues of dawn, she stands up, goes inside the house, terribly shaking from cold.

She goes upstairs to her room, opens the drawer of her vanity, takes out a letter that came two months ago and reads its contents again: "Belinda, my beloved, I shall come pick you up on November 30. I will arrive at noon. And we will live together at last in Bath."

Then she opens a telegram that came just the other day: "Harold Benstead died in a car accident." Belinda sits down on the edge of the bed, lets her tears roll down her cheeks.

DWP - the fair: prompt

The sign was too large to ignore. In large white letters with black background and an arrow pointing west at the bottom, the sign read: PARIS FAIRGROUNDS.

"Oh," Jean, my passenger, an elderly lady who was staying at the Telfer Place senior home, said. Her head followed the direction of the arrow.

We were stopped at the intersection of Grand River Street and Silver Street going into Telfer Place. She smiled and her eyes sparkled from a memory that suddenly appeared itself, and I felt so afraid to step on the gas long after the green light came on for fear I might run over it. The loud honking from the car behind us jolted the car as I stepped on the gas, and so did Jean's revery.

As I parked the car, she said, "I almost forgot about the Fairgrounds." She looked towards the street, as if she could see the Fairgrounds which was a few blocks down east.

"Would you like to go there, Jean?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said immediately, without hesitation, and the eyes once more sparkled.

I shifted the car to rear and drove back onto the road and followed the arrows. After two minutes we entered the Fairground's parking lot, near the red and white tents that were still deserted. The fair didn't open until late afternoon on weekdays.

"That's where I met him," Jean said, pointing to an old willow tree several metres away. Her hands, ravaged by time and arthritis, shook as she pointed.

"Your husband?"

"No...him...Billy."

"Would you like to tell me about Billy?" I asked.

"He was a painter. I passed by his tent and he asked me if he could paint me. I said yes, then we made love."

"Jean!" I said, "in the tent? Right then and there?"

Jean looked at me with a blank expression on her face. "Of course! Not everyone in the reign of Victoria was pure, you know. A lot of us did some disgraceful acts once in our lives, some more disgraceful than others. But that didn't mean we were sluts."

"I am shocked!" I said, smiling, and putting my palm over my chest.

"My husband Paul was more shocked when he found out our first child, your husband," she paused to point her finger at me, "was actually Billy's child. Of course, I didn't tell him right away."

"When did you tell him?"

"Just before he died," she said, matter-of-factly. "I suppose he had to know at some point." Then she motioned with her hand, "Let's go. I had enough of this fairground."

DWP - random CD prompt

From the "Sounds of Silence" by Paul Simon from the Simon & Garfunkel Definitive Collection CD

"Hello, Darkness, my old friend."

Marcus stood just outside the tall mahogany doors, his head bowed, hair disheveled, coat hanging from his hunched shoulders. He shot a glance at Awel and she saw that his eyes were red from crying. She opened the door wider and stood aside to let him in. His steps were unhurried and as soon Awel had closed the doors, Marcus cupped his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Awel wrapped her arms around his waist and when he embraced her and buried his face in his thick black hair, he wailed like a small child. They had been that way for a long time before his crying subsided and she led him to her study. A small candle is lit in the middle of the room and he could make out the tall shelves filled with tomes that had never been touched for centuries.

"Tell me what happened, dear." Her raspy voice soothed his pains, and he let go of a big sigh.

"She left me, Awel. She left me." He started crying again and Awel patted his shoulders.

"I know, dear, I know she left. We both knew it was bound to happen."

"I loved her, Awel. She was the only one for me."

Pain shot through Awel's heart. When was he going to learn that he never belonged to Riella? That he, Marcus, belonged to her and her world. He always called her Darkness because she always wore black, everything about her was black. She was most alive at night, like the bats that lived around her villa.

"Marcus, you belong here. You belong to me," said Awel, she placed a hand on her chest then pointed to her heart. "I think it's about time you accept your destiny."

-- o0o --

(note: i started writing this the last time Daily Writing Practice blog had a CD prompt, but i don't quite know what to do with it. it looks like a vampire story, but i know nothing about vampire stories and i refuse to read anything vampire as my vivid imagination goes to sleep with me and i get nightmares otherwise.)

DWP - the thief: prompt

the thief

the wrinkled skin, once soft and smooth
the dull, waning eyes, once sparkled with youth
the crooked smile, once vibrant with laughter
the now bent body, once an agile dancer.

you look in the mirror, wonder where you’ve gone
all these years but you’re left with the wisdom
that youth is fleeting, old age is full of grief
blame Time, the perfect, uncatchable thief.

DWP - music: two haiku's

the music's only
in his head but it's too loud
it needs toning down.

-o0o-

firmly grips the mic
the karaoke hugger
singing out of tune.

DWP - science fiction story

Esyllt stood face to face with the woman. She towered above her and yet the woman showed no fear of her. Esyllt noticed her beautiful hands lightly caressing her son’s shoulders.

“My name is Heledd. I’m Tegid’s mother,” Heledd said extending one hand to Esyllt. Esyllt felt a genuine enthusiasm in her voice, but she kept her hands crossed over her chest. Esyllt always had ambivalent feelings about the friendly humans.

“I’m Esyllt. I’m the Vice-Commander for the province,” she finally said in a plain voice. Then, motioning her head slightly towards the winged albino boy, she said in a friendlier tone, “This one’s switched at birth?”

“Noooh!” Heledd said as she stooped down and put both arms around the boy, then kissed him on his forehead. “He’s mine.”

“But...” Esyllt hesitated. “I see nobody else in this household with wings or feathers.”

“No. No one in both my and Ynyr’s families have bird DNA, as far as we know.” Heledd messed the Tegid’s hair and told him, “Tegid, dear, go get our visitor something to drink.”

Tegid quietly obeyed his mother but before entering the house, he looked back at Esyllt and smiled. Esyllt smiled back.

“Please sit down, Esyllt,” Heledd said as she motioned Esyllt to one of the wrought iron chairs. She sat herself on one opposite Esyllt. Esyllt only nodded, curiously trying to understand Tegid’s situation. Heledd’s face became serious. “I was violated by two Dromorants and I became pregnant,” she said, almost in a whisper. “Fortunately for me, my husband Ynyr loves me enough to accept everything that’s part of me. And Tegid is part of me.”

How romantic! Esyllt thought, but instead she said, “I’m sorry, Heledd. I mean, about the Dormorants. But how come you didn’t auction him off, or...” She stopped when she saw Tegid coming out of the house.

Tegid handed her a bottle of carbonated water. “Thanks, Tegid,” she said. She patted the boy's head and felt the delicate softness of his snow-white hair.

“Do you know how to fly? Can you teach me how to use my wings?” Tegid asked.

“Tegid, Esyllt is our visitor,” his mother said.

“No, Tegid, I can’t fly. We ptesauronts are too heavy to fly and our brains are not fit for aerodynamics unlike real birds.”

“Oh," Tegid said, disappointment obvious in his voice and face. "What do we do with our wings then?”

Esyllt stretch her mouth in an attempt to smile. “I guess, be beautiful.”

Her heart ached. It felt like disappointing her own son.

revisiting the past

rummaging through my things, i found an old notebook (from the early 70's) with the very corny poems i wrote for a lost love . by "corny" i mean they're too much of a cliché. let me share it here then:

WHERE YOUR MEMORY DWELLS

a certain thing keeps bothering me
the flame of your love has gone
the warmth that once loomed around
was replaced by cold unkind.

the tears i occasionally shed
like water ceased your fire
the fears i always had
now in my life had stayed.

in simple verses i now write
the memories of a forgotten love
where once your memory dwells
in the silent home of my heart.

the smile i once saw in you
have taken me far below
to where you once confessed your feelings
when you said you loved me so.

in simple words you had me uttered
the words i always knew
but never in my life had i said
only when i met you.

the place where once we sat
before a dim candle light
where our eyes did really meet
and our hearts beat fast.

the park we (once) twice strolled
where different stories were told
where the rain once fell on us
and brought your arms around me close.

the church where rests your world
far away from my own
i had once aimed to see you there
but price was there and took control.

the prayer(s) you offered me
which only fools could realize
and which wisemen and i never believed
your kind of world and paradise.

these things i always knew
had known and will always know
and on the days ahead i will recall
that once i loved you so.

in simple verses i have now written
our love that you had forgotten
and in my heart i have kept your love
and your memory forever dwells, forever remains.

that's exactly how i wrote it, in small letters, no caps (channeling my inner e.e. cummings, maybe). and apparently i wrote it on september 2, 1972 at 10:30 p.m. i do not understand entirely what i meant in my poem - especially the fourth stanza - not to mention i think i broke all the rules for writing poems, structure-wise or whatever. but, oh, boy, i wrote poems then. and long ones, too! how i sustained it for that long is hard for me to fathom. now i can only manage a haiku or two, and i need prompts to do them.

i know at the time, i was so in love with this boy, Benjamin, and i can categorically say he, too, was deeply in love with me. he was the measuring stick for the next boyfriend, and the next, etc. (not that there were so many) and it always made me wonder, during quiet times and my mind drifts to that part of my young life, how it would have been had we belonged to the same religion, married and had a family.

and if there is such a thing as time travel, that is the one past i would gladly live again.

DWP - cold: pompt

Cold

So now I know why she had been cold and distant the last several days. I thought she was just battling writer's block, that dreaded, awful writer's block that had always caused me grief whenever she was writing something important. Not this time.

"James, I'm moving out" is all she wrote in her note.

DWP - dirty work: prompt

The office Christmas party is well underway, some are already half-drunk, when Delores arrives.

“Finally, Delores, you came. Solo, yet again. What’s your excuse this time for not bringing your husband with you?” Mike, the Managing Partner, asks.

“We couldn’t find a babysitter, the little one has bronchitis,” Delores replies.

Mike rolls his eyes and clucks his tongue. “I think there is no husband. I think the pictures in your office are fake.”

Delores swoops a glass of champagne from the tray of a waiter passing by. How can she explain to Mike and the rest of the office that she is actually embarrassed for Carlo to accompany her to office events. Although he owns a lucrative business, he mostly does all the dirty work. Sometimes she’s pretty sure he even smells like his work that is why she demands he takes a bath every night before coming to bed. She imagines her co-workers reading his business cards and snorting as they walk away, just like she’s seen it happen so many times:

THE ANSEWER TO YOUR PROBLEMS: we clean your sewers, and we clean it good!

DWP - the detective

fedora hat
black and white round-toed brogues
cigarette in hand
gray trench coat
loosened tie
gun in waist
wristwatch doubles as camera
pen that takes movies
he's expensive
he's a detective
a private detective


Leilani spots him right away, sitting on the farthest side of the food court. His fedora hat tilts forward almost covering his eyes, the unlit cigarette loosely hangs from his lips but never falls, even when he talks on his cellphone. A boy sits on the tiled floor polishing his black and white Brogue shoes. He loosens his tie just slightly so and continues to leaf through his newspaper.

"The guy's a private detective," Leilani whispers to Diana who starts to turn her head to look. "Don't look! Don't look!"

"But why?" Diana asks.

"Because he might think we are looking at him or we are talking about him," Leilani says.

"But we are, aren't we?"

"Yes, but don't look. He has a gun tucked at his waist. I think he's following me,"

"What the..? Why would a detective follow you?"

"I think my husband suspects that I am seeing someone."

Diana turns her head and looks in the direction of the detective. Suddenly, she bursts out laughing, doubling over on her chair.

"Stop it, Diana!" Leilani hisses at her. "I told you to not look at him!|

"Oh, Leilani, are you and your husband role playing again?!"

DWP - water: two haiku's

water



a blow to the head
tossed onto the cold waters
a perfect murder

body won't be found
been buried under the lake
hundred years later

DWP - the babysitter prompt

Cristina turns green and she starts to smell like fish drying in the sun. Oliver and Olivia know this for sure because they had seen fishes being dried at the beach the last time they visited Grandma’s home by the sea. They take two steps back. They wonder if Mommy will actually leave them with this fish person.

She grins at the twins as she nods listening to Mrs. Duceppe's instructions. Mommy waves bye at them and gives them a flying kiss. They just look at each other then sat in front of the TV and continue watching Kid vs. Kat. They hear Mommy say “Not too near!” then the door closes. They elbow each other then simultaneously looked back at the babysitter on the plether sofa, half sitting half lying down.

“What you lookin’ at?” Cristina says, but the twins hear a menacing guttural sound. They turn to face the TV again, their hearts racing. Olivia, the bolder of the two, cups her hands on Oliver’s ear and whispers, “I love you. I can’t believe Mommy will let us die like this.”

They hear a menacing hiss this time. They hold hands and close their eyes tightly waiting for the strange babysitter to kill them or eat them. When nothing happens, they open their eyes and look behind them. Cristina fiddles furiously with her iPhone, and without looking at them, she says, “What, you look at me like I’m some kind of an alien or something. Do you think I'm an alien?” Before their very eyes, she turns all yellow, and two antennas sprout on each side of her head.

Eyes wide and bulging, they get up slowly and walk towards the dining area then around the kitchen; when they reach the stairs, they run, shouting, “Good night, Cristina alien!” They close the door shut when they reach their room, change into their pyjamas and tuck themselves to bed. They hurriedly say their prayers and promptly fall asleep.

At midnight, their mother arrives home and hands Cristina her $50.

“Ghee, Mrs. Duceppe, the twins are the best children I’ve ever babysat!”

DWP - four-line poem on friendship

(specially dedicated to "all" my friends)

friendship is like a colourful flower garden
flowers of red and purple, pink, blue and white
some you like best, some just a little bit
with fleeting butterflies and the occasional slug.

DWP - pizza prompt

She opens the menu, an old vinyl album cover of The Doors and the half image of Jim Morrison wearing skin-tight shiny leather pants surprises her while its other half hides behind the glued-on printed menu of deliciously described appetizers and salads. She turns over the page to look at the entrees and thinks the 'Sexy Vegetable' sounds ridiculously funny with its erotic description attributed to eggplants, zucchini and squash, giggling as she reads them. The steak sounds sinfully delicious with the crumbled feta cheese on top, the gorgonzola veal seemingly shouts 3,500 calories while her favourite risotto beckons her with fist-sized scallops and giant tiger shrimps in a creamy veloute that makes her stomach grumble. The waiter arrives with a glass of red wine and she casually hands back the menu: "Illicit Pizza, please."

Lest We Forget

The temperature dipped to minus 10 with a windchill of minus 25 the first time I stood at Victoria Park bridge above Highway 401, the Highway of Heroes, that Sunday afternoon in February. It had snowed the last two days and there was a fair bit that fell earlier in the day so the roadsides were white with snow. It was the first Sunday that a soldier's repatriation from the CFRB station was taking place. I had been wanting to pay tribute to the soldiers and watch a procession and that day was the first opportunity for me. Earlier in the day the body of a young soldier arrived at the station, and after a brief ceremony, the body would be transported to Toronto for final autopsy.


A number of people had already lined the whole length of the bridge when I arrived, but I found a space easily right in the middle. There were two police cars and an ambulance and cars parked where they normally would not have been allowed to. People brought their flags with them, large ones, and all I could manage was a teeny-weeny one that I got from the office a few years back. I thought I should get a larger one for the next "occasion" but on second thought I did not wish for a next one to occur. Cars travelling along the highway below honked their cars as they pass by, to acknowledge us at the bridge for waiting for the procession. Some of them would even wave at us. In return we waved our flags at them.

I had been standing on the snow on the bridge for more than an hour. Sometimes I tried to do a small dance routine just to keep my feet from freezing, even though I made it a point to wear double socks, the top one made of thick wool. As it got darker, the wind blew stronger and I started to shiver. People were nice to each other, an elderly man went to the neary Tim Horton's to get coffee. He offered me the second cup he had and I politely thanked him and explained I don't drink coffee.

We started talking and I found out his friend's son had been one of the casualties in Afghanistan in 2009 and these repatriations had started to have a special place in his life. He would make it a point to leave work and come here to pay tribute. Some people from as far away as Lake Erie came because they had friends or relatives and even sadder, family who had perished in the war, either in Iraq or in Afghanistan.

At some point, the traffic on the westbound lanes below thinned out. That was the sign that the procession was getting closer to where we are on its way to Toronto. It meant all ramps going in to the highway were blocked off to give free and fast access to the procession; for everyone's safety, cars were not allowed to stop on the side of the highway.

There was a long lull in traffic, then one police car passed, followed by another one, then more police cars. Then the hearse. The hearse itself is bound on all sides by the provincial police cars, as well as the limousines carrying the family of the dead soldier.

It is specially heart-rending when the dead soldier happens to be a young man, still a boy mostly, and is an only child, or one who has just a few more days to go through his or her tour of duty. Instead of his family and friends preparing for a big celebration for his return, they are making preparations for his funeral. On one occasion, a soldier was just a few days away and would get married. I specially get very emotional when the dead is a young soldier, in his or her prime, when he or she should be enjoying life. You kind of ask where is the justice in this world. But I feel proud for the soldiers.

I have a young cousin who is right now in Kabul on a tour of duty for the US Army; a nephew, barely in his twenties who is on his way to battle, is with the US Navy; a niece, and another nephew, both of whom I have not yet met and hope to someday, are also in the military service. I have two older cousins and an uncle who are now considered retired veterans. I say a prayer for them every time. I thank God for sparing them every time I hear about a soldier dying in the wars. I know that one of these days, I would have to do something, perhaps join in petitioning the government to treat our soldiers and veterans more decently, with better benefits for them and their families.

I have never experienced war, except what I read in the newspapers. I consider myself lucky and hope that in the future none of us would experience it. But we can only hope. We can only, in the words of John Lennon, imagine.

DWP - random book prompt

The Piano Man's Daughter - Timothy Findley

I had seen her just the day before - a day of pale blue skies and summer breezes. She sat on a white wicker chair propped underneath a huge multi-coloured beach umbrella in the middle of their grassy lawn. She wore large dark sunglasses, the kind where all you see was your own reflection and you'd never know if her eyes were closed or if she's looking at you. She placed two large adobe bricks beside her where she'd put down her book whenever she sipped at her large glass of iced tea, the breeze making a wisp of her dark curly hair fall on her face. She wore a white summer dress with tiny red polka dots with wide straps and low neckline and when she bent you could see her breasts.

Her husband (or, as people whispered about sometimes, her paramour, for they believed she wasn't married to him) came out from the house, holding a bottle of Miller Lite, walked the length of the lawn slowly saying something I couldn't make out before going back and sat on the grass in front of her. She lowered her large sunglasses and peered at him and put them back on, grabbing her book and putting it really close to her face. He yanked the book away from her hand and threw it against the white picket fence, hitting the coral red pansies. They yelled at each other and from where I sat in my kitchen I heard her scream, "I hate you! I hate you!"

I saw him storm back inside their bungalow while she sat on her chair, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She grabbed the glass of iced tea and threw it at the door where her husband disappeared to, wiped her face with the hem of her white dress and walked to the fence to retrieve her book.

It was a total shock then, especially to me, to learn that she had died just this morning when she stepped in the path of a speeding delivery truck right in front of their house.

DWP - kittens: two haiku

this actually happened to my sister when she was about 7 years old.

kittens

walking towards home
i found a cute black kitten
but mother said "no".

brought kitten to church
ran home as fast as i could
cat arrived home first.

DWP - covered with snow: prompt

High in the mountains, covered with snow, they found Aleena. There was no mistaking the high cheek bones, the thick long lashes, the luscious lips and the mole on her right chin, just below the lower lip, as tiny as one of the beads of the pearl strand she wore around her neck the day she went missing. The most beautiful girl in the village, the smartest girl in class, her future held so much promise. And she was in love, with André, her handsome friend and future husband. Their plan was she would go to the capital and study to become a teacher, and she would come back to the village, she and André would build a school and she would teach the little children, perhaps including her and André’s own.

Aleena’s disappearance was a mystery to everyone. So unlikely for a conscientious girl with grand ambitions, they said. Some thought she ran away with another man. Wasn’t there a strange man from the next town around that time who had once seen Aleena and he could not take his eyes off her, and she couldn't take her eyes off him, too? The police said he killed Aleena, he said so in his written statement, which he later recanted because he cannot tell them where her body was. Still he stayed in prison for many years before he was released, old and diseased.

André grieved for a long time but eventually left the village. Now, he, too, was an old man.

Thirty-five years ago, Aleena vanished just like that, a girl of eighteen looking ahead to a wonderful life that everyone in the village had wished for her. And as suddenly as she vanished, now unexpectedly they found her body. She looked like she was asleep, a smile frozen in her lips. Because time had frozen her perfectly, even the dagger buried in her heart, the one with the hand-carved handle. The one with André’s name on it.

DWP - falling back prompt

Lenore contemplates the irony of her new life as she sits in her tiny apartment with one table and one chair, one plate and set of mismatched cutlery, one glass, one mug for her coffee. She has stopped crying a long time ago, yet occasionally she finds herself yearning for the old life - the many friends she had, the numerous places she travelled to, the lavish parties which sometimes she hosted and sometimes she graced with her presence; the endless shopping. Oh, the money that just kept pouring in. Didn't everyone love her then? Oh to be young and beautiful. To be the most sought-after star.

But after the fire, everything changed.

She remembers herself standing on the ledge outside the window of her 12th floor apartment, the fire raging inside, the thick smoke billowing out. She was left with only two choices: to burn inside, or to jump, either to death or to safety. She chose to jump, the bare tree right below would break her fall. In the instant between ledge and tree, a thought occurred to her: she was up high on the 12th floor, she's been living the high life, literally and figuratively. And now, she's falling back to the ground, where her feet should've been. The bare branches ravaged her face, her beauty is gone in an instant. Falling back is hard, the reality even harder.

something that makes you go "hmmmmm"

Beautiful day today and I set about to walk along the Danforth and took pictures of the fall colours around the parks. People must think I was nuts for taking so many pictures of leaves scattered on the ground.

Having heard earlier on TV that there was going to be a "Remembrance Day" parade downtown at ten o'clock, I took the subway then bus to the Moss Park Armory. However, maybe I heard it wrong because there was no parade anywhere. But walking around the block I certainly got a good exercise.

