More Windex

Writing from the perspective of the opposite gender, discuss your date. This person is trying really, really hard to hook you, for sex or otherwise, and it's blatant, and they're not picking up on your signals regarding how turned-off you are.

It was the wink, I think. I didn’t know if he meant to do it first time, but it became more pronounced. His glossy white teeth glinted as the corner of his mouth pulled up toward his iceberg blue eye. Wrinkles creased his face and the eye opened again, leaving a lingering smirk.

I had to stop listening to what he was saying. I had to put down my fork. I hid a bite of chewed salmon in my napkin, because I could not swallow it.

He laughed a careful laugh, scripted act and scene. His head tilted back. The gel in his hair had dried cloudy.

“You are quite the foxy lady.”

My smile was a smile of top teeth and scrunched forehead. I don’t think he noticed. He was busy trying to pour more wine into my glass. It was still full from the last pour.

“I need to use the ladies room.”

Take your time, he told me. I certainly would. I could feel his eyes on me, and I hated that I’d worn heels. I took a long path to the restroom. One that put tables and diners between him and my ass.

There was a woman staring into the mirror. She was wearing a red dress, and had her heels in her hands.

I stared at the mirror too.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I wanted to ask myself. “You’re a good looking, intelligent woman. Why did you agree to a blind date? A blind date set up by Sharon, of all people! Fucking Sharon.”

“You too?” It was the woman in red, and I wondered if I’d spoken. I hadn’t seen my lips move.

She smeared her hand across the mirror, leaving a dim streaky handprint.

“Don’t forget your heels.”

I sighed and stared at myself, still young, still smooth, still firm. No wrinkles yet. Yes, I’d become a beautiful woman.

I smeared my hand across the mirror, wondering if I could see what was underneath.

I doubt The Other Side had any better luck.

Salmon and Wine

Study of Form: Raymond Carver's "After the Denim"

Derrik Beckit sat behind the wheel of his new pick-up, staring straight ahead. Meredith Beckit, his mother, stared at her hands clasped in her lap. The radio was off, and the traffic light was red. She took a breath as though to speak, and unclasped her hands, reaching toward her son’s forearm, stopping midway as he glanced at her hand. She released the breath and reached for the radio dial. It played classic jazz, and the light turned green.

“We’re here,” Derrik said.

“Oh good,” said Meredith.

There was an open table waiting for them. The restaurant was almost full, the sound of strangers’ lunch conversations overpowering the soft rock station playing from the speakers in the ceiling.

She said, “Its been years.”

“Yeah, it’s been a long time,” Derrik Beckit replied, glancing up but avoiding his mother’s eyes. At the table behind her, he noticed a gorgeous young woman. She wore light, subtle make-up and a stylish button up top. Her long hair escaped over her shoulder, and she pushed it back thoughtlessly, revealing a fine, delicate jaw. She was sitting with a much older man, graying scruff matching his graying hair. She smiled, and he laughed loudly.

“You look well,” Meredith Beckit said. “How have you been?”

Derrik looked down at his menu again, then glanced up at Meredith. “I’ve been fine,” he said. “I’m going to be enlisting in an officer training program next month. Two years ago, I would never have believed I’d stay a military man.”

A smiling waiter with slick black hair stopped at their table, and took drink orders. The young woman was sipping a white wine and talking animatedly to the scruffy older guy, who was grasping a fork in his fist and stabbing at a piece of salmon. She had a nice voice. There was no way, Derrik thought, the old guy could be her boyfriend.

“But it looks like that’s how I’m going to be spending the next handful of years,” he continued, scanning the menu in earnest and finding the salmon dish just as the cheerful waiter returned.

He asked, “What about you,” as he looked past her. The young woman was looking in his direction, though she returned her gaze quickly to the older guy. Derrik grinned to himself, knowing what it meant. He didn’t look away. She glanced again, and he caught her gaze. Her eyes were green. Her cheeks turned red and she looked down into her lap.

“…and I’m really excited about that,” said Meredith. Derrik nodded and smiled, encouraging his mother to continue. He couldn’t help looking over. Again, he met those green eyes. The young woman smiled, and his face turned hot.

