Misspent Youth...

From the street I stared at the Christmas tree lights shining through the window. The trees surrounding the house were covered with a light dusting of snow, and glistened in the moonlight. I walked barefoot through the snow toward the warmth that came from the inside of the house. One of the perks of being dead was not feeling that damned ice-cold-to-the-bone chill that came along with snow. The downside was also not being able to feel the warmth of the sun on my face. The warmth I felt coming from the house was the same warmth I felt within: love for my family.

I stood at the window, watching them interact with each other. My twin sisters had come home for the holidays. After all I'd seen and done in my lifetime, the one thing that always surprised me was their ability to stay in the same house together for an extended period of time. One would think that twin sisters are inseparable. Not mine. I've never known any two people who were more different than these two. They were identical in appearance, but completely opposite in every other aspect of life. It was as though one was charmed and the other - doomed. Everything Ashlee touched turned to gold. Everywhere Amber went, chaos followed.

When we were kids, I was closer to Amber than I was Ashleigh. I felt Amber needed me to hang onto. I liked Ashlee better, but Amber needed me. Desperately, might I add. That girl was attracted to trouble like bees flocked to honey. The two of us were always into mischief. We spent plenty of days high as two kites. Of course, most everyone in the 70's was as high as a kite. Everyone, except Ashlee of course. While the rest of teenage America was dancing the night away at the local disco, Ashlee had her nose in a book. I've never seen anyone read as fast as that girl. She could put away a book as quickly as Amber could smoke a joint. I wanted to be like Ashlee, she had the world at her feet. Unfortunately, I wasn't as smart or dedicated to school as she was.

Now, twenty years later I'm dead; staring in the window like a peeping Tom. And the ramifications of two opposite lives were apparent. Ashlee graduated from college, obviously. And Amber hated her for it. I never understood why Amber was so jealous. Amber made her choices. She said college was a waste of time, and went for the cash to support her two habits: drugs and shopping. Amber wasn't a drug addict, not even close. She liked her weed though. The good stuff, not the cheep shit. The shopping was the real addiction.

One thing Amber had that Ashlee didn't was the ability to drive men wild. Like I said, opposites. Amber got a job at the Pussycat club in Scottsdale. That girl made a thousand a week. It was insane! She went through money like Ashlee went through pencils. Then the unthinkable happened: her twenties ended, and her boobs started to sag. It was tragic. Almost as tragic as the day I died.

To be continued...

© 2007, Yvonne Michelle

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Use of material from this blog without the author's permission is illegal.

P.S. Thanks, for the writing prompt!

Collector Personality...

As I walked into the house, I was baffled by the catastrophe. The last time I'd seen (or heard from) my Aunt Sophie, I was 12. I remembered her as something like a beautiful swan. She was tall, graceful, and she had the most amazing stories. She always smelled expensive and delicious. I used to sit at her vanity for hours, playing with her make-up and pretending to be her. I loved to look through her closet, and I drooled over her massive wardrobe. All of her clothes had fringies, feathers, or furries. Everything was soft and sensuous. Oh and her shoes! She had a stunning collection. Well, I never could seem to walk in those shoes. Most of them were 4" high. And yummy.

Standing in the entry of her home, reflecting on the life of the woman I adored, a pain stabbed me in the portion of my heart which belonged to her. I stared at the disaster in disbelief. How could the woman I remember end up in a rat hole like this? The carpet was old and threadbare, the paint on the cupboards was faded and worn, the fixtures on the sink were dated, and the furnishings were anything but sophisticated. This could not have been the home in which Sophie exhaled her last breath.

I walked back outside and looked at the address. I looked at the copy of her will in my hands. The number on the house was 3644. I re-read the 2nd paragraph of her will:

"To my darling niece, Berlyn: I leave my home, and all of the contents
therein, at 3644 East Rosewood Lane."

I must be on the wrong street. I stepped to the sidewalk, and looked at the sign four houses down. It read Rosewood Lane. I knew I was in the right city, and this was the right street, the right house number, yet I stood there in disbelief. I took a deep breath, and turned around to go back into the house.

As my eyes adjusted to the change in light, I blinked several times. I decided to explore this humble abode with new light. It wasn't dirty. It was just SO full of stuff. She had collections everywhere. I walked into the kitchen, and examined the collection of salt and pepper shakers. I admired a cute set consisting of a coconut and palm tree. What would I do with all of these?