When finally I decided to head back home, I noticed the spire of an old church protruding like a sore thumb amidst modern structures, hydropoles, Thai restaurant signs, among others, so I took a picture. It is quite distinctive with its greenish colour and as I approached, I thought about its place along this street with its clubs (including one strip club for sure) and the hookers that ply around it in the evening.

While waiting to cross the street, I saw that a few vines still clung to its walls, the red shades contrasting against the slate colours of the brick walls. I must have been so intent in my admiration of this very simple sight that when I walked right in front, a well-dressed woman holding a bunch of "flyers" asked me as she handed me a flyer, "Would you like to join our service today?"

Rather amused and surprised, I took the flyer, looked at her face and without hesitation I replied, "Sure, why not?" I looked around and asked, "What time is the service?"

"Eleven," she replied. I raised my coat sleeve to check my watch; the lady did the same. "Well, look at that, you are just in time!"

Indeed, I was. I headed for the huge entrance door but lingered outside, taking pictures of the red vine and saw that there were little berries growing on the stems. Initially, I thought I'd just leave when the lady wasn't looking. But I stood right in front of the door for a few seconds before I finally decided to go in because it really felt like I was being pulled in.

There were only very few people. The pews were in a semi-circular arrangement with the pastor and choir conductor on a raised dais. The choir was fantastic! They had a screen where the lyrics of the hymns were shown. The hymns all came back to me. The last time I attended a service like that was back in the old country. And the pastor delivered an excellent sermon on the subject "We belong to Christ" with reference to Romans 14:1-10. The pastor read the scriptures along with the congregation.

There was a point in the service where some of the members of the congregation started clapping their hands to the beat of one of the hymns. At the end of the song, the pastor said, "To those who are here for the first time, we'd like you to know that we are allowed to clap when we sing."

I enjoyed that spontaneous random worship. I might go there for Christmas service.

DWP - the trophy: four-line poem

it all boils down to the damn hard fact:
no matter how hard you work and try your best,
the loser gets a mere phony handshake
but to the victor goes the trophy.

DWP - widow maker: prompt

She eyes the man wearing a black baseball cap sitting at the end of the bar through the smoke of her cigarette. He has barely touched his drink, a beer that he has asked be served in a glass. Quite peculiar, she thinks. She tries to smile at him but he doesn't see her, his eyes fixed at the large TV monitor on the wall.

When finally she finishes her cigarette, she fishes out another stick from her purse. She waits for the men near her to come up and offer to light her cigarette, but she notices that none of them are smoking, despite the bar being a smoking bar. She opens her purse again and searches for her matchbook. Not there.

She hears the click of a lighter and suddenly there's the small flame of a lighter in front of her. Instinctively, she leans forward with her cigarette between her lips, its tip glows to a bright red as she sucks the other end and as she blows smoke, her eyes follow the trail of lighter then hand then arm then...it's him. She smiles. She looks at his lighter again, a Widowmaker Zippo, with what she thought was the image of an orchid etched on its face, but she looks again and she realizes it's a woman's flower. She looks at him with a raised eyebrow, but the corners of her mouth reveal amusement.

"I got it from e-bay," he says, winks and tips his black baseball cap at her then walks back to his seat at the end of the bar.

PROMPT - the sound of a running horse

Sana'a, 1989

I fall asleep with the balcony door open, the warm monsoon air changing to a cool breeze. In my dream I see a horse's feet slowly approaching. In reality, someone is riding a horse around the large yard of the compound of my apartment building. I wake up and see the shadow of the horse and its rider, someone wearing a turban and a cape. An intruder?

The dawn is just breaking. It is only five in the morning. I get up, put on my robe and pinned my hair up. I stand on the side of the balcony door not wanting to show myself to the horse rider. He wears a white dishdasha and a satiny jade green overcoat, the polished khanja in his waist glistening from the balcony lights, and his head is wrapped in a white turban. There is an unmistakable grace in the way he sits on his horse, a beautiful Arabian whose skin glistened like the khanja. He turns around as if looking for something, or someone.

"Your Excellency, sir." I part the flimsy curtain and step out onto the balcony. "Good morning."

He turns around, masking the surprise with a smile, then nods. "Assalam alaikum." Although he is smiling, you can see the seriousness in his eyes.

"Waalaikum assalam," I say back, mentally chastising myself for forgetting the Arab greeting. For good measure, I curtsy, the best one I an muster, to make up for calling him "Your Excellency" as suddenly I am unsure if that is how I have to address the ruler of the country.

"You need not curtsy, you are not one of my subjects, madame." I can see that he is amused by my actions. "Only my subjects are expected to curtsy to me."

"Are you lost, sir?" I ask. "Oh, I'm sorry. You can't get lost in your own kingdom." I give him a big "Garfield" smile.

"I can't, now, can I?" he says and flashes another polite but guarded smile. "But since you ask, where is the house of the Minister of Interior?"

"It's the large house at the end of the street. It has the same fencing as this building. Would you like me to walk you to it? I can change my clothes in two minutes."

He smiles again, the perfect white teeth more visible now as I stand by the balcony's railings.

"It's okay. I should be able to find it myself." He clucks his tongue for the horse to start walking.

"I recognize you." He furrows his brows. "Do you work at the palace?"

"Yes, sir," I answer.

"Leslie, isn't it?"

I give a small laugh, surprise that he knows my name. He rarely sees the paid staff in the palace, much less the foreign workers. I work in the catering room of the palace.

"Yes, sir. Leslie."

"Assalam then!"

PROMPT: stranded in 1,000 words

I have been sitting here at the airport in Dubai for more than six hours and there is still no announcement as to when my Cathay Pacific flight to Hong Kong will leave. I, along with the several hundred passengers, were told that they are trying to fix the plane’s engine just to make sure there will be no problems when we fly. Great!

I go around the Duty Free Shops and buy an expensive Seiko watch, one with a thin rectangular face in gold casing and leather band. The face is black and blank apart from the gold hands and a small dot of gold for “12” and the Seiko logo on it. Three hundred American dollars, it cost me. I am looking at a Gucci wallet when I hear the announcement about my flight. I promptly give the wallet back to the Filipina saleslady and hurry to the Cathay Pacific counter to listen to the replay of the announcement. The end of the announcement says we will board in two hours.

I go to the washroom and freshen up, my toes barking from being squished inside my high heeled shoes since early this morning. When I go out the bathroom, I decide to take my shoes off and walk and wait around barefoot. I try to ignore the stares from the men by reading the newspapers and magazines I have gathered from my flight from Muscat to Dubai. A man comes up to me and asks if I am waiting for the same flight he is. He shows me his ticket and I tell him we are indeed on the same flight. He thanks me and I go back to the New Yorker magazine I am reading. He sits beside me, and I smell a wisp of aftershave, not at all offensive. When I close the magazine and about to shove it inside my carry-on, he speaks.

“Excuse me, I didn’t mean to be rude, but my name is Zachary Blakes.” He extends his hand at me and I shake his hand. He speaks good English but I note the slight accent that I could not yet figure out.

“Cynthia,” I say purposely not offering my last name.

"Are you going to Hong Kong, too, Cynthia?"

"Yes, but only to change plane. I am going to Manila."

"Ah, Manila!" he says with a big smile and nods his head. "I have Filipinos in my team. In fact they're over there, they're on the same flight. Nice men."

So since we are conversing, I ask: "What do you do around here?"

He's a mechanical engineer at Dubai's National Refinery. He is going to Hong Kong to do some shopping.

"But can I invite you to have some coffee with me while we talk?"

We go to one of the coffee shops, minding the announcements being broadcast. We talk for a good three hours, and by the time we finally hear the call for us to board our plane, one would think that Zach and I have known each other for a long time. He now hauls my carry-on luggage and I carry his jacket for him. We check our seats and find out he sits two rows in front of me and that the person sitting beside me is one of his "people" at the Refinery who is just glad to exchange seats with him so that we could sit together during the flight.


The flight is full and we are told we will be stopping in Bombay, as during the flight, one of the plane’s two engines goes dead. Zach and I are holding hands, his arms around me, and he whispers that should anything go wrong with the plane, we shall be together and that he will protect me whatever happens. Like if the plane just crashes anywhere in the mountains or in the Indian Ocean or wherever it is we are right now.

The plane makes it to Bombay safely and we are hauled to hotel shuttle buses for our overnight accommodation. The airline staff requests that while we can opt for a single room, can we please if at all possible find someone to partner with? A Filipina approaches me at the bus and tells me she does not know anybody in the flight and is afraid to stay alone in a hotel room, would I be so kind as to let her stay with me? I look at Zach, I see him about to shake his head to signal me to say no to the Filipina, but just as I am about to say no, a flight attendant approaches him, verified that he is indeed Zachary Blakes and tells him that the Refinery has made a special accommodation for him and he needs to check in at a special desk once we reach the hotel. I tell the Filipina she can stay with me.