“I’ll be right back,” his mother said. He stood politely as she rose, and sat again as she made her way to the restroom. He stood again seconds later, and went to stand beside the table of the beautiful woman and her scruffy companion.

“Sir, I hope you are a relative of this young woman,” Derrik said.

The man put down his fork. “Pardon me?” he said and stared. “What’s it to you?”

“You know,” Derrik said.

The young woman held her fork in mid-bite.

“And not her boyfriend, or husband or something.”

The scruffy man laughed loudly and said, “You’ve got balls son. Why don’t you ask her?”

She smiled and put down her fork. “My name is Natalie,” she said.

He walked back to his table, clutching a carefully folded napkin. He was trembling.

When Meredith returned, she asked, “Where were we?” She began talking again, and Derrik nodded, thinking only of the young woman. He felt guilty that his mother was so happy, and that all he really wanted was to be home, on the phone. She reached across the table and placed a hand on his arm, the first time they’d touched in so many years. There were tears in her eyes as she said, “We need to do this again.”

For Next Time

Writing from the perspective of the opposite gender, discuss your date. This person is trying really, really hard to hook you, for sex or otherwise, and it's blatant, and they're not picking up on your signals regarding how turned-off you are.

Who Writes Short Shorts? I WRITE SHORT SHORTS

Write five stories, short enough to fit all of them one one page, double spaced, with titles.

Uncouth

The pavement was still warm, though the darkness was several hours old. He pressed his cheek against it, wondering if people were looking at him. He’d never been thrown out of a restaurant before. Slowly, he picked himself up, replaced his hat crookedly on his head, and weaved and stumbled his way into the city night.

Lumberjacks

“Help me,” he sobbed again, pushing his skinny ten year old body against the massive trunk. Within the branches, the whimpers became soft, weak, bidding farewell. I could only cry and stare at the fallen oak that had come so close to crushing me.

Therapy

He was staring into his tumbler, swirling the whiskey around in the bottom of his glass. He threw the rest down his throat and made a face. Still staring into the glass, he said a wet, slurred version of the only words he’d been able to say that evening.

“I can’t believe she did that to me.”

Fore!

I came upon an old man in the middle of a patch of trees. His entire back was hunched, his head curved down, squinting at the leaf-covered ground and leaning on a club. As I approached, I could see that the gawdy polka-dots on his periwinkle vest and matching hat were in fact golf balls. He was mumbling angrily to himself, “Cheater, I’ll prove it. That cheater. It’s here somewhere.”

This Morning

I stared at the thermometer outside my window, willing red line to rise even a little. It was frozen at 36, and I had to leave for class in forty minutes. I did not have a jacket.

Fluidity of Motion

I took my drink and left the money at the far edge of the bar. The bartender wasn’t attractive enough to bother making banter; the night was too young and I too sober and too hopeful. I made my way across the club, sliding deftly through a stumbling crowd. It was dark, the intermittent flash of a strobe light and the alien glow of a ceiling lined with black lights making the whites glow, smiles flashing and eyes floating in the dark throb of the oversized basement.

I made it to our corner—we were regulars in the club, friends of the owner, chummy with the bartenders, respected by the bouncers and constantly sought after by the multitudes that sought entry into this dark haven. We were The Three—superheroes in our own right. Jarred grinned at me from his seat, a girl latched to him and working furiously at his neck.

“Nice one,” I said, admiring his find.

There is a way to speak in clubs, if one takes the time to learn. We three are masters of the club, and our voices cut through the thickness of the music. We do not shout. Shouting is for the commoner.

“Isn’t she?” he answered back. “This has to be one of the better nights.”

Jarred, you see, lived in the shadow of the other member of our triad, Aaron. I was the wise one, enjoying the atmosphere of our hideaway without needing to embark in any of the standard clubbing adventures. One or two drinks and a good seat would suite me, the energy of the place filling me, casting shivers through my skin every so often. Jarred required a little more adventure, which was often womanizing, though he wasn’t very good at it. He often satisfied himself with a quick alleyway fight or dance floor mosh pit when his primary endeavor failed. Aaron was only there for the women, and one would be hard pressed to find a man better skilled at luring beautiful women into his clutches. He had a tendency to monopolize, with little regard for the needs of his comrades. Jarred suffered the most at his hands, and the exemplary specimen grinding on his lap was a victory and major accomplishment for the youngest of the group.

