Remorse - and forgiveness?

This week's Red Wrtiting Hood prompt (via the Red Dress Club) asked us to revisit a former post and give it an overhaul:

"Go back in the archives and pick a fiction or nonfiction piece. Perhaps something you posted on your blog, or an old Red Dress Club prompt? Find something that you're proud of, but something you haven't read for awhile. Do a complete overhaul. Change the point of view. Write it from a different perspective. Try dialogue. Make it a narrative. Play with tense or organizational structure. You know, kill those babies. Oh, and by the way? Trim it down to 400 words or less."

I revised my first blog fiction piece, titled "Runaway". It's a story of remorse and the hope for forgiveness. The original can be found HERE.

RUNAWAY (take two)

The sun emerges above the horizon; her aching body begins to wake. Her ears heed the cacophony of sounds: humming car engines, squeaking brakes, rubber tires hugging the bridge deck above. A groan from her own lips, as she wills her miserable body to a sitting position. Grimy blankets are tossed aside. She is thankful for the greening of the trees and the hearty sprouts of wild daffodils. Never again will she take for granted the warmth of spring. Struggling to run her fingers through her matted hair, she reflects on the path ahead. How slowly will the hours pass? Will her abused sneakers survive the - hopefully final - journey? Her stomach gurgles… will she get to eat?

Perhaps today will bring the miracle she so desperately needs.

She is taking a risk, bringing only what fits in her battered backpack and leaving the rest. Come tonight, if she is forgiven, she will wash away the evidence of a life gone wrong.

“I hope this nightmare ends today,” she mutters as her feet met the sidewalk for the nineteenth day in a row. She whispers to the sky, “Come on God, give me a break. I screwed up, I get it. I’m clean now. You know how much I need this.”
-

I wonder if she knew?

I wonder now if she knew. If, perhaps, my OB-GYN had a suspicion of what was to come.

A week prior to my due date, we began to discuss a day of delivery. I had some complications and rising blood pressure, but nothing too drastic. I probably could have waited for labor to begin naturally. But she insisted on scheduling a date and time.

She insisted that we plan a delivery for April 8th. Not one day past my original due date.

She asked – more than once – if I wanted to opt for a C-section. She had two C-sections herself. She was more than happy to schedule one for me too.

I was one month shy of 30 years old. I had only gained 30 pounds of pregnancy weight. I was decently healthy and not overweight.

This was my first pregnancy. I feared the complications of surgery. I opted for an epidural-supported vaginal delivery.

She asked me a couple days prior. Was I sure I did not want a C-section?

Nope. I was going to do this “right”.

Mama says

Trying my hand at fiction again for The Red Dress Club! This post is pure fiction. It is not about me, my past, or anyone I know. Nor does it represent pageant enthusiasts as a whole.
- - - - - -

I don’t like that sound. That hissing sound from too many spray cans in one place. I don’t like the smell. Fumes, Mama calls them. Just fumes. Nothing to worry about.

I cannot remember a time without the fumes.

Fake tan. Hairspray. Body glitter. Even more hairspray.

I am a five-year-old beauty queen.

Despite being six months away from Kindergarten, I am already considered a pro. My Hello Kitty bedroom is full of ribbons and trophies. I was two years old for my first pageant. My walk is sassy and confident. My smile is white, bright, and big. My hair? Even bigger. Mama has a passion for hairspray.

Mama has a passion for pageants. She is always pushing. Practice more. Stand up straighter. Don’t squint.

I never asked to be a beauty queen.

Mama told me I would be a beauty queen. She always said it was something she couldn’t do. She always said it was important. It was what I was meant to do. Because I’m pretty.

No one asked me.

Today is my best friend Audrey’s birthday party. She turned five on Thursday while we were at school. Our teacher, Ms. Linda, gave her a birthday hat and we all sang “Happy Birthday” during snack time. We had cupcakes for our special snack that day – pink cupcakes with sprinkles on top. My birthday was last month. Mama didn’t have time to send in a special snack, but at least I got to wear a birthday hat.

