Hunger

The too familiar rhythm sounds at my door, brass knocking against brass in a quick 1, 2, 3, 4, pause and 1 more, louder. I don’t need to peep through the hole to know who is on the other side. I can see her flawlessly arranged brown curls dangling over her shoulders, trendy silver filigree earrings, peach lipstick on her full lips, mascara-ed eyelashes fluttering over her brown eyes. She is gorgeous and always perfectly put together, despite that she has two young boys at home. She is what I am not: beautiful and a mother.

Flanna and her family had moved in three months ago. I had only had time to consider welcoming her before she was at my doorstep with fresh baked peanut butter cookies introducing herself and telling me all about her family. And since then she has been on my doorstep a couple of times a week, sometimes to borrow a cup of sugar, sometimes to share some exciting news, but most often to ask if I would watch her boys, Sam and Andrew.

I consider not opening the door, pretending I don’t hear her. I have never been very good at saying what I really feel. I had said yes to Flanna so many times, and had been happy to do so at first. But now her requests have become too frequent, and asked in a way as if I have nothing better to do. When she came just two days ago asking if I’d like to watch her kids, I so politely accepted with a wide smile, although I was seething inside as I avoided genuine words and something like hunger in her eyes, maybe even pity. But I made a decision when I closed the door. Next time, I would speak the words I really want to speak, the words I need to say--not the words she wants to hear. I have gone over in my head so many times the right words to say. Inside my door now I assure myself. I can say it; I can. I open the door smoothly and before I can even greet her, she hastily starts talking.

“Carrie! Hi! Would you like to…W-ow!” Flanna is staring at me now, as if she is trying to figure something out. I forget I have not properly gotten dressed today—one of the perks of my job at home—and think she must be horrified at my appearance: the baggy heather gray sweats, the yellow t-shirt with bleach stains, no make-up and my barely brushed short black hair. She slowly proceeds, but rather than a disparaging remark she slowly says, “You look great today!” She sounds unsure herself of the compliment.

I have never considered myself very attractive and the lack of compliments has only confirmed that to me. “Thanks,” I clip at her. I’m not going to let a flattering remark soften my resolve. “Did you need something?” I ask hurriedly and purse my lips together in a hard line.

“Oh, well…I thought maybe you might be bored and I was wondering if you wanted to watch Sam and Andrew?”, Flanna asks too cheerfully.

I suck a deep breath into my nose I hope she cannot see or hear, and I speak with resolution.

“Flanna, I happen to be busy. I have a job. I am not just sitting around at home doing nothing but wishing I could babysit your kids so that you can run off and get your nails done.”

“Oh!” Flanna gets out with a shocked look, her mouth still in the shape of an “o”, her brow scrunched. “I didn’t think….”she sputters. “I just thought….well, I thought you enjoyed my kids, and since you don’t have any...”

I stop her. “Flanna, I happen to enjoy many things, like reading, gardening, photography, yoga. I have plenty to fill my time without the extra sessions of charity babysitting.” It was cruel, and filled with lies even. The truth was I did enjoy time with her kids, and they enjoyed the time with me. When they were with me I knew I satisfied their starving appetite for attention; I shrunk at each unbroken request of “Look at me, Mommy!” that arrived over the fence from their yard beside ours. And what is more, since I had found out I could not have children five months ago, I had not taken time to enjoy myself. That is until this morning.

Overcome by the need to escape my powerlessness and my grief, I hastily grabbed the dusty, white linen copy of The Agony and the Ecstasy that had been sitting on my nightstand for these many months and sunk in my coffee colored leather couch to read. It was only a small thing, and I should have been working, but it felt good to love myself even just a little. I got to work after a few chapters, but if I felt the cloud of mourning coming, rather than descend into my emptiness I grabbed the book again and read until I felt plump with peace.

“Well, don’t you want kids? I mean, do you even like them?”, Flanna asks irritated and anxious.

The heat is rising in my face. And the words begin to slip out in anger and hurt before I can stop them.

“I can’t have kids, Flanna!” It comes out with permanence, louder than I intended. I had not shared that with anybody but my husband and parents, and I had not intended to share it now, with her. I guess I was hoping it would make her feel bad. But I don’t want her pity. I want to scrape from her ears those sour words and keep them secured to my tongue.

“I have to go,” I say with an urgency. I close the door firmly and spin around, only to discover an unfamiliar person framed before me in the simple black rectangular entry mirror. I edge closer, remembering what Flanna had said, that I looked great. Despite my hideous clothes, reflecting back is a face I had not seen there in many months. The skin that was insipid before, as if it had been starved for oxygen, now breathes color. And my dark hair cropped around my face accents the flush skin. It is the loveliest shade of pink I have ever seen!

Challenge: Any Last Words

I really enjoyed all the Last Word Challenge stories and am excited to write one for everybodies last sentences they submitted. So, starting from the top the next one is

"He hoped that next time there wouldn't be any parts left over."

Let's try and get these all in by next Sunday.

Pink.

Pink. Her life had been defined by pink- and she loved it. The day she was born, the first color to touch her infant skin was a pink blanket which was quickly followed by pink booties and hat. Her first steps were taken while wearing a pink sun dress. Pink ribbons adorned her pig tails the first day of school. Pink lipstick saw her through her first kiss. Pink flowers held by pink bridesmaids walked her down the isle. And she looked forward to the day she could bring her own pink bundle home from the hospital. But life had other plans.

Blue... blue tennis shoes, blue baseball caps, blue toy cars littered her living room after giving birth to boy after boy. Three sons. No time for pink lipstick or pink ribbons anymore, she lived in blue jeans as she spent her days wrestling, playing soccer and making mud pies. Blue homemade Valentines adorned her fridge. Her life seemed to now be defined by blue- and she loved it. Yet her heart still yearned for pink.

Month after month... little pink negative signs seemed to taunt her. She began to hate pink. The pink scrubs of the nurses at the fertility clinic. The pink walls of the doctors office. Pink became the color of her failure- the color of disappointment.

Her husband held her as she cried. His heart broke for her. He wanted to be able to give her everything her heart desired. He knew he couldn't fix the ache, but he could try. She came home one night to a pink suitcase packed with pink lingerie. He made sure there were pink roses in the hotel room. Pink champagne on ice. Pink bathrobes at the spa. In her suitcase she had even found that her sons had each snuck in a picture they had drawn with pink crayons. She was loved and pink was there to proclaim it. Pink found it's way back into her heart.

Six weeks later, a pink positive sign filled her vision. Ultrasounds later confirmed a pink shopping spree was in order. Nine months flew by in a pink blur. Hospital bags packed with three tiny pink outfits, each picked out by a brother, were loaded into the car. The day had finally arrived! Thirty six hours of hard labor. She didn't understand it. Her sons had never been this much trouble. Worry and fear were etched on the nurses faces. Something was wrong. The umbilical cord. It was wrapped around the neck. The baby wasn't breathing. ...blue... her daughter was blue. The room spun. This can't be... this can't be happening. Her husband stood glued to her side- too scared to go over to the doctors encircling his new born daughter. He reached over and embraced his sobbing wife, burying her face into his chest. A cry. A shivering cry pierced the air. She yanked her face up, tears streaming down her cheeks- her heart leaping. The group of doctors opened up and she saw her daughter, her face tinged blue gasp for air between cries bringing a blush to her cheeks- it was the lovliest shade of pink she'd ever seen.

A Bad Country Western Song

If only they had taken some time and talked.  They could have been friends or maybe even lovers.  They actually had a lot in common.

He was not a big man.  The fact his father always reminded him of when he addressed him as the "runt" of the litter.  He had three "big" brothers.  They were as mean as they were big, he lived most of his life in fear.  His mother tried to run interference but then she ran off with that low life bartender when he was ten. All hell broke lose.  Life was one big fight for survival.  He still has nightmares, sometimes he wets the bed.  She left him behind!  Every day he wondered how she could do that.  He learned to hate real young.  It was inside like a putrid abscess waiting to burst.  School was not a place of comfort or escape.  It was just another version of the hell he lived at home.  The day he turned seventeen he packed a bag and hit the road. He never looked back.  He hitched his way to Texas.  He worked hard at hard work.  He wanted jobs that tested his strength and made him feel like a man.  He was a quiet man and tried to mind his own business.  He had a few dreams.  Not big ones.  He wanted a truck.  Yep, the typical cowboy, country kind of truck.  The bigger the better.  That was all he cared about.  That was all his broken and bruised heart would allow him to care about.

She was not a small girl.  Her father's greatest sorrow in life was that she was not a son.  He took every opportunity to let her know this fact.  When her mother died she was only six.  She never owned a dress or wore make-up or perfume.  She was too ashamed to tell her father when she started menstruating.  She cropped her hair and lived in levi's and flannel shirts.  She could cuss, spit, and fight as well as any man.  Her old man never noticed how hard she tried to please him.  He lived his life in a drunken stupor missing his wife and missing the fact he had a daughter who was the spitting image of her mother, in spite of all the attempts to be the son she was not.  Her greatest joy was the day she got the job.

This is a man's world.  Women are not welcome.  It does not matter that her old man worked as the foreman for 30 years.  He is gone and this is no place for girls.  They did everything to dissuade her from continuing on this insanity!  They ignored her.  They taunted her.  They sexually harassed her.  They even tried slapping her around.  She ignored them .  She started wearing perfume and a pink hard hat just to taunt them.  She laughed at their sexual advances.  She bloodied a few noses and even kicked the ass of one poor fool.

Yep, you guessed it.  He was again humiliated.  Now he was a target right along with her.  He could have joined sides with her but that putrid abscess was still growing and he hated her with all his heart and soul.   She saw his rage, at first it scared her a little, then she pitied him.  She pondered his plight and  made a bad decision.  She might fit in, become one of the boys, if she joined them in his torture. After all she had just one dream too.  She searched for his weaknesses.

Women have a knack for this.  She found his desire, his one desire.
Even though she tried with all her heart not be be a women, she was, and that was just something she couldn't deny.  Men and women fight in different ways.  Men are physical, they will punch you, then later have a beer with you and all is well.  Women will yell and pout, they will kiss and make up, then go home and plot how to get even and destroy you.

The talk in the small town was about this year's raffle.  Every year the company held a huge raffle, the proceeds to help the families of those killed on the job.  This year was a truck.  A cowboy, country kind of truck.  He already had a plan, he would take all his savings and buy as many tickets as he could.  In this small town his odds looked good.  He thought about that truck.  That was all he thought about.

She knew he was hooked.  She could see him daydreaming about that truck.  She taunted him that she would win it.  She claimed to "know" the man in charge and that he was gonna see that she won it because they were "close".   She told him tales of her nights spent with the person who chose the winner.  She assured him that she had the winning ticket already.

She agitated him. He hated her.  He hated the sound of her voice.  Her laughter about drove him over the edge.  He stopped daydreaming about the truck and now all he could think about was her suffering, her laughter being smothered and gone.  The putrid abscess growing was about to burst.  His hatred was full and had no place to go.

The night was dark, no moon.  The breeze smelled of salt and an impending storm.  He was glad to be alone.  All those numbers and none of them could give him his dream.   He felt dead, just another thing to torture and inflict pain.  The water was inviting.  He wondered what it would feel like to drown.  He knew no one would miss him.  He remembered the winning number and it kept burning through his brain like a hot brand.  He took some relief that no one had stepped up to claim the prize.  He hoped it was a lost ticket or perhaps the person would keep it a secret.  He didn't want to know who had stolen his dream.  He didn't want to hate anyone else.

He didn't hear her step out  of the shadows behind him.  She was in her pink hard hat and flowered shirt.  He smelled her perfume first.  When he turned around he could see she was holding a ticket and very slowly she was reading the numbers...she had the winning ticket.

He doesn't remember exactly what happened he just knew that something inside, something horrible and ugly just burst, and when it did it tore his tortured heart and mind into pieces.  He hit her hard and her pink hat flew across the deck and into the water.  She didn't have time to scream.  She sank so quickly he hardly realized she had been there.  He turned slowly to leave and something caught his attention.  There fluttering in the soft breeze was the winning ticket.  He slowly picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.

He didn't sleep.  He just sat and held that ticket and he wept.  His tears were not for her.  She was gone and he felt no sorrow.  He wept because somehow he knew that when he got into his new truck it would make all that was wrong with him ok.

He got dressed in his best clothes and he slowly ate breakfast.  He hummed a tune as he strolled over to the building to claim his prize.  The sun was warm and bright.  He handed the man in charge his ticket.   The man looked closely at the numbers.  A look of puzzlement crossed the man's face.  A shiny new set of keys were handed to the winner and he was directed to his dream.  It was the prettiest shade of pink you could ever imagine.

Her Countenance

Mme. Beaulieu glides around her students as they stand at uneasy attention beside their easels. The airy French art studio is silent as each aspiring artist waits in anxious anticipation for their venerated mentor to pause before each painting to give her valued appraisal.

For young Mlle. Antoine, this day held such great promise. Her spirit had soared when she heard Mme. Beaulieu’s inspiring words as she informed her eager students of her expectations for this latest challenge. The venerable teacher had directed their attention to the new model: a radiant and genteel young woman who wore a sparkling, but tasteful, tiara and a flowing white evening gown. She held a single rose and gazed into the distance with an expression both poignant and mysterious. Mme. Beaulieu had even provided a gossamer backdrop, making the subject ethereal, almost reverential.

“Look at her face,” Mme. Beaulieu said, her normally soft voice rising with excitement. “You will capture this woman’s countenance,” she instructed. “I want to sense a touching story reflected in her eyes when I look at her face. If you are successful, I will feel a stirring within my soul.” Mme. Beaulieu’s tone became insistent and urgent. “Now begin. You have only today to prove yourselves to be inspired artists.”

Mlle. Antoine had thought for several minutes before putting brush to canvass, then, with taut concentration, she began her creative labor to etch out her masterpiece.

And now the moment had arrived. Would Mme. Beaulieu appreciate the expressive visage? Would the eyes on the canvass confirm the despair that Mlle. Antoine had worked so hard to capture?

Mme Beaulieu finally makes her way to Mlle. Antoine. She studies the portrait, leaning in close as if scrutinizing each pixel of a photograph. She then calls the other students over and, as they gather around, she instructs them to offer up a collective assessment of the portrait. The students clear their throats and shuffle from one foot to the other, knowing that they will be evaluated on their critique as much as Mlle. Antoine’s work will be judged.

The students quickly and discreetly confer. The senior student, Mlle. Roseau, speaks for the group. As Mlle. Antoine listens for key words to tell her that she has, indeed, captured the sophisticated emotion of her subject, she can scarcely hear the hesitant evaluation of her peers.

Mme. Beaulieu’s face is contorted, hard and grim, as she nods her head in agreement as Mlle. Roseau shares the students’ appraisal: The rose was the loveliest shade of pink they'd ever seen.

Afternoon Hunt

Sheeva's fangs ached. It always felt this way when she had taken too long to find her next meal. The park was cool and quite, the loamy smell of rotting leaves perfumed the air heavily.

This was Sheeva's favorite time of year. The blood was still sweet from the long days of fun spent in the sun, but turning rich and creamy with the hint of fat deposits for the long winter ahead. The rustle of dried leaves below the branch she was perched on brought the smell of warm fur and a fast heart beat to her ears.

Not now but soon. It had been too quiet for too long if the small pray was feeling safe to come out. Soon. The church bells rang the quarter hour after four and Sheeva arched her back in anticipation of the rush hour traffic just forty five minutes away. The tips of her incisors were denting her bottom lip as saliva pooled into the back of her throat.

Far off the sound of milk bottles tinkling against each other made Sheeva tense and smile. Goodness how she loved these new-age-yuppies. It made for a great trip down memory lane when she could snag an enterprising milk man on his way to work in the early 20's. Another thirty minutes pasted in the stillness of intense listening before the young woman came into view.

From the looks of the expensive bags she was carrying and the cheap quality of her clothes Sheeva guessed her to be an underpaid assistant or an over worked nanny. Sheeva's lips turned down slightly. Stress never tasted good, whereas adrenaline was sweet and anxiety was even a little spicy, stress was always sour. Ah well beggars couldn't be choosers and she needed the meal before sundown if she didn't want to get caught by The Family.

The lady was getting closer to Sheeva's tree, the bottles clinking along with each hurried stride. The shadows here were deep enough and she had made sure the light post bulb was broken, so only the barest amount of the sun's last orange death throws dappled the deep shade. Sheeva dropped silent as the hunting cat she was, tearing the woman's throat before she could do anything more than draw a startled breath.

The bags dropped from now lifeless fingers, shattering the milk bottles within. Sheeva watched the white milk mix with the crimson blood dripping off the ends of her sharp fingers and thought it was the loveliest shade of pink she had ever seen.

A Trip to Remember

For Heather and Shannon, every summer vacation started out with a road trip to their grandparents' farm outside Terre Haute, Indiana. It was bad enough leaving their friends and California behind, but the long and boring drive pent up in the back seat of a car with a dodgy air conditioner was driving them crazy.

If asked later, neither Heather nor her sister could remember who started the get-the-driver-to-honk game, but they both knew who ended it. As they frantically competed to get a vanload of college students to honk at them by waving their arms and blowing kisses, finally they got what they both wanted.

Mr. and Mrs. Connors noticed the lack of noise from the back seat moments before their attention turned to the green van honking its horn as it slowly passed them. A chubby college student with his pants pulled down was pressing his cheeks up against the window as his buddies cheered him on. Mrs. Connors harrumphed while her husband chuckled and nodded his head. The sound of contagious giggling came from the back seat.

It was the loveliest shade of pink they'd ever seen.