“Know what’s even better?” He asked grinning again, his face flushed, his eyes never leaving his gorgeous find. “Take a look at Aaron. Notice his slacks. And tell me if he’s getting any action.”

He winked at me, then fell back into his chair, captivated.

I glanced toward the middle of the floor: Aaron’s spot. I could see him through the crowd. He was dancing his usual dance, well practiced and impressive to all but Jarred and myself. He was alone. This was bizarre. He could always be counted on to have at least two women on him, one of them often willing to be introduced to me. I can’t say I minded this. In fact, I’d grown to expect it. The fact that he was alone meant that I would have to find a woman on my own, or sleep alone tonight.

Grumbling, I walked through the crowd toward him. As I approached I saw it. I groaned, but let it drown in the music. No wonder. It was glowing like a fucking highlighter on his pants, dribbled down to his knee. No fucking wonder.

I wasn’t in the mood to woman hunt. I simply wasn’t. I wanted to tell him, to whisper in his ear, dude, you have cum all over your fucking pants, but something stopped me. I glanced back at Jarred, who would not be breaking any bottles, any hands, or any laws tonight. I saw him and realized how ecstatic he was, not about the perfect ass glued to his lap, but that he’d finally outdone the ladies man.

I guess one night alone won’t kill me, I decided.

The Other Side needs to do laundry

Quaking

Write using the following subject word: Quake

The tree was so inviting, it could hardly surprise anyone that Tabitha found herself gazing toward the top, gazing beyond the brilliant blaze of the autumn yellow canopy at the single streak of green. The season left the world, or at least that particular patch of California, a striking range of colors from bloody red to crunchy brown, but green… Green migrated with the wiser of the birds when the first cold snap cracked away the warm shell of Summer. To find a pine of any size in this forest of fickle trees is like finding a small haven from all the world, where seasons mean nothing. It could hardly surprise anyone that Tabitha found herself gazing toward the top, contemplating.

The boughs of this tree were perfect, thick enough to support her weight without doubt, but not so wide that her ten year old hands had trouble grasping them. It was as though the tree was tailored to her, grown from that patch of earth for her alone. The branches formed a perfect ladder, even and dense as high as she could see. She took hold of the first branch, preparing to swing herself off the ground. A gust of wind pushed its way through the crowd of trees, and the cluster of Aspen surrounding her tree quivered and rasped, shook with excitement and fear. Tabitha shivered and lifted herself into the arms of the pine.

The climb was easy, her slim frame squirreling lithely round the trunk. The gust of wind had resigned itself to a steady breeze, gently rocking the verdant king, and giving breath to the shouts of the Aspen below. Faster than she could understand, the branches grew thin and sparse, the trunk as thick as the bottom bough. She was at the top of her climb. She smiled and looked around. The entire landscape bent beneath her godly perch, the old farmhouses stacked on the horizon like forgotten toys, her family’s home standing proudly on the bank of the stream which cut a path of brown and gray into the distance. The sun was shining sideways on the planet, casting shadows deep and long across the dry-brown earth, bowing, kneeling, paying homage to their new queen. In that throne, the world was hers.

The breeze grew discontent once more, as though the idea of a child queen was too much to bear. It grew into bluster, into a powerful gust that made the trees below shout in surprise. Even the pine began to sway beneath the force of the wind, rocking and swinging so that her throne might have been a ship on a golden-orange sea. She decided it was time to relinquish her lofty position for the time, though she would return one day to rule over her kingdom once more. She smiled at the thought.

The smile quickly vanished as she realized that her arms would not unhug the trunk, which was feeling dangerously insubstantial. She could not bring herself to slide down from her seat to the stepping branch below. She looked down toward the ground, but could not see it through the branches and pines. She shivered, cold and frightened, on the edge of panic and swaying beneath an angry wind. She shook. Her bottom lip quivered. Her eyes wavered wetly. She cried.

Her rescuer, drawn by a father’s worry and the sound of panicked sobs on the wind, climbed to the top of her tree and wrapped her arms around his neck. He carried her down, carried her home, she shaking and quaking cold and tense and weeping against his body.

Not very queenly, she thought as they walked away from the tree.

The Other Side is conspicuously absent.