I turned and walked down the hall. I opened the first door on the right. I gasped when I looked inside. The room was full of stacks of magazines and newspapers, with an easy chair in the middle of the room. It was the most bizarre thing I'd ever seen in my life. On the floor was a small stack of magazines. I was so overwhelmed with the strangeness of the scene, I sat down in the chair. It was oversized and very comfortable. The only thing that made me believe it could belong to Sophie was that it was red. The exact shade of red I remember the color of her lipstick being. I looked again around the room, and wondered why anyone would save all of this crap, especially my Aunt Sophie. I reached down to the stack of magazines, and began to flip through the first one in the stack.

It was a Vogue magazine from October of last year, the same month that Sophie died. It took the lawyers several months to find me, as it had been twenty years since my mom and Sophie had their falling out. My mind wandered to that fateful day as I turned the pages of the magazine without really observing the images on the pages. About half-way through the magazine, a hundred dollar bill fell out into my lap. How strange was that? Why would she use a hundred dollar bill as a bookmark? But then again, this was Aunt Sophie, and she was extravagant. At least the Sophie I remembered, anyway. Maybe she kept these magazines and newspapers for a reason. I figured I'd better go through them, and see if any of them were worth something. But not today.

I got up too quickly, and my head begun to spin. I lost my balance and tripped over the stack of magazines next to the chair, landing on the floor sprawled out flat on my face.

"Glad no one saw me do that!" I thought to myself.

I started to pick the magazines back up, and stack them neatly where they were. As I picked the first one up, a paper slipped out onto the ground. It was another hundred dollar bill. What was up with that? Ok, who leaves a hundred dollar bill in one magazine, much less two? I picked up another magazine, and started to flip through it. Sure enough, there was another hundred dollar bill inside. I grabbed the next magazine. I noticed that this hundred dollar bill was in between pages 47 and 48. I picked up the next magazine, and flipped to page 47. No bill. I flipped the page, and between 49 and 50 sat another hundred dollar bill. I looked up from the magazine and around the room. Surely there wasn't money sitting in each magazine. I turned my head slowly to the other side of the room where newspapers were stacked neatly from floor to ceiling. I started flipping madly thorough the magazines next to me. I 'd emptied out a hundred dollar bill from each of the 20 magazines in the small stack next to me. With a bewildered look on my face, I stared at the $2,000 sitting in my lap.

My jaw dropped.

I got up and walked out of the "newsroom" and into the kitchen. I dug my cell phone out of my purse. I called the office, and left my boss a voicemail.

"This is Berlyn, and I just wanted to thank you for giving me the week off to take care of my Aunt Sophie's business. There's been something I've wanted to tell you for a long time: I QUIT mutha fucka!"

I hung up the phone, and my heart pounded wildly. I looked toward heaven as I screamed: "I love you, Aunt Sophie!"

© 2007, Yvonne Michelle

This material is copyrighted.

Use of material from this blog without the author's permission is illegal.

P.S. Thanks, for the writing prompt!

Writing...

As I drove away in my car, I saw the writing on the wall. This relationship would never last. I had given it my best shot.

No, I had given it my all.

I knew deep down that we would one day end in catastrophe. No matter how many times I had tried to bleach the slate clean, the bitter words were still visible with a black light.

My car began to rattle. I looked at the gas guage. No, it was half-full. I'd never run out of gas before, thank God. The light turned red, and the car stopped. As in dead.

"Why does this shit always happen to me?" I thought to myself.

I grabbed my purse to hunt for my cell phone. Great. Now I was going to have to call him and ask for help. Surely I could call someone else. I started to scroll through my contact list trying to figure out who would come rescue me.

All of a sudden someone whacked the back of my car. It was so loud I screamed. I didn't get hit, but someone was walking around to my car door. My heart thumped so loud, I practically choked on it.

When he pulled on the door handle, I screamed again. How did he know where I was? Had he been following me?

Suddenly the writing on the wall became a deep shade of red.

© 2007, Yvonne Michelle

This material is copyrighted.

Use of material from this blog without the author's permission is illegal.

P.S. Thanks, for the writing prompt!

"I Get That Sinking Feeling..."

I woke up this morning with a start. Panic filled my chest as if someone had hit me with a baseball bat. I jumped out of bed and checked on all of my children. They were sound asleep in their beds as angelic slumber graced their faces. Even though I knew they were all ok, I got the sinking feeling today would be disastrous.

I spent the morning as if walking on eggshells. I went through the motions as I got ready for work, and got the kids off to school. I was tempted to call in sick for all of us, but I talked myself out of it. How could I justify this type of paranoia? What possible rationale would sustain such a heavy burden? None I could think of, so I pressed on in spite of whatever impending doom awaited me or one of my loved ones.

As I pulled in the driveway after a productive day at work, I was relieved when all six of my children ran out the door to greet me. The seven of us survived the day without incident. I must have had a strange dream last night, and couldn't remember the details. Surely everything would be fine. I laughed at my foolishness, and silently reprimanded myself for being such a freaking lunatic. The children told me to hurry up, and join them for dinner - it was getting cold.

I said a quick prayer in my mind, and thanked Jesus for sending me six of heaven's finest. Granted, it was difficult raising them alone, but they made life worth living. A shiver ran down my spine as I reflected momentarily on my attempted suicide four years earlier. I was glad my attempt failed, and that my children never knew what I almost did. Failure was my persona in my past life, and from "that day" forward, I have been a beacon of success. I shook off my past memories, and put up my mental force field to shield me from the unpleasantness of the past.

Sabrina, my oldest, was turning into quite the chef. Pride filled my entire being as I saw the spread my 17 year old daughter had created. My 16 year-old twins, Justin and Jeremy had helped, they exclaimed. Sabrina rolled her eyes, and I gave her a wink. The twins liked to do minimal labor, and claim a great deal of credit. Jacob, my 12 year old pulled out my chair for me to sit. In unison, Savannah and Sariah, my 8 and 7 year olds, both exclaimed "I call, I get to sit by mom!" I smiled, and again, silently thanked Jesus for once again making life worth living.

After dinner, the children finished their homework. We did a "15-minute pick-up" around the house, and the house was once again in a tolerable state. Our home was modest, with most of the furnishings purchased from IKEA a.k.a. God's gift to common folk like myself. Our home had a reputation for being "homey," and I was fine with that.

Finally, it was time for bed. I was exhausted. I ran through the bed-time routine with the children. I broke up squabbles about "hogging the sink," and got the children to bed. I was so happy tomorrow was Friday. I dreamed of sleeping in Saturday morning. I poured myself a glass of wine, and crawled into my bed with my computer. I liked to play a game of poker online each night before going to sleep. It relaxed me like nothing else in the world. I declared to myself that nothing went together quite as well as Texas Hold 'Em and Cabernet Sauvignon.

Just as I was about to join a one-table tournament, the phone rang. It made me jump. Who the hell would call at 10:00 at night? People can be so rude. I looked at the area code on my caller ID, I groaned. The 208 area code made me cringe like no other. Wendell, Idaho. The one place I feared more than hell itself. I answered, and had an outer-body experience while I listened to the caller's monologue.

As I hung up the phone, I sat back down on the bed and stared ahead in disbelief. Carole called to tell me the news: her son was dead. My ex-husband’s funeral would be held this Saturday.

As much as I’d hated David, one would think I’d be jumping up and down for joy singing “ding-dong the dick is dead!” Instead, I went completely numb. I lay down on the bed and thought about his last few minutes on his earth.

Apparently a storm had blown into town. The fog was thick, and visibility was low. He was on his morning commute to work. An elk appeared out of no where. He hit it head on, lost control of the vehicle and spun out of control into oncoming traffic. He was hit by a delivery truck. The paramedics speculated he may have made it if he’d been wearing his seat belt. He never wore his seat belt. It had always bothered me when we were married. Hitting the elk wasn’t what killed him, it was the delivery truck that hit him on the driver’s side. If he’d had side air-bags his life may have been spared. I honestly felt relieved, and wondered if the blood he spilt equated the volume of tears I'd shed during our life together.

"Ugh! Jessica, what a horrible thing to think at a time like this!" I reprimanded myself.

The funeral would be a closed casket ceremony. I was relived. I couldn’t imagine my children having to remember their father like that. Good God, the children! I was so caught up in my own flood of emotions, I hadn’t thought about how I was going to tell them their father was dead. I'd have to wait until tomorrow, of course. Somehow I needed to come up with the right words to say.

A surge of panic flooded over me. Much like the panic attacks I’d had while David and I were married. I lay on my bed in a state I couldn’t determine. I wasn’t sure if I was asleep or awake. Regardless, the past flooded over me like a Tsunami.

To be continued...

© 2007, Yvonne Michelle

This material is copyrighted.

Use of material from this blog without the author's permission is illegal.

P.S. Thanks, for the writing prompt!

(And, by the way - this is fiction! In other words, it didn't really happen.)