Write On Edge

Not so Quiet

by Lizz on November 21, 2011

I wave back up to the screen door as I climb in the car. Max waves happily for a moment before turning away in search of a playmate.
The car-starting routine begins; purse on passenger seat, phone in cup holder, sunglasses on. The left blinker clicks as I pull away from the curb, glancing over my shoulder as I pull into traffic.
My commute is officially underway.
At the stop sign, I reach down to turn off the kids’ radio station; I don’t need another round of “Butterfly Driving a Truck” or “Mama Tooted,” not when I’m alone in the car.
I switch the stereo over to my iPod, and the car is soon filled with familiar notes, and before long, my voice has joined in, falling into harmony with The Indigo Girls, the Beatles or the beloved Broadway tunes of my childhood.
My voice isn’t as trained as it used to be, I can’t quite hit the high notes, but as I clear my mind and sing along, I am energized.

remembeRED
The prompt: Where is your quiet place? What does it look like? What happens there?

{ 10 comments }

Scary Hits Home

by Lizz on October 20, 2011

A collection of (very) short stories. They’re all different kinds of scary. :)

She sat in the quiet room, absorbed in her book. A sudden flash as her reading lamp’s light glinted off the blade. She never saw it coming, didn’t have time to scream.

Bathroom door, closed. Water, running. The cat, not in the room. No other noises. “Whatcha doing in there, kiddo?” The cat howls pathetically. “Nothing Mommy!”

Asleep, he reaches in the dark, feeling blindly. His hands come up empty every time. Fully awake now, still blind in the dark, his lovey is nowhere in the bed.

“Sorry Ed, this economy… you know how it is. Times are tough for all of us. Something’s gotta give. Silver lining though, I hear McDonalds is hiring.”

For this week’s Red Writing Hood prompt, we’re inviting you to truly scare us.
Here’s what you’ll need to do: Compose a post in the form of a text–160 characters.
Your text must elicit or express fear.

{ 22 comments }

Lunch

by Lizz on October 4, 2011

The bread was just squishy sandwich bread, probably purchased at the day old bread store. Transformed by heat and a thin layer of mayonaisse, perfectly golden brown and steaming, I could see the unnaturally yellow cheese oozing out from between the layers of toasted bread.

The first bite unleashed a string of cheese that led from my chin back to the plate, the second bite added dribbles of the Campbell’s Tomato Soup into which I’d dipped the sandwich. The drizzling rain continued outside, but my heart and belly were warmed by this comfort food.


The prompt: Conjure. Writing short posts is an excellent way to flex your word choice muscles. Which word is the most clear? Poignant? Direct? This week I want you to conjure something. An object, a person, a feeling, a color, a season- whatever you like. But don’t tell me what it is, conjure it.

{ 13 comments }

The Tower

by Lizz on August 25, 2011

The prompt: This week’s assignment will require the fewest number of words ever: we want you to write a story – your choice of topic – as a tweet. (140 characters total)

She came around the corner and into the sunlight.
It stood before her, finally, in all its splendor.
Gasping, she let the tears fall freely.

{ 30 comments }

Why Mel Loves Shoes

by Lizz on July 16, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club, a virtual writer’s society.
Concrit is always welcomed and appreciated!
One of my favorite parts of summer is THE SHOES. So for your prompt this week I’d like you to write about your character (or yourself) and a pair of his or her shoes.
Word limit: 650 My count:  609

“I’m sorry, your companion has yet to arrive.” Mel was not eager to sit and wait until Sara arrived for their weekly lunch date.

“OK, thanks. I’ll come back in a bit then,” smiling as she turned for the door.

Reaching for the handle, she noticed an elderly couple approaching through the tinted glass. Juggling her purse and briefcase, Mel went to hold the door open for them, sucking in her breath in an attempt to leave just a little more room between her body and the door frame. The gentleman held the door from his side and smiled. “Thank you, dear,” and Mel filled in the but in her mind.

Moving to one side, she watched as the couple stepped around her and entered the restaurant.

In the fresh outside air, Mel looked around for something to kill time. Scanning the local storefronts, she saw her goal on the other side of the fountain, and strode confidently towards it.

Pushing open the door to the air conditioned air that smelled oh so faintly of leather, she sighed in pleasure as she surveyed the displays that now surrounded her. Boots and peep toes, black patent and amazing multi-colored prints. Heels of all heights, buckles and slip-ons, straps and bows. She was in her element, the Jimmy Choo boutique.

Stepping around to the display of the current season’s designs, she looked for a moment and then found a seat. Arranging herself carefully on the already small bench seat, placing her bags on the floor, she made eye contact with a salesman who promptly ignored her. Sighing in frustration, she waved her arm at him. “Excuse me? Excuse me, hi. Can you help me please?” Long used to this kind of reaction, she doesn’t let it deter her, continuing to talk across the store to the salesman. “I’d like to see these in my size please! Hello?”

Annoyed, the salesman reluctantly moved in her direction; turning on the charm, she gives him a smile. “Hi, how are you today?” Confused by her genuine happiness, he forgot his previous distaste for her and smiled back. “I just need to see these in a 9 please. Oh, and these!” Pointing to two pairs of shoes on the nearby pedestal. “Thank you!”

Returning with the shoes, and she tried them on, carefully examining each pair in the mirrors mounted on the floor. They fit perfectly, like they always do. The first pair, a silver tapestry peep toe with a rhinestone detail on the heel, practically made her swoon, they were just so beautiful. She slipped them off and put the second pair on. There’s almost nothing to them, yet they’re perfect in their simplicity. Thin black and red straps crossing at the base of her toes and running up the side of her foot, until they met an equally slender strap that wrapped around and secured her heel. The metallic black heel caught the light and winked at her in the reflection.

“Love them both. I’ll take them!” She handed the salesman her platinum card and continued to admire her new acquisitions. Moments later, a new shopping bag carrying the two shoe boxes, she has left the store and is headed back across the plaza to the bistro.

Spotting Sara on the patio, Mel waved her tote by way of greeting, making Sara laugh.

“More shoes, woman? You’re crazy! Doesn’t that bring you up to like a hundred pair?”

“Ummm…. one hundred and four, I think. What? I love them, I can afford them…”

Sara, relying on more than 20 years of friendship, knows there’s a third item on that list. “and what?”

“Shoes don’t have fat days.”

{ 4 comments }

Life, or Lack Thereof

by Lizz on June 22, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club, a virtual writer’s society.
Concrit is always welcomed and appreciated!
Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE.Word limit: 300 My count: 300 EXACTLY!
Reveling in the first warm day after a rainy spring, she lies back in the adirondak chair and stretches her legs out in the sun, feeling very feline as she luxuriates in the warmth.

Connor runs around the yard, as thrilled as she to be outdoors again. Porch to mailbox, to Mr. Rommel’s rosebushes and back.

Getting caught up in her gossip magazine, she loses track of time and realizes it’s been a few minutes since hearing Connor’s joyful shrieks. Looking around the yard, she spots him in Mr. Rommel’s yard, staring intently at the ground under their neighbor’s giant maple tree.

Her curiosity piqued, she heads across the lawn to join her son. “What’s goin on, Peanut?” Not wanting to startle him out of his concentration, she calls out when she’s halfway there.

“Come look, Mommy! What is it?” His chubby toddler finger points at the base of the tree. “What is it? Can I poke it?” He’s found a stick, which he now wields at the tree.

“Hang on, Con” She arrives next to him and sees what he’s examining.

It’s a mouse, or something. From the looks of it, it died some time ago, and is barely recognizable as an animal.

“Oh, sweetie…” kneeling down next to Connor, she gathers him onto her lap for The Talk. “It’s a mouse, but he’s gone to heaven…” Pause to search his face for some reaction. “When you’re all done with your time on Earth, God calls your soul back to heaven, but your body stays here…” Pause. “But it’s OK, because your soul is who you are, and that’s up in heaven with God.” Exhale. He doesn’t appear to be traumatized; his eyes have returned to the decomposing rodent.

“Oh,” he says, confused. “I thought it was just dead.”

{ 14 comments }

The Toy Box

by Lizz on May 26, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club, a virtual writer’s society. This is a work of fiction. Concrit is always welcomed and appreciated!

Write a short piece – 600 words max – that begins with the words, “This was absolutely the last time” and ends with “She was wrong.”
Word limit: 600 My count: 414

“This is absolutely the last time I’m putting this crap away,” she mutters to herself as she circles the living room, laundry basket perched on her hip, tossing board books and plush toys in as she walks.

Stopping to stretch her cramping body, she lets the basket drop to the coffee table and rubs the small of her back. Surveying the living room, littered with primary colored plastic and various toys with choking hazard pieces, she considers cancelling Christmas and birthdays, just to reduce the clutter.

Too. Many. Toys.

So many ignored emails, to both her parents and his, asking for gifts of time together instead of material goods. Failing that, the suggestions of shoes and movie tickets were also shrugged off. The endless flow of toys, only coming in, never going out. Even broken pieces and packaging claimed by the children as sacred.

“I’m done. I’m cleaning out some of this crap. Now.” Kneeling next to the toy box, she starts pulling toys and sorting them into boxes she labeled with a Sharpie. “Toss, donate, sell, keep…” repeating it like a mantra as she slowly sorts the tangled mass. Dolls with no hair, cars with three wheels, twist ties and burned out flashlights. The piles grow and the burden of the clutter lifts slightly with each bit that lands on its respective pile.

The toy box emptied of its contents, the four piles taking up most of the living room, she stands to survey her work. The “Keep” pile isn’t the smallest, but it’s not the biggest either. “Perfect.” Going in to the kitchen to get trash bags, she hums happily to herself, content with the progress she’s made. “They won’t even miss that stuff. They won’t even notice.”

“I deserve a treat,” she says aloud to the empty room, and sets the coffee pot to brewing. “Clean up that stuff, have a cup of coffee, get the kiddos up from their quiet time… perfect!”

Stepping through the kitchen door and back into the living room, she finds Charlotte, her oldest, sitting amidst the boxes, her tear-stained face looking sadly at her mom. “Mommy, are you throwing my toys away?” Pointing to the box that was destined for the trash, she sounds it out. “Tuh-ahh-sss-sss. This says ‘toss’, Mommy! Why are you throwing our toys away?”

“I’m not, sweetie. I’m just…. organizing.” The weight settled back in on her shoulders.

They won’t even miss that stuff. They won’t even notice.

She was wrong.

{ 20 comments }

Bingo!

by Lizz on May 23, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club‘s memoir writing project, Remembe(red). Concrit is always welcome, and thanks for taking the time!

This week, we want you to recall the games you played when you were young.
Did you love Monopoly, Yahtzee, or Uno? Or did you prefer backgammon, Trouble, or Scrabble?Word limit: 600 My count:
I wanted to do good.

I wasn’t hoping to win, but I wanted to make Mommy and Grammy proud. I’d spent so many visits planted nearby, entertained by Barbies or Laura Ingalls while they played and drank tea, hot or iced, depending on the season.

I’d finally been invited to join them, since I was getting older. I was double-digits now, ten years old.

“Elizabeth, honey, would you like to play Scrabble with us?” The first rite of passage I remember into growing up. My mom and grandma always played a game of Scrabble per visit, sometimes several games.

Grammy’s board was huge. It sat on a homemade-by-Grampy lazy Susan, so it spun to face the current player. It didn’t fold, but had a raised plastic grid to hold tiles in place. If I was lucky, I got to help flick the tiles out of their little squares in between games.

My mom’s board was more run of the mill, but just as special to me. Folding the board to funnel the tiles into one of the first (or so she says) things my mom ever sewed, a red and white print bag that is as ingrained in my memories as my own name.

And now here I sat, arranging my seven tiles carefully on the rack, looking for a word to leap out at me.

And then it did.

I spelled it very carefully to myself, to make sure I wasn’t mistaken. I was right! I had a word! Thrilled, I tried to play nonchalant, watching our standard poodle, Annabelle, running her circuit around the backyard, barking as cars drove by.

It was my turn now, my very first turn in my very first game with Mommy and Grammy.

Carefully now, I picked up my tiles one at a time, not wanting to get things out of order.

S-E-A-S-O-N-S

I proudly added up the tiny numbers on each tile. “Seven! I get seven points!”

My mom and grandma just looked at each other and laughed.

“Fifty seven. You get a bonus for the bingo! You used all your tiles in one word! I think you’re a natural.”

I’d done good.

{ 11 comments }

10 Years, 3 Months, 21 Days

by Lizz on May 15, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club‘s memoir writing project, Remembe(red).
I really appreciate comments and feedback.
Concrit is always welcome, and thanks for taking the time!

Write about the first (or second) memory that
comes to mind when you see this:

Word limit: 600 My count: 545

I will always be an ex-smoker.

I’m one of the “lucky” ones; quitting wasn’t a challenge for me. I didn’t know I was quitting at the time, because I was admitted to the hospital for six weeks and I was so busy trying not to die, it didn’t even occur to me to be miserable about quitting.

I had smoked a pack (or more) a day for about 7 years; an inexorable part of my life. Wake up, have a smoke. Get in the car, grab a cigarette. Break at work, I could get in 2 cigarettes in a 10 minute break.

It had its low points, of course… huddling under an awning in the rain, trying to stay dry so I could get my fix. The coughing. Paying $4 or more per pack. The cherry that flew off my cigarette while driving on the freeway, falling down my back and burning my flesh and the car seat. The yellow-stained fingernails. The smell of stale tobacco and smoke following me everywhere I went, the minty gum and perfume fooling no one.

But, oh, a smoke and a cup of coffee. Sitting with my girlfriends on a café patio, drinking cup after cup of over-sweet mocha java, chatting, laughing and chain smoking. My friend Kristy and I used to buy trashy Cosmo magazines and we’d lay on her bedroom floor smoking Capri 120s and reading the articles, taking the embarrassing sex quizzes out loud.

Smoking was great. It gave me something in common with people I’d meet at the bar, an automatic community of people wherever I went. We would look into buildings from outside, feeling smug, superior and cooler than the non-smokers inside.

I’m not one of those obnoxiously proud ex-smokers; I don’t cough delicately when someone comes back in the room from a smoke break. I don’t harass friends into quitting. I’m proud and happy when they do, but it’s not my call if they smoke or don’t.

Because if I had my choice, I’d still smoke.

Seriously.

I. Still. Miss. It. Every. Single. Day.

And I hate that it still has that power over me. Almost a third of my life has passed since I was a smoker, but I still crave it sometimes. Sitting at that same café with the same girlfriends, even though none of us smoke anymore. Watching a dark European film where everyone apparently chain smokes still gets me. A fresh doughnut and a cup of coffee makes me miss the rhythmic tapping into the ashtray.

I wish I’d never started, because if I’d never taken that first drag, I wouldn’t know what I was “missing out” on, wouldn’t still be missing those things.

When I drive down the street and see someone smoking on the sidewalk, the first thought that goes through my head is “People still do that?” and yet, I think I’d probably still be one of them if I’d never gotten sick. I worry about explaining this to Max; don’t start, kiddo, because trust me and your dad. Being an ex-smoker is tougher than dealing with turning your buddies down now. Better to be un-cool for a minute today than to be stuck with these cravings forever.

But I can’t worry about that today. Today, I’ll concentrate on my journey as an ex-smoker. And look forward to having 10 years, 3 months, 22 days under my belt.

{ 15 comments }

That Green Grass

by Lizz on May 5, 2011

This was written for The Red Dress Club, a virtual writer’s society.
Concrit is always welcomed and appreciated!

Aaah…jealousy. We all have it. We all feel it.
And now we’d like you to write about it. We’ll leave it open: you can write about something or someone you envy, or a time when your jealousy got you in trouble, or maybe how it makes you feel to be envious. Whatever you want.
Word limit: 600 My count: 401

Two women arrive, one right after the other, at the doctor’s office. Perching themselves on the uncomfortably upholstered bench seats, each one acknowledges the other with a slight smile, but keeps the rest of her thoughts and observations to herself.

12:15 already? Sophie is going to be
hungry soon. Please hurry, Dr. E!

I‘m early, Dr. Elliott. I’ve got a client meeting
at 2, so you need to be on time today!

It’s OK, baby! Mommy just needs to
talk to the doctor for a minute.

I hope her appointment isn’t before mine.
She’s home all day! She couldn’t have
made her appointment for when
the rest of us are working?

Oh, I love her shoes… I miss gorgeous shoes.
D’orsay pumps. My favorite. Manolos?
Ooh! Red sole– Louboutin!

At least her baby isn’t being annoying.

And her skirt is spectacular. I remember
when I could wear pure white like that.

She is totally a perfect soccer mom.
Cute ponytail, broken-in sneakers,
comfy yoga pants.

I wonder how much she spends on
her hair. The color is amazing!

The baby’s curls are adorable.
And such a cute outfit!

Lawyer?

That’s totally how I’d dress my baby… if I had one.
I should ask where she… no, that would be crazy.

Investment banker?

But I’d want a boy.

Real estate. Definitely real estate.

Sebastian.

I always loved real estate.

Sebastian James.

I could have been good at it.

I’d call him Baz and I’d
make a damn cute baby.

I’ll bet she has cocktails with dinner.
In an up glass. Mmm…. dirty martini.

Why’d Mark have to throw
our relationship away?

Here, Sophie… want Mama’s milk?
Where’s that nursing shawl?

Oh, I can just imagine how amazing
breastfeeding is. That bond.

Her boobs are to die for.
I wonder if they’re real.

I wonder if I could breastfeed.
I’d like the chance to try.

Those earrings have got to be
over a carat apiece.
And I’ve always loved that
Paloma line at Tiffany’s.

All I ever wanted was to be a mom.

I wish I’d kept working. I loved working.

Doing crafts, baking, room mom, PTA…

I love you, Sophie-doll, but…

I would have been good at that.

Mommy has to wonder sometimes.

I have to wonder sometimes.

If this is all there is.

If this is all there is.
I’ll bet she has the perfect life.
I’ll bet she has the perfect life.

{ 18 comments }

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