Love Food–Flash Fiction for MMWP

We indulged this morning.

Image via Wikipedia

Love Food

The scent of baker’s yeast communing with cinnamon wakens me and I know Dale is in the kitchen. Coffee’s brewing and I hear the chitter of a lone blue jay, trying to defy the reality that cold weather is upon us.

The rain seems to have let up. Staccato drops pounded our window most of the night and last night, rather than lull me into sleep, it accompanied disjointed thoughts that battered my exhausted mind.

Now I toss aside the comforter and steady myself before dragging my old body from the bed. When Dale starts the day in the kitchen, I know how it will unfold. Chicken and dumplings is what he promised and I bet you anything, he’ll make a pie. Fall does this to him—rouses his inner chef. And by evening I know my already-wrinkled hands will shrivel even more from hours of washing pots and pans. I guess great creative spirits aren’t exactly prone to being neat and tidy. At least Dale isn’t.

When I emerge from the hot shower, it is with images of glaze melting over the hot cinnamon rolls, of steaming cups of java and a sweet morning kiss. My senses are so acute that I begin to salivate.

I dress slowly now. That’s the way it is when arthritis has its way. Then drag a comb through my white hair. I remember how long and full it was when we were young. I take a moment with my make up. Dale cares enough to fix me comfort food and so, I take the time to fix myself for him. Our love is always young.

Walking down the stairs, I grip the railing, but still my heart is quickened as I know the love that waits for me below.

I enter the empty kitchen and only then I remember. We buried him yesterday, didn’t we?

Written in Response to my Monday Morning Writing Prompt where I invite you to share your thought about autumn’s FOODS. Poetry, flash fiction, essay, recipes, photography…all are welcome.  I hope you will join us. Please note, this is FICTION. My wonderful husband/chef is alive and well.

Prison Break–Monday Morning Writing Prompt

Alcatraz Escape Cell

Image by derekskey via Flickr

This is a short, short story written for Monday Morning Writing Prompt. I based it on a short news account of a prisoner in Florida who attempted to break out by beating a brick wall with his bare fists. The name and details are all fictional.

Attempted Prison Break

Bad boy!

His mother’s voice echoed in the hollows of his memory as they slammed him against a wall and wrestled his hands behind his back.

Bad boy! You’ll never amount to anything. Howie guessed she was right.

They hauled him down a narrow hallway, lit only by a faltering fluorescent bulb, shoved him in an empty cell, removed the cuffs and slammed the door shut.

All he wanted was to be free. Free to run. To run away from his memories. To run away from his life. He didn’t even know why he’d assaulted that old lady, except that she limped just like his mother.

Bad boy! Bad boy! Bad boy! Over and over the words sounded in his brain.

It wasn’t until the next day that he felt the throbbing pain beneath bulky bandages on both his hands.

“What the hell did you do to me?” he asked the guard who brought him a mug of tepid, bitter coffee.

“You don’t remember, you stupid kid? Look.”

Howie turned his head to see what the guard was pointing at.

The older man snorted. “Did you really think you could beat your way out of here with your bare fists? The wall’s solid brick, you moron.”

The kid looked at the bandages again, at the wall, at the guard.

“Your mother’s on her way, but I wouldn’t count on her to make your bail. She wasn’t happy.”

Bad boy! Howie heard the mantra over and over yet again. He smiled. At least, this time, he’d lived up to her expectations.

Textures–Response to Monday Morning Writing Prompt

Candy Carousel Horse

Image by nhanusek via Flickr


About five-thirty
the morning of Friday before
light spills through blinds,
pools into discrete
silver puddles
at the foot of my bed.

Through the half-moon window
near the ceiling,
swatches of gray satin
unfurl across the sky.
Tears in the fabric
allow slices of blue to
peek through,
toss hope in my face.

In that shadowy space between
asleep and awake
ideas pelt my brain
so I can’t escape back into
my dream about the circus
where I rode barefoot,
standing on the rough coat
of a white mare.
I slip into awareness.

Cold smooth wood
greets my feet as I stand
and yawn.
My dog
shakes her silky fur, glares at
me for interrupting her dreams.

We stretch, enter the day,
touch life.

This is my response to the writing prompt I posted on Monday at: