The JackB

"When you're in jail, a good friend will be trying to bail you out. A best friend will be in the cell next to you saying, 'Damn, that was fun'." Groucho Marx

Red Dress Club

August

 

This post is based upon the latest prompt for the Red Dress Club.

Imagine you are meeting someone for the first time. You want to tell them about yourself.
Instead of reciting a laundry list of what you do or where you’re from, please give us a scene from your life that best illustrates your true self.

This is an exercise in showing, not telling. You need to show us why this particular moment defines you, or why you want someone to know this truth about you. Be descriptive without bogging us down in extraneous details.

 

Word limit is 600. This is to help you self-edit and to make it easier for us to read you.

 

Link up is Tuesday, March 8th.

August in Los Angeles is hot. Not as hot as September but maybe that is perception. The weather on this particular day is somewhat nondescript, endless blue skies that should be on a post card.

The heat of the day is not yet upon those who have chosen to spend their time outside. However when you are wearing a black suit and using a shovel the distinction between 100 and 85 is minimal.

You tend not to notice the sweat that is pouring down your cheeks nor does anyone else. And even if they did they would assume that the salt streaks are from tears and not from sweat. But they don’t notice those things because a hundred broken hearts don’t pay attention to such things.

Mothers of lost children are too busy wandering through their own private hell. Grown men sob on the shoulders of their mothers as they once did decades before, but the moms don’t have a bandage that will fix this wound.

Under other circumstances these men would tower over their mothers but not today. They are like the lost boys of Peter Pan.

Those who shovel do so without rest. Sometimes mothers, wives, friends and girlfriends come over and encourage them to rest but they shake their heads and or wave them off.

They are saying goodbye to someone they cared for deeply and in the process trying to ease the pain of parents who are experiencing the sort of unnatural loss no one should.

A short time before the digging they were all assembled in a room. Several of them stood before the crowd and shared thoughts and stories. Promises were made and prayers uttered.

One man stood apart from the crowd. At times he joined them but often he wandered to the side and stood in silence. You didn’t have to see his face to know that he was lost in thought. Had you made eye contact with him you would have seen that he was seeing everything that happened around him, but choosing not to be a part of it.

It doesn’t matter whether you are in good shape or not, shoveling is hard work. There is a reason why prisoners on chain gangs are given such work as a task. Under the blazing sun it drains more than just fluid from you. But when you add in the emotional content of the day it does more.

Eventually they would be told it was enough and they would be asked to lay down their shovels. One of them would throw one last shovelful of dirt upon the grave. He would look defiantly at the person who asked them to stop and then he would drop his tool and walk away.

He would turn in a circle and look around, feeling like time stood still. In his head he would hear music:

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Golden slumbers fill your eyes
Smiles awake you when you rise
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Once there was a way to get back homeward
Once there was a way to get back home
Sleep pretty darling do not cry
And I will sing a lullaby

Golden Slumbers- The Beatles

One more silent goodbye and a promise to suck the life out of life would be made and then he would head home to take a long shower and sort through all that had happened. As he walked he wondered how long it would take before he would find the way to get back home.

The Red Dress Club

I like to say that when I became a father I gained the right to tell stupid jokes and to repeat the same old stories time and time again. That is not really a good excuse or suitable beard for saying again that I have been blogging since before Noah built that little boat of his.  This blog is a part of who I am and has done more for me than I can properly express. It reminded me about what I really want to do with my life…write.

If you asked me to list the things that I love and need writing would be up around the top of the list. Writing is what I do. I am not exaggerating when I say that words are my tears and my laughter. I don’t say that there is a fire in my belly for effect or to be melodramatic. It is the truth. I am a very intense person. Ask those who have had a relationship with me and they will tell you that the fire burns too brightly for some. They’ll tell you that I can wear you out and that I can drown you in passion. I can have the opposite effect upon you as well.

But isn’t that the case with so many people. Our strengths are also our weaknesses. I make no apologies and ask for no forgiveness for these things. I am who I am and that is ok with me. The man in the mirror is many things, not all good but not all bad either.

For the first five years of blogging I spent the majority of my time living in my own private blogosphere. I guarded my identity fiercely and was cautious about interacting with other bloggers. Over time that has changed somewhat and I have opened up my world a bit. I suppose that you could say that turning 40 made me look at life more critically. Or maybe it was the fact that three of my contemporaries died that year. Four children lost their mothers. Six parents lost daughters and a son. Husbands lost their wives and siblings lost a brother/sisters.

