Race Morning

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. In light of the Olympics, the challenge was:
The 100 Meter Sprint
100 words on a conflict, competition, or game.

First a rundown of the checklist: Bike, helmet, bike shoes, wetsuit, cap, goggles, running shoes, hat, sunglasses, towel, GU, water bottles, bib number bike pump and trisuit.

My husband and I hop in the car, and he asks, “Do you have...” And the list gets another run through.

I make my way to the bike corral; spread out my equipment sequentially. I group myself among a sea of caps and wetsuits give my arms a shake, take a deep breath and sneak one last look at my husband, whose smile says I love you, and whose eyes say, you’ve got this.

p.s. The race pictured above is actually one I'd soon rather forget, I wrote a little exert about it here and it was published over here.

Thoughts on Freedom

The inpiration for this post comes from Write on Edge, The prompt: "This week, your prompt is a simple concept that can be fraught with complication.
You have 400 words to write a fiction or creative non-fiction piece about freedom, in any way that makes sense to you."
Photo credit

Freedom? Well I’d love to sit here and tell you I’ve spent the entire week thinking about the freedoms I enjoy as an American. Though, honestly, this word entered my mind as almost a foreign concept. As I began to potty train my little girl I realized a piece of my freedom was and will be put in jeopardy for awhile. I’ve been feeling trapped and little bit lonely. Today I went to the Dr. to check on my progress with baby number two. After explaining a few symptoms I’ve been having my Dr. warned me to take it easy, put my feet up and rest more. One may think this sounds like the perfect prescription, yet I left the office feeling another piece of my freedom flutter away. I wondered how I was suppose to go any slower than the slothful pace at which I am currently living. I’ve slacked off on making dinner, not entirely, but mostly. My husband has had to do a lot of grocery store runs.

“What are we out of?” He’ll ask.

My unfailing response, “Everything.”

The house is usually in disarray and my workouts have been tapered back significantly. My blog, my writing and my creativity have even taken a hit.  Meanwhile, I kept thinking, how can I manage a two year old and simultaneously take it easy. Is it possible? Oh Freedom, how I miss thee.

A One Way Ticket

Photo Credit weheartit.com
Sun blazing through her windows Alice was forced to wake up. As she sat up in her bed the mirror across her room reminded her, rudely, of the night she had suffered before. Mascara smudged under her eyes, and why am I still in my running clothes, she thought. She had not recalled how she had gotten home and into her bed. What she did recall with clarity was what she had discovered from the police. At 32 she had learned the truth about who her dad really was. She wondered how she had never known. Her whole life had turned upside down in a matter of weeks.

The Lake

I’m packing up to go to the lake this weekend, like I’ve done over a hundred times before. As I place the two basic necessities in my duffel bag, a swimsuit and sweats, memories begin to flood my mind.

My family has been journeying to our Bear lake cabin for so long; I can’t recall a single summer when I didn’t have a fling with this big cold mass of water.

As a kid I remember the three hour long drive taking forever. As our Astro Van cruised through the last few turns of the canyon my Dad would challenge us, “After which bend can you first spot the lake?” Our eyes glued to the window as we tried to be the first to witness the blue brilliance.

Bear Lake and its surrounding beaches taught me how to create the perfect sandcastle. It allowed for barefoot softball games. It fed us with hot dogs and S’mores roasted to perfection by our home made fire pit. The lake has, on many occasions, blessed me with its graces, a break in the weather and suddenly the water is as smooth as glass and the only single cut is made by my ski. Nothing feels better.

Some would say, “It’s too choppy, too cold.” Yet for me, it is ever the opposite. It is stillness and peace.
***Blogger's Note***
This was a prompt inspired by Write on Edge.

On a Moonlit Lane

Photo Credit

“Two men appeared out of nowhere, a few yards apart in the narrow, moonlit lane.”

Alice had been running alone for years. Was this when her luck would end? She wanted to turn and run the other way. I’m panicking over nothing, it’s nothing. She kept her pace.

