DWP: ending prompt

"...from dust thou cometh, to dust thou returneth..." the priest sprinkled the casket with the holy water, muttered a prayer in Latin, then made the sign of the cross.

It signaled the end of the rite and as the few people shook each other's hands and parted, Deanna remained standing at the foot of the casket.

"Deanna, come, please." Harvey Brownstein tenderly nudged his niece by the elbow. When Deanna didn't move, he placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her towards him. She started to cry.

"I feel so alone," she said. "I lost the woman who wasn't really my mother, I have never known my real mother, I found my real father but I lost my husband." She balled her hands into fists and wedged them between herself and Harvey and continued to cry.

"Deanna, I am here. We are family." His palm rubbed the top of her shoulders but his grief was also undeniable.

It seemed that when Ruth died three years ago, the proverbial can of worms opened and revealed all the nasty secrets of a family that was a lie from the very beginning.

DWP: random book prompt

Time Traveler by Dr. Ronald Mallett with Bruce Henderson

Time stopped for me in the middle of the night on May 22, 1955. Mama had given birth to Jackson and even as the umbilical cord was being severed, Papa celebrated with my uncles with Cuban cigars and Cianti wine that he had been hoarding during the last few months. Auntie Elizabeth and Auntie Rebecca, Mama’s older sisters, were ecstatic, running back and forth invariably holding a basin of hot water or a large stack of thick towels.

"It's a boy! It's a boy!"

I heard the faint sound of a baby’s cry, which sounded like a hungry kitten’s, and I briefly saw Jackson’s head, his face all red and gooey. Mrs. Hammill, our neighbour the midwife, saw me and promptly shoved me outside of Mama’s room before closing the door shut. I stood just outside the door and waited for one of my aunts to take me to Mama. I can hear Papa and my uncles talking and laughing loudly, the smell of tobacco smoke permeating the air inside the house.

After a long time, the door to Mama’s room opened and Auntie Rebecca poked her head out and called my Papa.

"Daniel! You can come in now."

I tugged at Auntie Rebecca’s skirt but without even looking at me, she unclasped my fingers from the fabric of her skirt and went back inside Mama’s room. In haste, Papa bumped and stepped on my foot but barely looked at me despite the loud shriek I made. When the door closed, I was left again outside, alone, cold and confused.

"Jackson was the most beautiful baby. Mama had the easiest birth," Mrs. Hammill said so. Jackson was a quiet baby. Jackson has a big head which means he will be a smart boy when he grows up. Jackson this and Jackson that. It seemed that I had died and my spirit was left floating. Nobody seemed to notice me, nobody seemed to care about me anymore. Suddenly I became invisible. Suddenly nobody seemed to love me.

DWP: the restaurant

the restaurant


After a frustrating afternoon looking for a decent restaurant that's open, we arrive at the "Lick-a-chick". Despite its name, the place looks clean and they have a patio that overlooks the Bay of Fundy. We had to go down quite a few steps to get to the restaurant. There is a sign just outside its doors that says "Home-made Blueberry Pie - to die for!"

Waiter: Sorry, we're not open.

Us: But the doors are open.

Waiter: We don't close. But we're not open right now. Chef is still baking. We open in a little while.

Us: Can we stick around?

Waiter: (shrugs shoulders and waves hand as if to say, "suit yourself"

Us: Is the blueberry pie really good?

Waiter: Oh, yeah! freshly baked. It's the chef's specialty.

Presently, we are startled by a loud scream, a loud thud and the sound of heavy things falling down on the concrete steps. We stand up to look. And there it is: a woman, wearing chef's hat and uniform, down on the ground, screaming and swearing profanities, and scattered all over the steps, are about twenty boxes of frozen President's Choice Blueberry Pie.

DWP: the originals

He pulled her towards him, grabbing her waist with both hands, and gently sat her down on his lap. Her eyes darted about the large living room, the stereo in one corner and a large mural, his own handiwork, on a wall. He felt her unease and whispered in her ear, "It's okay, you're not hurting me this way. It's okay." and that made her relax. She rested her cheek on his forehead and closed her eyes. She imagined them dancing and unconsciously she made a humming sound.

"Hmmmm..." Alessandro said. "Yes, I think I would like us to dance."

He pressed a button on the right hand pad of his wheelchair and the living room lights became the soft glow of a hundred candlelights. He placed her arm around his shoulders while his one hand held the small of her back.

"We want music, right?" he asked and she nodded.

Alessandro pressed another button and the stereo made a small hissing sound before it clicked to the soft sound of bells, the intro to "Baby I"m for Real" by The Originals .

Portia sat still not wanting for the moment to end, but she knew, he would be gone soon.

DWP: the roadside stall

(prequel to inside the fort )

"You!"

Portia took a step back as the old gypsy woman pointed at her. She knew the faces of most of the vendors in the roadside market just outside the gate of the old Spanish fort. But this one must be new.

"Hello to you," the gypsy said, now smiling. Portia gave her a once over and continued to walk.

"Clarita!" the woman called out. Portia turned around and saw that the woman was looking at her. She walked back.

"Why did you call me Clarita?" Portia asked.

The woman stood in front of her, searching her eyes. Portia felt her heart skipped a beat.

"Clarita," she said, "that was your name. I knew you from your past life."

Oh, great, Portia thought, another nut!

"You were the most beautiful woman in that lifetime. You have the same eyes now as you had then. Many men wanted you, but you wanted only one."

Portia didn't know what to make of it. She smiled and said her goodbye, but the old woman grabbed her by the wrist.

"Come! I show you something."

They walked past the rows of roadside stalls and entered the open gates of the fort. Portia felt surprised at her willingness to hear the gypsy's story. However, she was not prepared to trek the steep steps towards the main building - she had an unexplained aversion towards stairs. She had never seen the inside of the fort except in pictures, even though she had lived within a few kilometres of it her whole life.

But the old woman kept walking, still holding her by her wrist, almost dragging her.

DWP: inside the fort

Portia followed the gypsy woman with a bit of curiosity and annoyance. She was wearing her two-inch heels and a walk along the grounds of the old Spanish fort was not in her mind when the gypsy told her that she had seen her in another lifetime a long time ago, and uncermoniously told Portia to follow her. She's always passed by the fort but never had the inclination to go in and look. She's from here, not a tourist, she always thought.

The gypsy, no more than sixty, Portia reckoned, had very dark skin, and the lines on her face told the hardship she had gone through. Her large silver earrings gave small jingling sounds as she turned her head side to side, up and down, as if looking for something in the mossy walls of the musty fort cells they passed. They reached a non-descript corner where the smell of death seemed to still hang in the musty air. Her ragged hands touched the walls as she murmured something that resembled a prayer although Portia was sure it wasn't.

A large brick moved and fell on the ground in crumbly pieces. Portia felt a damp air in her chest and for a while she thought she was going to faint. She thought it was just the smell but there was a gentle breeze that came from the bay beyond the fort.

"You," the gypsy told her, "was standin' here. Beautiful silk dress...and your hair...flowing. The sun..." she pointed to the direction of the bay, "red, sinking in water." She bent down and took a handful of the brick's pieces, took out a large piece that was strangely dark and held it up. "Your blood!"

The gypsy grabbed Portia's arm and forced her to stand up beside the wall where the brick fell from. Portia's chest felt tight and she couldn't understand it. She had no obvious sickness, but it felt like she was choking now. She put a hand on her chest and started to massage herself, as her eyes welled with tears.

"Yes, that's where you's standing," the gypsy said, her voice calmer now. She had a look of regret in her eyes as she told Portia, "I was the soldier with the live bullet that struck your chest. You died instantly."

Portia suddenly felt better.

"I'm sorry, but it was an order. A soldier always obeyed orders." She put her face in her ravaged hands and sobbed.

Portia asked her, "What are you talking about?"

"You were executed here for adultery. Your husband the son of the Governor-General. Your paramour, a soldier. Your son, he died during childbirth."

"They killed me for adultery? And who was the soldier, do you know?" Portia asked, both indulging and curious.

"I was the soldier, and they chose me to kill you." She looked at the snippet of red sunset glow slowly fading. "I love you...but a soldier always obeys orders."

"Well," Portia said but only she could hear, "that explains the chest pains I've been having since I was young."

A stronger breeze blew and the small hush of the palm trees seemed to have blown the smell of death in that little corner. Portia took the small piece of brick with her "blood", wrapped it in her handkerchief and followed the gypsy back to the gate.

DWP: the photograph

The Secret Photograph

She first saw it when she was seven, old enough to understand. It was tucked away underneath yellowed papers and frayed cards, locked away in her father's bureau. She found out where her father hid the key quite by accident, when one morning she had gone down early and sat unseen underneath the stairs, the morning darkness aiding in the camouflage.

She vomited when she saw it then became sick, the mere sight traumatizing her and she knew it would be for life.

It was the photograph of a woman giving birth, the head of the baby coming out from between the woman's legs. The image got stuck in her mind, and, combined with the memory of her own mother's agony whenever she gave birth, she had understood at such a young age that having a child was painful. She promised herself she would not have children.


When she was thirty, on a visit to her father's house, she went directly to the bureau, turned the key dangling from the lock, pulled the photograph and asked her father, "Who is this woman?"

Her father grabbed the photograph from her hand and threw it inside the drawer. "A friend paid so much money so that that photograph would not be seen by anyone. I am an honourable man so I am not about to tell you who she is. I was entrusted with a secret and I will pretend until the day I die that you never saw it."

"Tell me who that woman is. I want to know."

"If it will allay your doubts, it is not your mother."


When her father died ten years later, her stepmother handed her an envelope. Inside, among a few other photographs, faded and mildewy, was the photograph. She winced then as she had the first time she saw it. But this time she didn't vomit. There was a short note addressed to her.

And that's how she became the keeper of his secret.

in the tropics

She lies alone in bed, stares in the darkness of the room and listens unwillingly to the howl of the snowstorm outside. She pulls the thick blanket over her neck as she feels a tad shivery. It is the middle of winter, and yet Ronnie's mind is in the tropics. Jason has been in her mind a lot.

She remembers him from forty years ago. He was the only one who looked her way, the handsome basketball player of the school team. He was tall and lithe and when he played he was so agile that his image is forever ingrained in her memory. Over the years, she has come to love watching basketball and it never failed that one or two players would remind her of him, the way he moved and sometimes even his looks. Tall men had been attracted to her even when she only stood at a little bit over 5 feet. Once, she dated one of the more popular basketball stars from the national league, but, however handsome and rich he was, he never measured up to what her perception of Jason was. She had heard that he had gone professional and longed to see him on television, remembering how he looked like when they were young: the soft soulful gaze of his eyes, the shy smile of his red lips, the awkward way he waved "hello" at her that day.

She has always wondered, as she still does, how it would have been. Why, when finding these old friends and classmates, it is him she longs to see again. Maybe now she won't be as shy to talk to him, unlike in high school. Maybe now she can make him laugh; maybe now she can find out what he is like right now.

And then there are the what if's. What if she was the go-getter that she had become? What if she had been bold enough and encouraged him more? What would it have been like to hold his hands. To gaze into his eyes. To kiss his lips. To feel his skin next to hers. To make love with him. There were so many possibilities that she would never know. And she longs to be back, so she would find out. All these years, it was Jason. The torch she thought was forgotten, a product of a brief flirting, a brief smile, a brief invitation. What if?

She lies in bed every night, thinking how it might have been with him. Was Jason the one that really got away?

visions

Megan feels a tad playful tonight. And giddy.

On her shopping spree on the weekend, upset that Larry wouldn't see her, guess who she saw at the classy jewelry store at the mall? Yes, Larry himself. And he was looking at engagement rings. She had been feeling both ecstatic and nervous since.

When Larry calls her that morning to say they were going for dinner that night, she sort of plays it cool, making him wait while she checks her Outlook calendar. Of course she is free, and she even makes a hesitant "Uhm...ahh..." before she says "Okay."

She and Larry have been dating for several months now. Dating as in having sex, either in his apartment or her condo. They go out for fancy dinners, why, they even went on a weekend trip to one of his friends' cottage.

As Megan twirls around before the floor-to-ceiling mirror in her bathroom, (checking to see if her pantyhose was perfect, no creases on her dress, the like (why, she even went to the salon to have her hair done as well as her make up!), she has visions of Larry kneeling down, in front of all the patrons at Truffles, and asking her to marry him. She looks at herself in the mirror, tries out again her "shy, cute smile" and places her right hand over her cheek.

"Oh, Lar," she says, raising her eyebrows just so. She places her hand now over her chest as she imagines Larry taking out the diamond ring he had purchased for her, "Oh, my God! This is so unexpected!" But she couldn't say it without the grin on the corners of her mouth. Megan is extremely excited.

The door bell rings. Larry is at the door, holding a bunch of pink roses, her favourite. He compliments her, "That's a beautiful dress, but of course, it's beautiful because you're wearing it." Megan giggles, nervously, as she has practiced all day.


At dinner, Larry rarely speaks, but would occasionally touch her cheek with the back of his hand. When they were having their main course, he reminds her of that new position they tried the last time "we had sex" and how much he enjoyed having her "that way", then he looks at her like he is ready to do her right then and there. Megan starts to feel horny and wishes Larry would already drop on his knee and propose. If he keeps this any longer, she might have an orgasm by the end of the meal.

Larry orders port for their dessert. Then he takes Megan's hand.

"Meg," he says and Megan thinks, Okay, here it is.

"Meg, I'm getting married." Megan smiles. Wow! this is a different approach to a proposal.

"I've proposed to my girlfriend last night and she said yes." Larry says this with a smile.

"What?" Megan says. "I thought I am your girlfriend." She almost couldn't hear herself.

"Well, you're my girlfriend, sort of. But I think of us more like lovers. I enjoy having sex with you, you're so game at everything."

Megan is stunned.

"What I'm driving at is, I hope we can still... you know...get together once in a while even when I'm married."

in the casino

Percie, my secretary, is both nervous and ecstatic. She’s never been to a casino before. The casinos set up at fundraising galas don’t qualify as casino. This one here today is the real one, where you sink real big money in that goes in the pockets of the owners or the government officials. This casino has waitresses clad in skimpy clothing. This casino has cameras all over the ceiling and walls and security men rounding the floors periodically, like every ten minutes. This casino has security men checking patron’s ID’s and purses.

“Ma’am,” the burly looking security guard slightly bows his head upon recognizing me. I open my purse for him to inspect it, but he smiles and says, “It’s okay, ma’am. I know you.”

Percie clutches her shoulder bag close to her body, a skinny security guard motions for her to place it on the table for inspection. She looks at me. The first security guard tells him it’s okay, “She’s with Ma’am.” Percie turns her nose up at the skinny guy.

“Well, that was nice. Who are you, Ma’am?” Percie says mockingly.

“I worked at the Front Desk before they had the casino. The secu’s know me,” I tell her.

“Oh, my God, there’s so many people!” she exclaims.

“Yes, and it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon.” I walk ahead of her and she follows me. I show her where the slot machines are.

“A dollar? Who comes here, millionaires?”

“Chinese, mostly, and businessmen,” I say eyeing a half empty Black Jack table.

“Are you going to play?”

“Of course, that’s why we came, isn’t it?”

“Well, I just wanted to see what a casino looks like.” Percie’s eyes follow a passing waitress with a large tray loaded with beer, wine and other drinks. “Wow, you’d think she’s going to bed with those clothes. Why didn’t she just take everything off.” I laugh.

“Pers,” I say as I fish out a $50 bill from my purse. “Here, sit and play this machine here.” She sits on the stool in front of the slot machine that has pictures of cherries and variations of the casino logo.

I show her how to work the slot machine, explaining how the winning, or losing, works. She puts in a token and presses the button for one token plays. On her tenth token, she wins a few more tokens which she immediately puts in her little bucket. She smiles. This goes on for a few minutes before she tells me, “Go, don’t watch me.”

I walk over to the Black Jack table where there are now only two patrons, all with less than a hundred dollar worth of chips and the dealer starting to deal a new set of cards. I sit on the centre stool, hand the dealer a $50 bill and he gives me ten pieces five-dollar chips. I place three of them as my bet. The patron on my left bets all his chips, the man on my right bets only some of his. The dealer deals the card. I get two aces and place them face up on the table. I split my bet and the man on my right place a bet on my one card. It wins black jack, the other got an eight of diamonds. I motion “stay”. When the dealer opens his cards he has 24. All bets win. The dealer deals again.

On the fifth deal, Percie sits beside me. The dealer asks her if she’s playing. She shakes her head and tells the dealer she’s with me. He looks about and seeing not many people around us, lets her stay.

“How much did you start with?” she asks.

“Fifty,” I answer without looking at her.

“And you have now, wait…" she counts my chips, "$350?”

“Yes, please be quiet.”

“Wow, you’re good.”

I get fourteen on this deal and scratch the surface with my fingers for him to give me another card. I get a five of spades. Percie watches intently as the dealer opens his cards. He has eighteen. He promptly gives me my winnings.

“Let’s go, Cynne. We’ve won already,” she says.

“Why,” I look at her briefly, “did you win in there?” I jerk my head to the direction of the slot machine.

“No,” she says. I know what she has done. She would’ve cashed in whatever token is left before I have left for the Black Jack table. “Can we go.”

“Okay,” I say, “one last bet.” I place all but one of my chips in front of me as the dealer prepares to deal again. Percie’s eyes widen in horror.

“Are you nuts? You’re already ahead and you’re betting all your money?”

I show her the remaining chip worth $50 and hand it to her. “Go cash it and wait for me at the door.”

She takes the chip, stands behind me and says, “I’ll wait for you.” She looks sad, sorry for me wasting the money that I didn't have in the first place.

The dealer waits for me to open my cards. They were an ace of spade and a Jack of Hearts. Black Jack. The dealer promptly gives me twice the equivalent of my bet. I get up as I gather my chips, all but for one which I push towards the dealer. He smiles and say “Thank you.” It was a $100 chip.

“Stay, you’re on a winning streak,” the man on my right says. “Lady luck’s going to get mad at you if you leave.”

“It’s just beginner’s luck,” I say. “I always quit when I’m ahead. ‘Tis the same with gambling.”

I hand Percie the chips and she merrily dashes away to cash them in.

I meet Percie at the door. She looks upset. “Do you know that you gave the dealer $100 for a tip?”

“So?”

“But that is just too much!” She says as she hands me my $850. I hand her $300 and very discreetly hand a $50 bill to the burly security guard at the door as we leave. He smiles and slightly bows his head.

“Who are you,” Percie says between her teeth. “Mrs. Santa Claus?”

“Pers, it’s not my money. I only invested $50 in that game. At least I got my money back. That money I gave away, and this with me, it's not mine.”

“I just think you are too generous.” She pouts. I chuckle.

I give the doorman $20 as he whistles at a cab for us. A woman, in her late thirties, seemingly nervous and upset, approaches us and talks to Percie.

“Ma’am, do you think I can hitch a ride with you to the bus stop?” The bus stop is about a ten-minute walk.

Percie looks at the woman from head to toe. “Why?” she asks.

“I just had a bad day. I lost all my money on the roulette and I don’t have money for taxi.”

“Well, that’s what you get for gambling,” Percie tells the woman. “I don’t know, ask her, she’s the boss.” She motions to me.

The woman looks at me, her eyes pleading. I see her earlobes bearing the marks of her earrings. Her wrist has a white line around it, where her watch would have been normally. Her left ring finger has the same mark. Only a simple band remains in one of the fingers in her right hand.

“Sure,” I say. I motion for the woman to sit beside the taxi driver.

Percie rolls her eyes and waves her arms in exasperation. "Why don't we just let her shoot us right here?"

Inside the cab, Percie tells the driver that the woman is getting off at the corner. I ask the woman where she lives and before she can answer, we reach the bus stop and Percie promptly tells the driver to stop. The woman scrambles to get off without thanking us. Percie rolls down her window and yells at her, "Thank you very much, ha?"

"Gheez, Pers, let go. The woman's already down on her luck."

She rolls her window up and laughs. "How ungrateful, couldn't even say a simple thank you."

"Ma'am," the driver says shaking his head. "That lady is a professional gambler. I give her a ride almost everyday. Some days my passenger wouldn't let me because they're afraid she's a hold-upper. But I know her, she's addicted to the casino."

coyotes

The frozen snow on the fields along Lynden Road sparkled in the light of the full moon. It seemed the stars were scattered along the fields instead of being in the sky above. It was after midnight and although tired from an entire day at her photo studio, Jemma tried to concentrate on the hilly road. The minus twenty-five windchill made for treacherous driving on the highway and she knew this slopy farm road would be more treacherous. Large patches of black ice had formed and she still had three kilometers to drive before she reached the farmhouse.


She gripped the stirring wheel when, going down a slope, her tires slid and the car made two full turns as it reached the valley. Thankful when the car righted itself, she continued driving. It would be a long and slow drive but she knew she had to be very careful and patient.

At the top of the next incline, she saw right away the glitter of a pair of eyes ahead. She expected a deer, as they were wont to wander this road but she was surprised to find a coyote standing in the middle of the road.

"Come on, Wiley," she moaned as the car neared the coyote, "get the hell out of there, please!" Amusing herself, she said with a chuckle, "Beep! Beep!"

Jemma put the car gear on neutral so that it slowly approached the coyote who wouldn't budge. When she thought the car would hit the animal, it slowly walked to the side, its eyes still fixed on her. Jemma breathed a sigh of relief. The wind blew and flecks of snow fell down from the bald trees.

She kept her high beams on and spotted a family of raccoons up ahead. Two large ones and three smaller ones were feeding on the remains of a squirrel. They didn't move a muscle as she neared and only did so when Jemma pressed the car horn. She continued driving thinking all the critters had moved to the side but she winced when she felt a slight bump in her rear tire as she drove past. She felt a shiver in her spine knowing it could be one of the small ones. She dared not look back lest her car ended up in the ditch.

At the same time that she heard the scratching noise, the angry faces of two large raccoons appeared in front of her and could hear their wailing. In confusion, she hit the brakes but the car jerked and the motor died. Luckily, she had reached the part of the road where there was no black ice. The animals kept scratching at her windshield. Turning on the wipers did not faze them. Suddenly the coyote jumped on the hood of her car and snapped one of the raccoons and in a flash it was gone. The other raccoon jumped off and Jemma immediately restarted her car.

The rest of the drive, although patched here and there with the dreaded black ice, was now uneventful and Jemma started to relax, although the image of the angry raccoons still gave her some chills. But she was thankful for "Wiley" for rescuing her and she promised herself to be more sympathetic to the cartoon character next time she joined her children in watching cartoons.

At the turn on Jerseyville Road to her farmhouse, she glanced at the open field to her right, covered with thick ice that took on the colour of bluish gray as they glistened in the moonlight. The coyote sat atop a tall mound on the icy field, its sillhoutte, with its prey by its feet, exactly in the centre of the moon that loomed large in the sky. Jemma stopped her car, awed by the beautiful image. Her exhaustion suddenly gone, she grabbed her camera and, lowering the passenger side window a few inches, snapped pictures of the precious scenery.

the newspaper boy

"I don't want to do this anymore, Dad," Billy says as he pushes his mom's shopping cart down the pavement.

"But I thought you said you wanted to do what I do for a living," his dad says back to him.

"Yeah, but you're making me do all the work! And I don't get paid."

"I'm teaching you," his dad fishes out a paper from the cart, rolls it up and throws it at the porch of the house, "how money is earned, so you'd learn to spend wisely."

Billy continues to push the shopping cart, its little wheels wobbly from the weight of the thick dailies. Two boys, in hockey uniforms, walk past them, lugging their large hockey bags and hockey sticks that make them almost trip. The end of one hockey stick hits Billy's cart and then his leg.

"Look at those bastards," his dad says. "All they know is play hockey, they wouldn't know how hard life is because their parents protect them by sending them to hockey camps." He throws another paper at another house's balcony. He misses and the paper scatters about on the steps. He continues to walk while Billy pauses, torn between going back and put the paper properly or just continue on.

Then his dad walks back and puts his arm around Billy's neck and musses his hair with his other hand. "But us, we're going camping in three days time, how's that, huh?"

Billy looks back at the two boys with their hockey gears as they blended in the darkness behind them.

"I'd rather go play hockey," he mutters under his breath.

the hotel

The Hotel

Sonja stood a good distance as she watched the large metal ball as it swung and hit the brick facade of the old hotel. Seemingly defiant, only a few bricks budged and fell and the same thing happened at the second hit. The third time, however, the structure just crumbled to the ground, all of its broken concrete and distorted metal and broken glass reduced to one great heap of rubble. It took a mere fifteen minutes.

The workers erected a makeshift fence around the rubble, and posted a NO TRESSPASSING sign. When everyone else had left, Sonja walked towards the fence and stared at the remains. She bent down to pick up an errant red brick and threw it down the heap.

She was glad the hotel's gone. She was relieved at its demise.

Twenty-five years ago, her dreams ended inside that hotel. Twenty-five years ago, Armand left her because of what happened at the hotel. Twenty-five years ago, five young men, sons of rich businessmen and high profile politicians, took away her dignity, her life, her dreams, her love. They did it in that hotel. They tried to bribe the workers, the police, everyone. But Sonja stood her ground. She fought the giants in order to obtain justice, as her beautiful face appeared in the newspapers the common folks rallied around her. And the powers that be listened. Not one of the five was spared. Justice came and exacted payment for Sonja.

Ironic, it was. The families of the criminals paid her a handsomely sum. Now she is rich. But money could not buy back her youth, her innocence, her dreams, her love, her life. She was there when all five were placed on the electric chair, one by one. She watched them die, the same way they had watched while they took turns pillaging her body.

There was no forgiving in her heart. And yet there's no happiness either. The memories still lived in her mind, but she was glad the hotel's gone.

the first

The anomaly does not escape Kalan 's keen eye and it is the first thing he notices of this man who claims to be Father Richard.

The priest takes a pack of cigarette from his pocket, shakes it and a stick peeks out of the pack. He puts the stick between his lips and places the pack down on the coffee table in front of him. He takes the small book of matches from the table, the one that came from one of the restaurant near the church, The Queen's Plate. He sucks the cigarette and blows out the smoke.

"Sit down, Kalan. You know you're not going anywhere soon, so you might as well be..shall we say, friendly? At least?" Father Richard says as he motions Kalan to sit on the arm chair opposite him.

"Who do you work for, and who are you? What do you want from me?" Kalan hisses.

"The documents that Patty took at the church. They're not complete. I reckon you have the rest of it."

"What document are you fuckin' talking about?" Thoughts run through Kalan's mind, trying to figure out what the sonofabitch is trying to say.

The door opens, the person wearing the heavy coat enters and motions at Father Richard. He pulls from his right pants pocket a car key. And that confirms Kalan's first anomaly: the real Father Richard kept his car key in his left pocket because he was left handed. This impostor is definitely a right hander.

But what of the face? Plastic surgery?

Then it occurred to Kalan: Father Richard has a twin?

boarded up

Kalan ’s jaw drops in surprise and confusion at seeing Father Richard, or whoever it is that looks like the dead priest, as he hugs in greeting the figure in heavy coat. They stand in the middle of the yard talking, their boots buried knee-deep in the snow, the snowy woods in the background. He sees Father Richard glance towards him at the window, doffs his hat, smiles and waves. He completely forgets about the door behind him that has opened. He tries to lift the levers of the window when he hears a click and he feels the cold touch of the barrel of a gun against the back of his neck.

“No, you’re not going to do that, my boy.” It is the white-haired woman.

As Kalan turns around, he finds two huge men looming over him and quickly hold him by the arm. He tries to fend them off without success.

“What the f*** do you want from me? Who the f*** are you?”

“Just call me Mrs. Doubtfire, my boy.” Mrs. Doubtfire smiles and Kalan realizes that indeed the white-haired woman is the spitting image of the movie character.

Presently, Father Richard and the figure in heavy coat enter the room.

"Lose your gun, Patty," Father Richard says smiling. "The boy's harmless when he's unarmed."

"Stop calling me 'boy', you idiots!" and Kalan pushes Mrs. Doubtfire, or Patty , before the large hand of one of the men could grab him by his neck.

Father Richard waves the man off and motions for everyone to leave, as he settles on an armchair covered with a heavy tarp. He lights a cigarette and blows smoke circles towards where Kalan stands.

"Who the f*** are you?" Kalan asks.

"I'm Father Richard, Kalan. Don't you recognize me?"

Kalan bobs his head, in disgust. He knows this guy is a fake. He knows Father Richard. He has known him for as long as he can remember. He knows the lines on his face, and of course, he has, or had, a birthmark which this guy doesn't have.

Kalan turns towards the door in an attempt to leave. Father Richard holds his right arm up, palm facing Kalan.

Yup, Kalan thinks, he's a fake!

And as Kalan walks back towards the man who claims he is Father Richard, the incident at the boarded up brick house in Cabbagetown comes back to him. Now he is positive. Father Richard is dead and this man is stepping in to walk in the dead priest's shoes.

the bedroom

the bedroom

“Thank God for Fabreze!” she mutters while she sprays the bare mattress. The right side slightly sinks in, Jacques' spot during the last three years. Not a problem, she would just have to turn it over and the mattress will go back to its form even though it might take a few weeks. She turns on the electric fan and directed the air towards the mattress. She fetches from the linen closet the new bed pad she has bought and the new sheets that she wants to use. The new blue and white linen sheets that match the new curtains she has installed on the window. Already, she has thought of a name for the bedroom: the blue willow room. It's not her bedroom, it's THE blue willow room.

She lightly pats the top of the mattress with the palm of her hands to make sure it is dry when she hears a knock on the door. She clucks her tongue, annoyed at this intrusion. She walks out of the bedroom, er, the blue willow room, thinking where she would position the three-foot floor vase. She opens the door.

“Hiya!” It is Jacques.

“Oh, it’s you.” Jacques pushes the door and enters.

“Kinda hard to get rid of me when I’m just across the hall from you, n’est-ce pas?” he teases her.

“What do you want now?” she asks, not really hiding her annoyance.

“Have you got milk? I need some for my tea.”

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 - 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 - 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.