The drive to the hotel is tedious. Our bus is not air conditioned and the heat, even though it is already after sunset, made us all feel clammy and sticky. Children on the side of the road run after buses asking the passengers for money. There is a certain smell of filth in the air from animal excrements all over the road. Reaching the hotel where there is a slight feel of air conditioning became quite a relief.

I lose Zach once we reach the hotel. Registration for the rooms became chaotic when more buses full of passengers from another flight arrive. Leonora, the Filipina, follows me around and insists on talking to me in the dialect even though I continue to speak in English.

In the room, there is only one bed and a pull out sofa. I ask Leonora where she wants to sleep. She says it is up to me. I let her have the bed. The phone rings and I answer it. It is Zach. He would like us to go down and have our dinner. I tell him I will wash up first. I tell Leonora I will be having dinner downstairs and she should go, too. She wants to come with me. I give her the other key to the room. I tell her I have to dine with a friend.
Zach knocks just as I am about to leave. He is holding a bottle of Port, wanting us to have an aperitif. I told him port is an after-dinner drink. Instead, he grabs and kisses me, his hand all over my back and buttocks. Leonora stands by the window watching us. I break away from Zach and it is then he notices Leonora, apologizes and looks at me inquiringly.

“Let’s go have dinner, then we discuss the port afterwards.” I grab his arm and we get out of the hotel room.

Do I believe in fate? Do I believe in karma? Zachary Blakes is not my type of man, he does not possess the sophistication that have been the characteristics of the men I have so far dated. He comes across as someone from the other side of the tracks but came into big money so he was able to switch sides. My mother once told me that class is not dependent on money or status in society. Zach has that non-elegance about him. But no matter he is good looking and I tell myself that if I will have a one-night stand with him, which at this time I am about ready to do, and I get pregnant, I probably would not regret it.

"My suite is large," he says over dinner. He looks at Leonora opposite us on the table. "Leonora can stay in your room and should be able to rest without interruption. So why don't you stay with me in my suite."

I am about to say "Yes," when Leonora interjects. "But I am afraid to stay alone in the room. I would like to stay with Ma'am Cynthia."

There goes my one-night stand.

DWP - left behind: two haiku tuesday

my sister marries
the man of her dreams and more
leaving home and me.

-o0o-

solitary leaf
left clinging to its frail branch
soon there'll be the snow.

DWP - the jester's journey: prompt

“Where have you been, Fool?” the Queen asks, visibly pissed that it has taken Fool the whole day to come back from running an errand. “You had better have a good reason for taking this long, or I’ll have your head cut off this very minute.” She wags an index finger in front of Fool’s face.

“Your Majesty, I am terribly sorry.” Fool’s tears roll down his cheeks, smudging the heavy makeup and runny snot makes his red foam nose to sag. “But, I got lost in the maze downstairs trying to find the Royal Burger Vendor."

"Get hold of yourself! For heaven's sakes, you're supposed to make me laugh, not make me pissed!" Queenie rolls her eyes and blows an errant wisp of hair, slumps on her golden throne and motions for her maid to massage her temple.

"Got lost in the maze, holy God! How did you get lost, tell me!" she demands, impatiently tapping her fingers on the arm of the throne.

"Well, Your Majesty, first, I saw Cook and he sent me to the market to get onions for your salad. Then I saw the Prince and he asked me to take his horse to the horsesmith. Then I saw the Bishop and he reminded me that I missed Church last Sunday and I explained to him that I was sick last Sunday so he made me attend a Special Service. Then I saw the Princess and she asked me to go and tell her lover who lives in next village to meet her at the stable." Fool stops to blow his nose and the red foam nose fell on the marbled steps of the platform going up to the Queen's throne. He was about to continue his story but Queen stops him.

"You obeyed those people of no importance and yet you made me wait for the one thing I asked you to do?" She snaps her fingers and two guards appear before her.

"Get this Fool out of my sight, and have him beheaded right away," she commands.

"Waaaaah!" Fool wails like a child whose ice cream has fallen off his cone. The guards carry him away.

"Can't I get a better performing jester than that one? All he does is wail all the time. He depresses me!"

"Them jesters are hard to come by these days, aren't they, m'lady?" the maid says. "Why, that's the third one this week you've had beheaded!"

"I would really have to resort to drastic measures to amuse meself!" Queenie lets herself slide off the throne onto the floor.

"And what is that, m'lady?"

"Get a television and watch soaps, I suppose!"

"Oh," maid gets excited. "You mean we're finally getting cable!"