I did not have a birthday party. We had a pageant that weekend. Instead of playing with my friends and eating cake, I pranced and posed and shimmied. Mama said it was a really special weekend – such an important competition for me. She sculpted my hair into a big poof and snapped a hairbow on to hold it in place. The hairbow pulled and hurt a little. I wanted to cry, but Mama told me there was a price for beauty.

I wish I could have had a party.

It was hard to fall asleep last night. Thoughts of Audrey’s birthday party swirled through my mind. But when Mama shook me awake early this morning, she was wearing her big button proclaiming “Pageant Mom. I (heart) my daughter!”. It was good I hadn’t had breakfast yet, because my tummy did a sad little flip. That button could only mean one thing; we were going to a pageant. Mama smiled and picked at my hair. She always complains that I sleep on it funny. I cried – silently, because Mama doesn’t like the sound. How could she forget about Audrey’s party? Mama said parties are for babies, we have a good chance to win today. And why would I want to miss that?

Crying makes my eyes puffy, so I had to stop.

In the car, we listened to my song six times. Mama said I will sing better tonight after the hot tea. I think hot tea is gross.

We crossed the state border and arrived at the civic center by 11:05.

Audrey’s party started at 11:00.

I wonder if she’s having fun?

- - - - - -




This week's prompt:

Write a scene in which a physically beautiful character is somehow impacted by that trait.

Stung

When I was 17 years old, I fell into the boyfriend trap.

I slipped away from my friends and spent every spare moment with my love of the year.

After the novelty of the new relationship wore off, I opened my eyes. I opened my eyes and saw my friends off to the side, enjoying each other’s company. Laughing. Chatting. Planning weekend activities. Activities that no longer involved me.

There was no Facebook in the mid 1990s, so I turned to the most popular high school “social media” at the time - I wrote a note. A simple note on lined paper torn from my 5-subject World Geography notebook.

    Let’s hang out this weekend! I miss you.

I folded the note precisely and slipped it to my friend as we exited the classroom. We parted ways for different 6th-period destinations. My heart skipped a beat; I did the right thing. I vowed to get my friend back.

When the final bell signaled the end of the school day, I searched the halls for my friend. I was antsy to connect with her as soon as possible. What fun activities would we get ourselves into on Saturday? I could hardly wait. But I did not find her.

Disappointed, I made my way to my gray metal locker, dialed the combination lock, and yanked it open. Yellow paper fluttered to the floor. Yellow paper, which had been previously stuffed through the upper slats in my locker door.

It was a note. Or, more accurately, a letter. Three full pages of handwritten words on slightly crumpled yellow lined paper. I flipped to the back – it was from her! Happily, I skimmed the words.

Then my heart plunged to the pit of my stomach.

My eyes widened with astonishment.

My hands began to tremble.

This was not what I expected.

Got (Gummiberry) juice?

I miss Saturday morning cartoons.

Before the time of all-cartoon cable networks, prior to a Disney Channel subscription in my home... those were the days when children across the country longed for Saturday morning.

Saturday mornings had a purpose; these days held a higher level of excitement than any other throughout the week. It did not matter that I was awake past my bedtime the night before, or that I was battling fatigue from hours of summer swimming pool play.

I got out of bed as soon as my eyelids fluttered open. 

I headed straight for the television.

Snorks.  Smurfs.  Pee Wee's Playhouse.

My favorite of all-time? Sandwiched between Snorks at 8:00 and Smurfs at 9:00, was Disney's Adventures of The Gummi Bears.

25+ years later, I can still sing the theme song verbatim.

Dashing and daring,
Courageous and caring,
Faithful and friendly,
With stories to share.
All through the forest,
They sing out in chorus,
Marching along,
As their song fills the air.

Gummi Bears!!
Bouncing here and there and everywhere,
High adventure that's beyond compare,
They are the Gummi Bears!

Magic and mystery,
Are part of their history,
Along with the secret,
of Gummiberry juice...

- - - - -
I wonder which theme songs Amelia will remember when she's in her 30s? Little Einsteins? Mickey Mouse Clubhouse? Maybe the Backyardigans or Fresh Beat Band?

Today, Saturday morning is just like any other morning.

Disney Channel. Nickelodeon. Cartoon Network. PBSKids.

There is such a vast selection of shows every morning of the week, maybe she won't remember any of them?

That breaks my heart just a little bit.

- - - - -

 
Another fabulously fun memoir prompt from The Red Dress Club!

Should have brought the troll

Another RemembRED memoir post this week! 

- - - - - - - - - - - -


I weaved my way through the crowd, arms full of cards and ink blotters, and proudly took my place in a beat-up beige metal folding chair.

I glanced over at the experts sitting among us and spread my bingo cards just like they did. My great aunt helped to unscrew an especially tight lid on my pink ink blotter then patted my hand.

“Maybe you’ll win something tonight,” she whispered with an animated grin. She knew how much this meant to me. My sister and I had been playing with her bingo ink blotters for years, and I could barely contain my excitement to finally be invited to the big event.

All he could eat

Today's post is inspired by The Red Dress Club prompt: gluttony.

The post is fictional (I don't have three kids!), but if you've ever been on a cruise, you know the "Bobs" do exist!

- - -
The minivan was packed. Two large and two medium-sized suitcases proudly displayed colorized tags. The three kids, ages 3, 6, and 11, chattered happily as we merged into the flow of traffic and ventured down I-95 towards the port. We could barely contain our own excitement; we cranked up some summer tunes and smiled.

This year’s cruise? Was going to be memorable. Thanks to savvy saving and a chunk of inheritance from a dearly departed loved one, we were cruising in style. No cramped, tripping-over-luggage, fighting-for-the-tiny-capsule-shower stateroom this year; we were going to enjoy paradise from a family suite. It was going to be fabulous; we would remember our luxury trip for years to come.

Fast forward a couple years. We are still talking and laughing about that vacation. It was memorable, all right; the suite was perfect, the weather was divine. We took great pleasure in awaking each morning to a new, picturesque island view.

But the most memorable? Not exactly what we expected.

Construction Zone

Summertime in the 1980s meant one thing to me: Beach Trip!

Every August, just before school was to begin again, we would pack up the big family car and roll down the interstate towards South Carolina. For several years, we stayed in the same condo. 202C was our domain. My sister and I bounced on the twin beds in our room. We played out on the balcony, heard the crash of the ocean waves, and watched as old shrimp boats floated slowly across the horizon.

Bright and early each morning, we awoke with excitement. Sleeping in was never an option; we had some serious work to do. We bounced out of bed, donned our swimsuits, and scarfed down cereal. All in about 10 minutes flat. Then we clambered down the wooden stairs in our pink jelly shoes, skipped past the pool, and sunk our toes in the fluffy sand. By the end of the day, this sand would be so hot we would need to sprint across. But in the cool of morning, we could stop to wiggle our toes. Only for a moment, though, we had work to do!

My dad took direction well. He grabbed the largest of our plastic shovels and began to dig the foundation. My sister and I sprinted to the ocean to fill our buckets. We filled them as much as we could, the plastic handles straining from the weight. Then we followed our own footprints back up the beach to the construction site.

In a matter of minutes, the castle took shape. Trenches, moats, and curved fortress walls were only the beginning. Using handfuls of wet, dripping sand, we created magical towers and turrets. We fantasized about who lived in each tower. There was always room for everyone in our castle. Mom joined in the fun as well, collecting seashells and placing them in just the right places for added beauty.

The final creation was truly magical. My young heart filled with pride as people stopped mid-stroll to admire our work. The center moat was always large enough that I could sit in the water warmed by the afternoon sun. All the passersby knew this castle was mine. I was the queen of my sandy domain.

Fallen star

(This is a work of fiction for The Red Dress Club)

She was on her way to the Walk of Fame.

My childhood friend.

Actress. Singer.

Superstar.

You didn’t just watch her; you could feel her. Her presence captivated every being in the room. A fly buzzing around a warm spotlight? It too, probably stopped and fell silent.

She achieved greatness – reveled in ever-glowing Broadway lights and eventually made it in Hollywood. Yet I still felt her friendship. She maintained a private connection between us somehow, the only true confidante I had ever known. My best friend.

I was afraid when she faltered. I was shattered when she crashed.

She lashed out at paparazzi. She couldn’t sleep. She turned to negative influences in a feeble attempt to regain the comfort she used to know. This shining star? Squandered her light. My poised friend? Lost her grace.

An extended family summer

Get up! No lounging in bed today!

I opened my eyes to the sun peeking through the blinds and a smile stretched across my young face. It was not going to be a run-of-the-mill Saturday. Our annual neighborhood picnic was set to begin just before lunchtime. It was always a special day, one I looked forward to year after year. This year? This year was going to be even better. My cousins were visiting from Ohio and would share in the cul-de-sac festivities just outside my front door.

I scarfed down my cereal and giggled at Saturday morning cartoons. The clock ticked and tocked until, finally, it was nearly 10:30. I popped up from the floor, tossing my pillow on the couch. Then I, along with my sister and cousins, bounded down the front porch steps to watch the picnic preparations.

The Voice

There are no mixed feelings about today's guest writer. Frankly, I don't like her. She bullied her way into my blog to spread the poison of negativity. So let's get this one over with. Without further adieu, I bring you The Voice Inside My Head.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

You all know me.

You let me into your life on a regular basis.

You feel the grasp of my fingers on your heart when times get tough.

I am the one who reminds you that you are not perfect. I weasel my way into your thoughts and try to break your spirit.

I am self-doubt.

Why are you working so much? How dare you turn on Ice Age for the 37th time so you don't have to play with Play-Doh. You don't have time for Facebook! Why do you have feelings for yourself?!? Only bad mothers raise their voices in anger. So-and-so doesn't do it that way. Her child is so much better behaved than yours! You used to be something. You used to have freedom.

I am gooood at what I do. I can feel you fighting against me. I can feel you trying to usurp my domain by pushing me out with confidence. Feeling proud of yourself today? It's only a matter of time before I slither back in.

Miss me today? Don't worry... I'll be back.

This week's Red Writing Hood assignment was to think of someone who gets under your skin, and write a piece from his or her perspective.

First Day

In the Autumn of 1983, a five-year old me entered Kindergarten. My father parked the red Chevy Caprice Classic along the curb of the steep hill adjacent to school. My sister and I clambered out of the car after saying our quick goodbyes to Daddy. He was headed to work at the chemical plant; my big sister was in charge of leading me by the hand to Mrs. D’s kindergarten class. With my left hand in her right and our homemade corduroy book bags slung over the opposite shoulders, we crossed the threshold into our first day of the school year.

My young heart skipped a beat. Where many in my place were nervous, I was brimming with excitement. My sister was in my place this time last year. I knew the school, I knew the teacher. I had nothing to fear. But as I looked into the expectant eyes of the teacher and that comforting grip on my hand began to loosen, my confidence waned.

I could not hear the cheerful welcome from Mrs. D.

My heart, giddy only moments before, fell into the pit of my stomach.

I felt the last, light brush of my sister’s fingertips and she pulled away. I watched her bounce down the tile, cinder-block walled hallway and around the corner towards the first grade classroom. My brown eyes began to fill with tears.

A touch on my shoulder jolted me back to reality. I finally heard her voice.

“Good morning, Julie! It is so nice to have you today.”

I glanced briefly at Mrs. D. Her eyes sparkled with kindness, her smile was warm. My eyes scanned the room, quickly taking inventory of the colorful posters, the plethora of books, the green chalkboard exclaiming, “Welcome to kindergarten!” in the unmistakable hand of a teacher. I inspected the wooden easel, splattered with years of drips from classes past. Kindergarten looked okay… but I still wasn’t sure. I felt small, alone. I longed for the comforting grasp of my sibling’s hand.

Then I saw her - my best friend. The one person I knew so well. She was happily chatting with girls we knew from church while her hands rhythmically slid the red beads on the abacus back and forth. She looked up, she grinned at me. My heart skipped a beat once again.

This was going to be a great year.


       
This is my first submission to the Red Dress Club! Please comment and let me know what you think.