Her legs felt light, her mind slightly clearer. She could feel the old Alice resurfacing. She coerced herself into not making eye contact with them. A few strides closer and she knew it was her they had come for. The men held up their badges, “Are you Alice, Alice Elliot?”

Panting she bent over placed her hands upon her knees, tilted her heavy head towards the giants, “Yes, what do you want?”

“Do you know a Conrad Elliot?”

Summoning her breath, “What do you want with Conrad Elliot, and how did you know I would be here? Do you always track down young women in the night?”

Not your typical first date...

Biting her bottom lip she listened to the phone ring and ring.

She heard him clear his throat, “Hello.”

“Hi, hi uh, this is Alice from…”

“The coffee shop, Alice, Alice, Alice you still enraged at the world, or just lonely?”

She slid her hand from her forehead running her fingers through hair, “Well Christopher, thanks for asking, I’m both.”

“I had a feeling you’d say that. Will a cup of coffee warm you up?”

He had a feeling I’d say that? He doesn’t know the half of it. What am I doing?

Her head tilted upwards, she tapped her foot speedily against the linoleum, “Ya, okay. Meet you at…”

“Why don’t you just come to my place, I’m guessing you’re in your sweats, anyway.” He spouted off his address.

What? Like he knows I’m in my sweats! He lives close; he’s probably been stalking me. I’m going to go over there, and get raped. That’ll really top off the year from hell won’t it?

“Okay, put on a pot. Me and my sweats will be over soon.”

A Meet Cute

She came screeching into her favorite coffee shop, wearing a smart suit and a bitchy face. She had lost her mother not even a week ago and as of today, her job. 

She walked to the register furiously swinging her arms, digging through her purse for her wallet. 

“What’ll it be Alice?” 

“My usual, no, not my usual. Make it a triple chocolate mocha with whipped cream.”

Charlie was hesitant, “You okay Alice?”

“Oh I’m just great Charlie, but it just occurred to me we will all die someday, and if for me that day is today, fingers crossed, I’m not going to waste it on some wimpy-ass cup of coffee, got it?” 

Her order he was not use to, though her sarcasm, he was painfully familiar with. Like a turtle retracting in his shell, Charlie got her that triple chocolate mocha and handed it over with an arm outstretched as if it was a ten foot pole, and got the hell out of her way. 

Alice sat down, raised the warm drink to her lips, and closed her eyes…

“Hey can I…?”

Hope Abandoned

Photo Credit weheartit.com

I rushed through the doors of the hospital hoping somehow this was a mistake. Maybe it wasn’t my mother, perhaps it is only a look-alike, or maybe my common name created some sort of confusion. It could happen. In my panicked prayer, I pleaded, “Oh God, please, please may it not be my mother, for I cannot go on without her, please, please.”

“She’s in room 607,” The nurse said without even looking up from her clipboard.

I ran to the room, as if the pace of my stride could have prevented the whole thing. As I arrived at the room, my pace and heavy breathing came to an abrupt stop. I told myself whatever I saw in here, that for her sake, I would learn to silence my emotion, for she would have had the strength to do the same for me.

He Asked

“I just want to talk… you know, about where we’re headed.” She demanded.

His hands cupped his forehead, he took a deep breath, “We will talk, we’ll talk on Saturday, how about that?”

“Fine,” His face crept towards hers, she gave him the cheek, slammed the door and walked up the steps to her apartment.  

On a cold snowy Saturday morning, he stood at the door, gave a quiet warning knock and let himself in. 

“Ready? I’ll load up your skis.”

She followed him to the car. Opened the door for herself and before he had time to drive out of the parking lot she said, “Okay. It’s Saturday, so let’s talk.”

A quick smirk, “Honey, we will, we’ll talk… at lunch.”

Some silent lift rides and a few runs later. They returned to the lodge opened their bagged lunches, she gave him the look. 

“Not now, on the lift, don’t worry.” He said, trying not to smile. 

She scarfed down her lunch, “I’m ready!”

They got on the lift he turned to her and said, “Should we maybe talk about getting married some day?”

“Yes!” 

That was all she needed to hear out of her commitment phobic boyfriend. Now she could breathe easy knowing they were on the same page. 

Her mind clouded with excitement, happiness and hope. 

He called her out of her transfixed state, “Hey, what are they all doing down there?”

She looked down, and on the ground laid a bunch of people, forming some kind of shape with their bodies. She thought maybe it was a ski patrol emergency drill she wasn’t familiar with. 

As soon as she looked away the people on the ground began to shout the words their bodies spelled, “Will. You. Marry. Me.”

She looked over at him; he pulled out a ring.

Lindy screamed, cried and began bouncing uncontrollably. 

“Yes!” 

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. We were asked to use this website, look up an important date and let the music inspire our writing, and do it in 300 words or less. 

I looked up my anniversary. The song? Don't Matter by Akon. It was sort of hilarious, and I had no idea how I was going to use it, and then I decided to write about when my husband popped the question, because many have thought we were crazy not to talk about it before the actual proposal. This song, in a round about way, provided the answer to all those inquiring minds: Don't Matter. Abstract, I know, but it's the best I could do. 

As Always, Thanks for reading. 

Lindy

Conflict

Image courtesy of the lens flare

Her mom pulled up to the entrance. A big red brick building with white Corinthian style columns, a beautiful building, or at least it could have been if her memory had allowed her to forget what had happened there. 

A deep breath followed by a sigh, “Here we go,” said Alice. 

Her mom cleared her throat, eyes a little glazed, “Good luck honey.”

“Thanks.” Alice hopped out of the car, feeling a bit juvenile, like she was 14 all over again, being dropped off by her mommy.

Alice clutched her coat walked through the brisk air and into the building where her sisters stood waiting. 

“Hey Al,” her sister said as she gave her a hug. “Ready?” 

Another sigh, “I guess.”

The three girls were led by the therapist into an office, a different office than the one which was previously used to deliver the horrific news. 

Thank God, thought Alice. 

The three sat on the couch as the therapist attempted a bit of small chat. They all amused his pointless questions. After all, they were polite.

Then he got down to it, “Tell me Eleanor how are you doing since we last spoke?”

Ellie answered with a confidence that Alice had only seen glimpses of. As her older sister began to explain exactly all the steps she had taken. Alice looked up at her, just like she use to when she was a kid. 

Enamored by her maturity, Alice felt even worse about her own stunted progress. 

“And Lucy?” the therapist asked.

Lucy’s voice took a deeper tone; it always did when she was nervous. She explained that she had talked to him in person; she had done research on his condition, and was getting along the best she knew how. 

Alice never knew the strength her sisters had, and the ultimate weakness which was her own. 

The therapist suggested there was only one decision to make. “You have got to decide if you want to be part of his recovery or if you don’t?”

Ellie spoke up first, “I’m going to be part of it.”

Lucy whispered, “I’m going to be part of it.”

Alice sat, arms folded, legs crossed thoughts of being part of it, or taking herself out polluted her mind, overwhelmed with the conflict before her she sat silent.

Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato

Photo courtesy of bonappetit

“Lin, go pick a tomato from the backyard.”

Lindy leaped off her stool, “Okay!”

She fought the screen door, it was always off-track, and ran into the yard. The back of the house lined with vibrant green tomato plants and prickly cucumbers. Lindy sifted her way through the plants; they were about as tall as she was. Her mission, to find the brightest, plumpest red treasure this plant had to offer.

“Got it,” she whispered aloud as she gave a gentle tug.

Find one?” her mom looked up from spreading miracle whip on the toasted bread.

“Ya, it’s a good one mom.” Lindy hopped back up on the stool, elbows on the counter, she cupped her chin with her hands. Her hands permeated with the smell of the plant.

Lindy watched as her mom washed the lettuce, tore it piece by piece and placed it on the toasted bread.

She sliced the tomato, “You grabbed a perfect tomato Lin.”

She sat a little taller, “Thanks, whatcha makin mom?”

“It’s a BLT, you’ve had one before,” She said as she poured herself a Tab.

Lindy’s face scrunched up, “What’s a BLT?”

She took a giant swig of Tab, “Its bacon, lettuce and tomato.”

Her mom slid the sandwich filled plate across the table. “Let’s eat.”

Lindy put her mouth around the sandwich; the crunch of the toast was familiar. Then she tasted the miracle whip, and before she could say she didn’t like it the tomato came bursting through. The finale ended with a salty crunch from the bacon and a fresh chomp of lettuce.

“Good, huh?” her mom nodded.

Lindy nodded furiously, licked a pinch of miracle whip from the corner of her mouth, “Good.”

Lindy spent, approximately, the next four years ordering a BLT at any and every restaurant she went.  

Thanks to Write on Edge for another inspiring prompt.

Music & Writer's Block

Tired and worn out all Alice wanted to do was bake some sugar cookies, eat more frosting than socially acceptable and finally start season one of Downton Abbey.

Resisting her urge, she filled her cup with coffee using slightly more cream than usual. As she generously poured the cream she thought, what the hell, these extra calories may just be the highlight of my week.  She headed to the darkest corner of her home where her computer stood ready and waiting. She hacked away at the keyboard trying to create something, anything. Words ran through her fingers, sentences formed but a brick wall came crashing in between her mind and the screen, she could no longer see any value in what she was writing. “More pointless shit by your truly,” She said aloud.

She dropped her head in her hands, her thumbs playing with her earrings, pinkies rubbing her eyelashes she let out a sigh. She said to herself, if I’m not going to write maybe I’ll listen to some lyrics and call it research. She began streaming Brandi Carlile. Brandi could make it better, she thought. As she listened to her words,

I am afraid of crossing lines

I am afraid of flying blind

Afraid of inquiring minds

Afraid of being left behind

And when you feel like giving in

Or the coming of the end

Like your heart could break in two

Someone loves you, yeah.  

She realized two things, One, Brandi did have all the answers, and two her fears had stopped her from writing what she wanted. What would the repercussions be? What if I write my truth? What will they think of me? As she questioned the limitations of this fear she noticed this was no isolated incident. She had questioned every little thing in her life. She sipped on her coffee, closed her eyes, the warmness trickled down her throat and when she opened her eyes the wall was gone. The fear, dissipated, she wrote and wrote. Her fingers barley keeping up with her thoughts, tears wet her cheeks. Once the truth was out and on paper, suddenly she felt light, she felt free. “Thanks Brandi,” She said as she closed her laptop.

A Baby Changes Everything

Alice stepped out her door; an immediate gust almost stole her umbrella. Hovering from the rain, she quickly made her way around the corner.

Knock. Knock. Knock. Sandra opened the door, sporting smelly sweats adorned with some fresh baby vomit.

Alice outstretched her arm. Lifted up a gift, “This is for mom, not baby.”

Sandra motioned Alice in, “Come in friend.”

Bottles on the counter, a swing in the living room, diapers on the coffee table, binkies between the couch cushions and a breast pump sitting at the kitchen table, acting like more of an intruder than a house guest.

Alice had to ask herself, what the hell kind of war had Sandra just lost?

Sandra gingerly placed herself on the couch; Alice grimaced at the thought of exactly why she had to be so careful.

“Alice, have a seat; Pearl is down for a nap. You know, that way she’ll have the energy to be up all night, perfect, right?”

“Right, so how are you doing?" Alice played her question back to herself in her mind, afraid maybe she wasn’t asking it the right way.

Sandra sighed, “Um… I’m okay.”

Alice finally made eye contact with Sandra. Dark bags framed her once vibrant eyes, “Well that’s good, but you know, it would be okay if you weren’t so okay. You know that, right?"

Sandra’s head dropped, shoulders shrugged and the weeping spewed out of her like someone had just opened a well shaken can of soda.

“I can’t do this, she cries and cries. She’s just this thing that won’t stop crying. Sandra stood up and began to pace, I’m her mother! I should know how to comfort her! What kind of mother am I?"

Alice stood up placed her hands over Sandra’s shoulders, and forced her down to the couch, “Sandra, listen to me. You are the kind of mother, who just went through a 26 hours of labor; you’re running on no sleep, milking yourself like a cow and from the smell of you, you haven’t even had a shower, so please give yourself a break.”

Sandra’s head dropped again and she whispered, “This is just not what I thought it would be.”

Alice pulled Sandra’s head into her neck, arms stretched around her weary shoulders, “Sandy, we will figure this out, we will, I promise.”

This post was inspired by write on edge. We were asked to polish up on some weak points. No subject specifications, with a 400 word limit. This week I tried to work on dialogue. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading,

Lindy

A Good Swim

 She tested the water with her toes. It felt a little chilly, once I start swimming it’ll warm up, she thought. She sat at the rim of the pool calves dangling over the edge; she began shoving her hair into her thin cap, adjusted her goggles, slipped off the wall and descended. A quick chill, her feet hit the bottom of the pool, knees bent, she pushed herself up and down and up and down, Alice always bobbed ten times before she began her swim, no reason, just a habit.

She hadn’t swum in weeks. She hadn’t done anything in weeks. Alice went to the pool that night hoping the silence of the water would somehow drown out the sound of her father’s voice, she yearned to rid his striking confessions, they played in her mind like the chorus of an annoying song interrupting her every thought, her every action, her every happiness. Alice vigorously pushed off the wall, glided until breath was necessary, took one deep breath on the right three  long strokes and another breath on the left. The stroke and the techniques were like second nature to Alice.  She felt comfortable here, she knew what do here, she knew how to get faster, and how to get better. The blue line provided an obvious guide, counting laps, timing laps, it was simple. Fastest time wins, no arguing, no one could bend the rules, it was fair. She swam until her shoulders and back ached. Alice pulled herself out the pool and into the showers, the warm water beating down on her skin, the world was back, as were her tears and she realized her life had no big blue guiding line, no matter how fast she was she knew she could not kick her way of this one.

Image courtesy of fitsugar.com 

This post was prompted by the lovely ladies over at Write on Edge. This quote: “The cure for anything is salt water….sweat, tears or the sea.”~ Isak Dinesen, pseudonym of Baroness Karen von Blixen-Finecke was to serve as our inspiration.

Full with Flavor

Image courtesy of sarabezdrob.tumblr.com

She fretted over the menu. Her thoughts like a wild rat race, should I get the salad, I could request the dressing on the side, or maybe I’ll get the grilled chicken sandwich with no mayo on a wheat bun, or maybe I could ditch the bun altogether.

“And for you maim?” the waitress tapped her pen against her notepad.

Spontaneously Alice blurted, “I’ll have the burger,” thought for a moment longer, “with fries.”

Moments later a plate loaded with all of America’s favorite sins stared Alice in the face. It had been years since she had enjoyed a burger, and as for fries, that was pure blasphemy in her book.

She bit into that burger, ketchup glazed the corner of her mouth, she closed her eyes, suddenly all the noise of the restaurant disappeared. Alice could indentify every flavor of that burger. A hint of garlic, sugary ketchup, and Dijon mustard with a subtle zest of horseradish, she sensed a quick vinegar tang from the pickle, a watery crunch of the lettuce finished with a soft white buttery bun. Fully engaged in her meal, she didn’t look up just moved onto the golden crunchy fries. The potato within the crunch mild and perfectly soft while the fried shell of this wondrous food was just hard enough. Alice enveloped each fry with an unruly amount of ketchup; she forgot how much she loved this stuff.

Finally she came up for some air.

“Now that’s a burger.” Exclaimed Alice, as she ignorantly interrupted the conversation.

The waitress made her rounds, “Everything tasting okay over here?”

“Oh yes, everything is fabulous.” She said with a mouthful.

Conversation came to a halt, all the faces around the table looked at Alice with astonishment.

Alice put out both hands in front of her, snapped her wrists with a bit of attitude and said, “So what? I liked the burger okay.”

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. We were challanged to write a piece about flavor.

The Gym in January

 Treadmills back the day. Hilarious.

Image courtesy of pinterest.

I knew what I wanted; it shouldn’t have been such a hard resolution to stick to. I knew I didn’t want to drive my car around the over-crowded parking lot, only to have someone steal my spot. I knew I didn’t want to elbow the blond next to me for the last treadmill. I knew I didn’t want to arrive at body pump class, only to discover there is no bench or weight set in sight. I knew I didn’t want to speed to the gym, rush up to the spinning room hoping to be five minutes early; only to find everyone else must have been ten minutes early.

Really and truly each year I set out to NOT go to the gym in January. People think I’m kidding when I spout off this resolution. I assure you I am not. January at the gym is a joke. I believe those of us, who go all year long deserve some kind of priority status. Would it be too much if I used a little label maker and starting marking treadmills, a weight set and perhaps a blow dryer?  

This time of year the words diet and exercise take up the majority of conversation and thought. Suddenly everyone is talking veggies and humus. They’re throwing out terms such as squats, sets and intervals. They begin detailing what they are going to eat morning, noon and night, and how many minutes per week they plan to sweat. Sometimes I just want to throw something unexpected into the conversation, like, “Hey you guys, I plan to eat a lot more fiber this year, and I’m hoping this will result in four successful bowel movements a day, instead of my measly three a day I was maintaining in 2011.”  I wouldn’t stop there, why would I? I’d continue to ramble on, “So you keep your food log and I will keep my poop log and then maybe we can go to lunch together. I’ll order water, drop a benfiber tablet in it and obnoxiously crunch one apple after the next. You get your usual order of salad with a side of veggies; and we’ll talk about poop, food and sweat.”

Regrettably I have yet to keep this resolution. Here we are January 9^th and I’ve been shamelessly attending the gym. I guess, there is always next year.

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. ----This week we’d like you to write a memoir piece about an unfulfilled goal or a broken resolution, beginning with the words, “I knew what I wanted."

An Epitaph

This post was prompted by Write on Edge. We were challenged to write an epitaph (A short text honoring the deceased, often found etched on tombstones. )It can be the epitaph itself or part of a longer story.

Photo Credit: tumblr.com via pinterest

“Ugh, where are my gloves? “ She stumbled through her messy apartment; put her coat on wrapped her favorite coral scarf around her neck. She tossed through blankets, threw pillows off the couch. “Where are those gloves?”

Finally stepping away from his computer he said, “Honey, take a deep breath. Where did you last see your gloves?”

“Do you think if I knew the answer to that I’d still be searching? Ugh, I’ve got to go.”

“Hon, do you need me to go with you?” He knew to be patient with her; it was after all October 24^th.

His ever calm demeanor annoyed her, she quickly said, “I’m going on my own, you know I always go on my own.”

 She slammed the door, stepped into her Camry, turned the keys, immediately Melissa Etheridge came blasting through the speakers.  Just loud enough to ignore the guilt she felt for continually displacing her anger onto her husband.

Alice dug around the glove compartment finally stumbled upon her sunglasses. She debated buying flowers, no today she would give him her time and her thoughts.  It was her father’s birthday; she always visited his grave on his birthday.  

She stepped out of her car, and away from the noise, as she walked to his grave the leaves crunched under her feet. She loved this time of year; she thought the combination of the vibrant leaves and the cool air may have been a gift to her from him.

She looked down at the cement monument.             

Conrad Elliot

October 24, 1927-January 19, 2010

We loved you

We listened to you

We forgave you

Our hearts are with you now and forever.

Lovingly,

The Girls

Tears rolled down her cheeks. She reflected on his life, it had been one of conflict and regret. She was one of the few who knew the real story of his life. With all he had done, she missed him. She wanted to talk to him. Alice put two fingers to her mouth kissed them and softly touched his etched name. “I love you dad.”

She slowly walked away from his graveside, away from the words that could have never said it all. Her head tilted towards the sky, the clouds began to break a glimmer of sunshine crept through, and Alice knew she was going to be just fine. She knew she had given him the ultimate gift, the gift of forgiveness. Not everyone could have done this, but Alice, she was special.

Holiday Feature

A big thanks to Write on Edge today for including me in their Holiday Feature series. I hope you'll click over and lend me your support. Thanks!

A Good-Bye

Three, two, one eyes closed a prayer in her heart, she jumped. She allowed her arms to extend, her lungs took in a deep breath and finally her eyes opened. She was falling from the sky. The 60 second free fall, felt oddly slow and relaxing as if the wind caught her, held her and allowed her to gaze over the city. She looked over at her partner, if she could have said anything, she would have said, Thank you. I’ll remember this experience for the rest of my life. She pulled the string; the parachute opened and whipped her back into the upright position, no longer a bird she approached the ground. Her legs extended she advanced to the landing with speed, her heels digging in the ground slowed the pace then in a sitting position she slid across the grass and just like that they were back on the ground.  Not wishing to face the big good-bye.

They looked over their skydiving pictures with laughter. Goggles, funny hats and wind filled faces were pictures they’d always cherish. The couple spent the rest of the day recounting their adventure, and visiting loved ones. She watched as he made his good-byes, each hug reminding her, it would soon be her turn. She couldn’t understand how one person could be so brave. She wrapped her arms around him, her chin rested on his shoulder, she breathed in the scent on the back of his neck trying to swallow as much of him as she could. Would he be okay out there? Would she see him again? Would he be the same? Would she? The uncertainties flooded her mind and tears swelled her eyes. They kissed, he turned around faced the plane and just like that, another soldier was off to Iraq.  

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. We were asked to write a post – fiction or creative non-fiction – which begins with a countdown. “Three, two, one.” In 300 words.

A White Christmas

The doorbell rang. Mom answered the door in her usual cheerfulness. Alice walked in, examined the home where most of her Christmases were spent. The staircase had its usual garland of whimsy. The table set perfectly for the occasion. An aroma of cinnamon filled the kitchen. The house looked immaculate, it always did. The gifts, there were plenty of them. She turned over her coat and gave a look to her husband, his eyes settled deeply on hers as if to say, Alice, you can do this.

A tight hug and a kiss on the cheek, “Merry Christmas dear, I’m glad you could make it, how was the drive?”

Alice pasted a fake smile on her face, “Fine, it was fine.”

“Great! Well I thought we could eat breakfast, and then unwrap presents, and then do the stockings and later we’ll head to grandma’s…..or whatever… anybody wants is fine.”

Alice, overwhelmed by the thought of the day’s agenda quietly said, “That sounds great Mom.”

Alice watched as her mom bounced around, serving cinnamon rolls, pouring orange juice. Her exuberance astounded Alice. She wondered how her mother maintained this kind of enthusiasm.

Breakfast consumed, voices drowning out the sound of her mother’s favorite holiday album, the living room covered with a thick layer of holiday debris. Alice looked around the room, shining faces playing with their new gadgets. Somehow her mother had once again managed to provide everyone with the perfect gift. She always had a way of knowing what her children needed, sometimes even when they themselves didn’t know.

Alice gazed at her mother, with a new found amazement and appreciation. Her heart began to warm. Her husband wrapped his arms around her, kissed her on the cheek and said, “I told you so. “ Alice breathed a sigh of relief and a calm snow began to fall.

This post was inspired by Write on Edge. This week's prompt:
The piece should begin with “The doorbell rang” and end with “snow began to fall.”
The middle is up to you.

Thanks for reading, I think you're lovely.
Lindy