It was enough of a wake-up call to make me admit that I was thoroughly unsatisfied with life. While there were many good things that I was very happy with there were others that were not good. Things that dragged me down and left me feeling less than fulfilled. So I made a number of decisions and put several plans in motion. One of the central goals was to try and become a professional writer. In the decades since I graduated from college I have had moments in time where I worked as a writer, but I never earned enough to support a family.

Consequently I took positions that provided the kind of income I was interested in earning. Some of those positions made me very happy. I enjoyed the work and the people I worked with. But nothing stays the same and over time I found myself searching for something that would be better suited for me.

So during the past 18 months or so I have successfully taken steps to make these changes into more than pipe dreams.  I am pleased to say that I have made progress. I have been working a freelance writer for more than a year now. My work has appeared in publications that you know as well as others that you might not. Slowly but surely I have been building a portfolio and a network.

With some more hard work and some luck I’ll find the writing position that I am looking for. In the interim I am continuing to do what I can to improve my writing and to try and increase my exposure to potential employers and opportunities. That is part of why I started wearing The Red Dress. It is not just because I have the shoulders to rock that sucker or because when I wear heels I am damn sexy. Rather it was with the intent to join a community of writers. The Red Dress Club describes themselves as The Write Women but I can tell you from experience that there are more than a few men hanging out there.

I have enjoyed the writing that I have done based upon their prompts. I am also rather proud of the results. I think that the four posts below are pretty good. Stay tuned because there is more to come.

These heels hurt my feet.

Wind and Waves

In every heart there is a room
A sanctuary safe and strong
To heal the wounds from lovers past
Until a new one comes along
And So It Goes- Billy Joel

My seventies girl once told me that she thought that most of my music sucked. I laughed and said seventies girl sucks too. She tossed her hair back, smiled and turned towards the sea.

We sat in silence and watched the waves roll in and out. As we sat there, our fingers intertwined I felt our souls smile and let my mind wander where it would.

Water gives life. It also takes it away. Wind and waves. I told her once that I could see how the ocean could become my mistress. The sounds of the sea called out to me and touched the wanderlust within. She took her hand and turned my face towards her and stared into my eyes.

I knew her thoughts before she spoke them and promised to take her wherever it was I went. You are the song of my heart and what happens to you happens to me. A soft kiss graced my lips and we sat again in silence.

We who had never known such happiness never knew that one day we would know such sorrow. It had seemed impossible that two people could meet under such circumstances as we did and not end up together. Signs and symbols serenaded our souls healing the scars of the past and opening up opportunities of the future.

Her presence made me stand a little bit taller and made my muscles a little bit stronger. In turn I taught her to relax and let another carry the load. Her burden didn’t have to be borne alone and when she finally let go I carried her effortlessly.

We were partners. We were friends. We were lovers. It is hard to write these words, we were when my heart says that they should read we are.

Sometimes I head to the beach again and think of the days when we sailed together. The sounds of the sea call out to me and I think of that day when I spoke of my mistress the sea and wonder if perhaps the time has come to set sail again.

I stand alone on the beach and watch the waves roll towards the shore. I wonder about what lies beneath the surface and absentmindedly turn towards you but you are not there. A wistful smile works its way across my face.

Had you been there I would have mentioned the tsunami and how incredible the power of the ocean is. I would have talked about the secrets that it keeps and how amazing it is that one moment the sea can be calm and the next it is raging.

Water gives life. It also takes it away. Wind and waves.

The contradiction of the water as deliverer of life and death would have made for a great conversation. It fit us, this contradiction. We who were or perhaps one day will be.

So I would choose to be with you
That’s if the choice were mine to make
But you can make decisions too
And you can have this heart to break

This was written based upon a prompt from The Red Dress Club

Water gives life. It also takes it away.
Write a short piece – fiction or non-fiction – inspired by one or both of these statements.
Word maximum is 600.

The Kitchen

This is my latest piece for The Red Dress Club. The prompt is as follows:

Your assignment this week was to write a piece – 750 words maximum – that brought us to a particular room important in your life. We want to feel like we’re there with you.

It was close to 2 AM when he pulled into his driveway. Though the lights were off the interior of the house was illuminated with memories of what once was. Alone in the dark he walked the halls and listened for the voice that he knew wasn’t there any longer.

He walked over to the kitchen and dropped his keys on the island. In the past the counter would have been spotless, wiped down and devoid of dishes, food or bottles, but not now.

This time the sink was filled with empty bottles. A half finished bottle of Scotch lay next to the sink.  The silent sentinel bore witness to the grief of a man who couldn’t figure out how to extract the pieces of shrapnel that had exploded around his heart.

Treading softly around the island and its blue pearl granite counters he took the bottle in one hand and with the other touched the dimmer switch and shed a minimal amount of light upon the room.

Moments later he sat down at an Oak table and stared at the three empty chairs where others had once sat. A bowl full of mail lay in the middle of the table. The pile of bills and junk mail was growing steadily day by day.

He took a long swig of the Scotch and looked down at the handwritten note in front of him.

“So I kissed you one last time. One final kiss so that we’d never forget. One kiss so that if we ever lost our way we could use it to find our way back.”

It was painful to read those words and remember what once was.

Echoes of laughter and love wandered through like the ghost of Christmas past. The sounds of children playing with their mother made an appearance. Except in this case he always saw her as the girl she once was and the woman she became. He didn’t have to close his eyes to see the smile that she reserved for him or to remember how many other ways the kitchen could be used.

A soft hum emanated from the stainless steel refrigerator and reminded him to grab the remote for the stereo. Two clicks later music wafted through the night air. Softly he sang along with Johnny:

“I Fell Into A Burning Ring Of Fire

I Went Down, Down, Down

And The Flames Went Higher

And It Burns, Burns, Burns

The Ring Of Fire

The Ring Of Fire”

He closed his eyes again and remembered telling June a story and wondering if she was paying attention to him. So he had walked across the room to the walk-in pantry and discovered her still dressed in work attire but bent over in a way that was anything but business like.

She jumped when he grabbed her hips and in the process sent everything on the third shelf flying. He silently turned on the light, closed the door and began picking things up off of the floor. When he turned around he found her face inches from his accompanied by a look that suggested he was going to enjoy the moment or potentially live to regret it.

Smiling he looked at her and remarked that he couldn’t imagine living with an ordinary kitchen that didn’t come with a walk in pantry and cook. He supposed that her lips upon his was her way of telling him to be quiet.

The problem with the kitchen was that there wasn’t anything about it that didn’t shout her name. Her absence was palpable and the silence deafening.

A giant wave of pain hit him and he closed his eyes again wondering why heartbreak made his legs hurt so badly. He brought the bottle back to his lips and took a big mouthful of Scotch.

To his right there was a built in wine cooler that sat just below a cabinet filled with hard liquor. Just then another wave of pain hit him and he thought that he could hear someone calling his name. It didn’t make sense to him nor did the rumbling noise that was progressively growing louder.

Suddenly a bright light made him squint and a man’s voice told him to relax. The rumbling noise continued and he remembered there had been an earthquake. He wasn’t sure how long he had been trapped in the rubble or why his legs felt like they were on fire.

So he closed his eyes and remembered their kitchen.

One Slightly Used Pump For Sale

Classified ads 2, , IDW, MAD Artist's Edition, the office, Hackney, London, UK

Someone once told me that he who laughs last laughs best. Well, I don’t know if that is true but I am about to find out. My dear roommate thought it would be funny to mess with me by posting questionable pictures of me online.

Sure Jimmy, millions of people are going to get off with those pictures. After all who doesn’t want to see a man reading a newspaper on the toilet. Ok, so it wasn’t the Wall Street Journal or the New York Times but who cares. Really, do you think that anyone is going to think less of me because I like to spend my time in the smallest room of the house reading The National Enquirer.

You never know when it might be useful to learn that the reason Brad Pitt left Jennifer Aniston is because he is really Angelina Jolie’s brother. How many people are cognizant of the fact that the reason why the Middle East is blowing up is because there is a war being fought between the Martians and the Venusians.

Don’t think that I haven’t noticed your passive-aggressive behavior. I may not respond to your little digs but I notice them. I don’t respond because by not doing so I piss you off more. Yes, I know that you hate the lack of reaction. You are like a freaking insecure woman who flips out because I don’t pay enough attention to you.

Has there ever been a man more in need of a blow job than you. I don’t think so. Nor is it my fault that you got arrested for hiring a tranny to take care of that need. Did you ever hear of Hugh Grant? Dude, only an idiot parks their car in a strip mall at 6 PM. It wasn’t dark out and the dry cleaner was still open. What did you think was going to happen.

I wish I could have been there to here you fumble through an excuse. I can picture the little beads of sweat forming on your head and that nervous laugh. Did you try one of your stupid jokes on the cop. Gee officer, I am not sure how that ended up in her mouth, I was trying to help her find a contact lens and somehow it sprung out.

But you are a moron and I am guessing that what prompted your anger towards me is the telephone call you heard between Dave and I. Maybe you forgot but Dave and I are in the process of rebuilding a car. When we were talking about a tranny it wasn’t about your experience but the transmission we need to rebuild that ’67 Camaro in his garage.

Damn, if I wasn’t so strapped for cash I wouldn’t be sharing a place with a dolt like you. I only wish that you could read this because I am typing slowly so that you can keep up. You my dunderheaded friend made a serious mistake when you came after me with your Cool Hand Luke quote about a Failure to communicate.

So let me communicate this. Your mother reads the Beverly Hills Newspaper Daily and she’ll see the following ad with a picture;

For Sale: One slightly used Penis Pump. Not sure when it was last cleaned, if ever. The soon to be former owner is a skinny blond man who was arrested for indecent exposure in a local strip mall. Of course I’ll use your cell phone and email address as contact information.

Who is laughing now big boy.
This is a work of fiction for the Red Dress Club. Details of the prompt are found below.

We want you to imagine you’ve just had a fight with a friend, a co-worker, husband, significant other, child â you get the picture. You’re mad. It’s time for revenge.

What would you sell?

Write a humorous listing for eBay or Craig’s List. Talk about the history of the items, why they must go.
Word limit is 600.

Updated to play with the boys at Dude Write

Dude Write

The Song of My Heart Has Gone Silent

Here is my submission for The Red Dress Club. The prompt is as follows:

Write a piece – 600 word limit – about finding a forgotten item of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet. Let us know how the item was found, what it is, and why it’s so meaningful to you or your character.

The song of my heart has gone silent. She has left me to live my life alone and apart. My girl has gone away and left me with questions unanswered and words unsaid. But the moments and the memories live on. At times unwanted and unasked for they appear unannounced- parading past my mind’s eye they remind me a time that was.

Silver basketball shorts shimmer in the sunshine. A drawstring hangs from the waistband. Gently swinging in the breeze it reminds me of a metronome that keeps time to a beat that no one can hear. Except I can hear music. A symphony of silence surrounds me and I hear the soft singing of the woman that was.

She who used to glide into the room would recognize these shorts. If she was magically transported into the room she would see them and give me a knowing look.  A shared moment would take place as we moved back to where we once were.

I cannot say if she would share her smile with me for she has intentionally tried to hide her heart from me. My words go unanswered and my pleas are unheard. But I like to think that were she to see these shorts she would smile and remember a time where we shared a moment that lasted for eternity.

She stood before me and I pulled her into my arms. Her head against my chest I buried my nose in her neck and inhaled. She smelled of cinnamon and spice or something similar. Her presence was intoxicating.

We were best friends who had discovered a secret. We were lovers and confidants. I was her hero, hopelessly devoted and so very scared. I wore those shorts and a tank top- a premeditated moment in which I tried to show off muscles that had been worked hard just before she arrived.

I didn’t know what would happen. Could barely breathe, looked down and saw dark eyes looking up at mine. Lips locked, eyes wide open we stood there daring destiny to destroy that which couldn’t be broken.

Later I head to the court determined to exorcise my demons by daring them to meet me beneath the basket. Silver basketball shorts shimmer in the lights like glimmers of moonlight reflected off the waves at sea.

Silver basketball shorts shimmer in the moonlight. Staring skyward I close my eyes and set my soul free. If I could I would sever its ties to me and let it wander through the ether without me. Would let it wander without me because I can always feel her presence

Reason says let go. Hope says no. Heart battles head. I close my eyes and see her looking back at me. Echoes of the past meet echoes of the future. Soft whispers on the wind tell tales of promises broken and those yet to be filled.

Once I was her hero and she my girl. Heart battles head.  The dresser drawer remains open before me. Would a hero give up or would he put on silver basketball shorts.