Written for OLWG# 244
boy. He came
out as Rosy, a
homewrecker. Who amongst us
can comprehend the prurient fantasies of men?
This week’s prompts were:
Written for OLWG# 243
When Peggy came back, she found herself sitting in a chrome-tubed vinyl chair pulled up next to the round Formica kitchen table that had belonged to her mother. It took some time to recover her senses, and when she did, she was staring at the tabletop. The radio played Johnny Cash softly in the background, and the back door stood open. The screen door stood shut, but the screen, itself, was torn from top to bottom.
The scars and stains of the table stared back at her. She knew them as well as they knew her. There were chared spots around the edge of the table, from where her mother had set cigarettes and forgotten to pick them back up. There were gouges put into the top by knives and forks over the years. There were patches where the charcoal boomerangs and spots were almost entirely worn off from years of cleaning, wiping with hand towels and sponges. There was the chip at the edge for which no one had ever claimed responsibility.
The music faded and, Deacon Smith, the radio host, began spouting the inane monologue for which he was well known. Thankfully he didn’t tie up the airwaves too long before Johnny Cash started singing again. This time a cover version of a Nine Inch Nails hit.
Peggy thought about the ghosts on the radio, were they like the spirits in the house? What was the purpose of a ghost, anyway? Was there a meaning to what was happening to her? If so, she couldn’t figure it out. Maybe she wasn’t meant to understand. Perhaps she was incapable of understanding. She hoped that it might all become clear after she had endured all that she could stand. Should she be more frightened of the ghosts than she was? Should she take comfort in their presence? She reached for the half-full bottle sitting at the centre of the table. Reaching for the comfort that she could understand. Comfort that she desired more than anything in the world, right now.
How long had she been gone? Where had she been?
This week’s prompts were:
Written in 20 minutes, with the Carrizozo Writers
Leonard was beginning to feel that urge again. His needs were becoming more frequent, and that concerned him just a bit. The time between his first and his second had been almost a year. There was no way he could go that long between episodes these days. He could barely wait two weeks anymore. He knew that he had to act now and, It had only been ten days since the last time. It was only getting worse.
He had a break coming soon and when Melissa came to relieve him at the register for his fifteen minutes he would set the plan into motion. He could barely conceal his anticipation. He was impatient with the customers. He had to control himself. Finally he saw her making her way across the store, she was lingering by the cosmetic counter.
Damn it, girl, he thought to himself, get over here.
When she finally arrived he rung up a “no sale” without saying a word. He pulled his drawerand watched as she signed into the register and he headed to the back room. He locked up his drawer and proceeded directly to Hanson’s office. He knocked and fidgeted nervously waiting for an answer.
“Come in,” Mr Hanson intoned from behind his desk.
Leonard reached out and grasped the worn brass knob on the door. It felt chill in his hand he spun it and pushed.
“Leonard, come in,” Hanson rose from his chair and beckoned. “What can I do for you?”
“I wonder, sir if I could work the night shift next week? I seem to have let my big mouth get the better of my common sense and volunteered to do some work with the church during the day, only next week. I know, it was stupid, but it’s a good cause. My days will be busy, but I can still come in here at night. I could work the registers till ten and then do stocking until midnight. I’m sorry to ask, sir, but I’m needed in the remodel of the Widow’s and Orphan’s Shelter.”
”Of course, Leonard. Your community involvement is an inspiration.”
Leonard was ecstatic. He could spend time in the storage room with the naked mannequins when no one was around.
I used the prompts:
Written for OLWG# 242
I used to take summer jobs when I was in high school. On one of those breaks, I took a job as a painter, not a house painter but a picture painter; I was fifteen years old.
The boss was a guy named ‘Frank.’ He ran the business with his wife, Ellen and made it his mission to earn as much money as possible while providing affordable art. Selling to aficionados. Collectors who might have fallen on hard times or otherwise found it hard to pay for what many folks considered to be extravagances.
The potential customer would contact Frank about acquiring a piece. Frank would collect the pertinent information, like:
Frank hired people like me who could draw and paint. I was the youngest employee and the only high school student. He hired housewifes, pensioners, and college kids; mostly housewifes, though.
He paid us by the hour. It was a working business model. I was doing what I loved and making good money for a high school kid, in those days.
Then it happened, Frank was contacted by Frau Vermietung, whose husband was a pilot working out of Holloman. The Vermietungs wanted some artwork to reflect the Contemporary Mexican style; she wanted tapestries, weavings, or needleworks. Frank then needed an artist with the skills to comply. I introduced him to Amarissa Becerra Alemán. Amarissa and I had been in the same classes since grade five. She was a weaver and kept a large floor loom set up in the front room of her house. She would take commission work to help out and earn money for her family.
When Frank saw her textiles, he offered me a bonus. I told him to give the extra money to Amarissa.
Amarissa invested as little as possible into the materials for her tapestries. Cheap cotton string served as the warp and heavy yarns were the weft.
Frank asked her to make a serape featuring bright greens, blues, and yellows for Fr. Vermietung to hang over the fireplace. Amarissa gave it to him the next day, it was flawless. The Vermietungs fell in love with it and immediately ordered five more.
Not more than a month later Amarissa and her family disappeared. Word was, that a warrant was out on her dad, don’t know what for, most likely bullshit.
It is easy to disappear in the interior of Mexico.
This week’s prompts were:
Written for OLWG# 241
Samantha peeked in the door at ‘Fierte’ and shuddered. She backed out again to the sidewalk, took a deep breath, ran her fingers through her hair, opened the door again, and this time went all the way in. She attempted to portray confidence threading her way between the tables to the long bar that ran the entire east wall. She caught the eye of the middle-aged woman who raised her head in acknowledgement. Sam waited and surveyed the place. The joint was hopping; the dance floor packed, the music cranked up loud. Mirrors were on every wall. The clientele seemed comprised of millennial nerds and geeks. They were all occupied – watching their reflections as they sat drinking, dancing, or staring at a few of the fittest girls and boys in the room. The women were young and pretty, so were the boys.
The lady arrived and stuck out her hand. “You must be Samantha?” she said. “I’m Moonbeam. I own this joint, and you’re looking for a job. I can’t tell you how glad I am you called. You have bartending experience, right?”
“I do,” Samantha said.
“You OK with an LGBTQ crowd?”
“Great, you might have to expand your knowledge of mixology.” Moonbeam smiled.
“In what way?” Sam asked, “I’m already a pretty good bartender.”
“Our clientele are somewhat eclectic drinkers. The hottest selling drink here is an Oregano Slingshot. Have you ever made a White Howler or a Garlic Zombie?”
“White Howler’s I know,” Sam answered, “Half and Half with a spiced whisky; sometimes a coffee liqueur. The drink is creamy but surprisingly smooth in the exit, leaving your mouth with trails of warm spices followed by a fading hint of butterscotch, or cacao, depending on which whiskey you use. I don’t think I ever heard of the other two.”
Moonbeam snapped her fingers, “You are halfway there, babe. How about an Almond Slapper? A Spirit Stinger? Maybe, a Coconut Murder or a warm Fancy Bear?”
Samantha shook her head.
Moonbeam looked her over. She must have liked what she saw, “When can you start?”
“You keep all the tips at the bar. Servers split their tips with you. You have most likely made all the other drinks before. Here we just, – Oh, I don’t know, make them in a more organic way and rename them to appeal to our customer base.”
Samantha thought about the offer. She was a little nervous about working only for tips, but the place was packed, and it was a Tuesday. She opened her mouth to ask if the business was always this brisk when Moonbeam began to sweeten the pot.
“I can’t give you an hourly wage here – Union rules, you know, but I can promise you a generous salary to go with those tips. I also offer a comprehensive health care for employees, profit sharing and a 401K. “Whadda ya think?”
Sam shook her head and wondered aloud, “Can this be real? I think I like it.”
This week’s prompts were: