Detour Ahead - Word count 471 (prompt: guess)

I’m sitting in the Hungry Rosh waiting for my almost-ex-mother-in-law to join me for lunch. I’m halfway through my sabich, a pita stuffed with eggplant, hardboiled egg and tahini, and she’s not here yet. When she called this meeting I reminded her that my lunch break is only thirty minutes. The other flagman is waiting for me to come back so she can get something to eat on this pissing wet day.

Yep, thirty years old and I’m a flagger. That’s one of the reasons I’m a soon-to-be-divorced man. Beth thought she could make a silk purse out of this sow’s ear. She likes a good home improvement job, Beth does. Originally she said it didn’t matter that she was a teacher and I had no ambition. The only thing I really enjoy is drawing comic strips for my own amusement. Beth said all she wanted was company, someone to make a home with.

We’d been married about a year when Beth came home with an application for art school.

“You should develop your creative talent.” She pushed the paperwork toward me on the sofa.

“Nope.” I tossed it on the floor. “I hated school. Never going back. My comics are revenge on the idiots who almost kill me at least once a day.”

At that moment I'd captured perfectly a guy in a Beamer giving me the finger as he raced through our construction site.

“Look at this fool.” I held up a masterful caricature. “He can’t see the cops waiting at the other end of the block. They had a blitz on road safety today and this loser caught a $250 fine.”

Beth didn’t even glance at my sketchpad. She stomped out of the room and slammed the bedroom door behind her.

A bulky SUV squeezes into the parking spot right out front of the Rosh. I recognise it as Millie’s. That’s what I call Beth’s mum: Millie, short for Mother-In-Law. I’ve got fifteen minutes to visit with her which is a relief. I figure she wants to talk to me about going back to Beth. It wouldn’t be the first time and my answer never changes. No. I’m not someone’s makeover project.

“So how are you?” She kisses my cheek and sits down across from me, doesn’t even bother to order lunch at the counter.

“About the same.” I shove the last of the sabich in my mouth and make a production of checking my watch.

“Sorry I’m late!” she says. “You’ll never guess what kept me.”

I shake my head because my mouth is full.

“Remember I told you I went to school with the guy who started the Dilbert comic strip? We skyped this morning and I showed him some of your strips. He wants to syndicate them. Are you ready for a career change?"

© Maggie Bolitho

***

Photo from Wikimedia Commons: Flagger on M-124 Walter J Hayes State Park near Brooklyn Michigan by Dwight Burdette

Reflection in an Alley - Word count 490 (Prompt: key)

“Now let all your images and thoughts dissolve like a cloud in the sky. Let your mind rest and when you’re ready, gently let your attention come back to the present.” The teacher breathes the words and a ripple of wakening energy rises over the crowded room.

Nick visualizes the sign on the wall: Yoga’s greatest gift is the vulnerability that fills your tender heart after a deep practice. When he opens his eyes he feels tenderness and vulnerability like no one had ever experienced it before. Good bye Mr. Corporate Raider. Hello Mr. Loves-his-Fellow-Man.

He tucks his silk scarf into the collar of his cashmere overcoat and shoulders his way out of the meditation studio. An icy wind whips his trouser cuffs around his ankles. Nick remembers to smile.

He marches straight to the bank machine a block away. With $400 in his pocket, Nick heads to the Artsee Java Joint. Sure enough, the homeless guy is still out front. The beggar rarely shows his face, just sits there, knees pulled to his chest, and head bowed. Between his feet sits a baseball cap with a few loose coins in it. A crudely-lettered sign beside it says Please help.

The guy has been there for as long as Nick can remember. Nick used to badger the owner of the coffee shop to get him moved but she said the guy was harmless. Nick almost stopped going to Artsee after that but no one else got his crema just right. Instead, he sometimes nudged the guy with his toe as he walked past. One Christmas, when the man seemed particularly unresponsive, Nick scooped a ten dollar bill out of the ratty cap.

Today Nick is making amends. He kneels beside the guy and touches his arm.

“Hey buddy. It’s going to be cold tonight. Here’s some dough. Get yourself a warm room.”

The man lifts his head and piercing blue eyes meet Nick’s.

“Wow, thanks, man!” The guy snatches the money from Nick. “I’m going to call it a day.” He struggles to his feet and hobbles away.

Nick has made a difference in the world and satisfaction rushes through him. Maybe he can do more. He might be able to find the guy a job. He runs after the man who has ducked down an alley. The beggar’s limp is gone now and he walks fast.

The guy pulls something shiny from his pocket and Nick halts. Is it a weapon? No. It’s a silver key chain. The guy points to a Mercedes Benz at the end of the alley and the trunk opens from a distance of twenty feet. Nick stops dead. As he watches, the beggar wipes the dirt from his face and hands. He changes to clean jeans and a leather jacket. He slides into the car and starts the engine. Before he drives away, he looks in the rear view mirror and waves to Nick.

 ***

Image from Wikimedia Commons: psyberartist—haunts of solitude—uploaded by russavia

Protected - Word count 472 (prompt: visual - see below)

Sylvia’s mother’s house is so big it takes five minutes to walk from the conservatory on the west side to the library on the east. Not that anyone uses the library much. Every sunset a hostile, keening presence arrives in the room and the temperature drops five degrees. All of the servants leave before four in the afternoon.

Sylvia’s mother waited for years to buy the house, watching the price drop and drop. Finally she scooped it up for little more than land value.

“Stupid, superstitious people.” She talks with a mouth full of coq au vin. She has opened a bottle of fine champagne to celebrate their first night in the stone mansion. Sylvia pats her mouth with a linen napkin and says nothing.

After dinner, Sylvia’s mother leads her through all the ground floor rooms. “One day, my darling, this will all be yours. You will never want for anything in your life.”

Sylvia would like to remind her mother that the one thing she really wants has already been denied to her. Her courage fails and she follows her mother’s mincing footsteps through room after room. At the entrance to the library, she balks.

“Don’t tell me you’re as silly as these peasants!” Sylvia’s mother says crossly. “Okay I’ll close the door and we’ll never go in here.”

An icy laugh echoes from the darkness and the door slams shut before Sylvia’s mother can touch it. She glares at it. “These old houses are prone to drafts. I’ll have the carpenter fix that door tomorrow so it can’t be shut. Then we’ll show the world who really owns this place.”

When then they walk up the sweeping staircase to their bedrooms, the sound of that laughter reverberates in Sylvia’s ears. Does the ghost know her mother has brought her to this isolated place to keep her away from the world of music and laughter? Does it feel her pain and longing for the daring and beautiful Charlotte?

That night Sylvia’s mother sleeps soundly on her king-sized bed, happy in the knowledge that she is the richest woman in the land.

In Sylvia’s dark dreams Charlotte has climbed a tall tree. Sylvia hears her calling and follows the voice outside. The bark of the Garry oak scrapes Sylvia’s hands and bare feet as she climbs the gnarled trunk.

“Come closer, my love,” Charlotte coaxes. She’s in plain sight now, hovering over the end of the branch. Sylvia stretches, anticipating the warmth of her lover’s kiss.

“Sylvia! What are you doing up there?” her mother yells from the ground below. Sylvia wakes with a start and twists as she falls. She catches a low branch and her arms almost wrench from her sockets.

“You can let go now.” Charlotte’s voice swims in her head. “I’m waiting for you in the library.”

From the series Anonymous by Argentinian photographer, Sofía López Mañán

http://humanfilesjournal.com/2012/03/16/sofia-lopez-manan-anonymous/