That Dress

I'm going to save my "inspired by" portion for later, under my response, so as not to influence what you might write.  As always, make what you want of it, what comes to your mind, and don't worry about whether it's right or wrong. 

Prompt:
If they thought she was going to wear that dress, they had another thing coming.

Okay, go, write, Enjoy!

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My response:

I was thinking of the the ad I'd gotten in the mail today full of prom dresses.  Maybe I'm just not "fashionable", but every single dress in the whole ad was ... gruesome.  I don't have another word for it.  The fabrics were dark, splotchy, and hideous, and the skirts were barely long enough to cover their belly buttons.  It made me think, if this is what prom dresses look like today, how bad must the bridesmaids dresses look?

So, without further ado:

"Do you like it?" 

My little sister's sickly sweet voice drifted over my shoulder.  She stood behind me, but with the floor to ceiling windows in front of us, I couldn't count on that to hide my reaction. 

I forced a smile.  "Wow.  Look at that."

The dress stood in front of us on the stand.  If someone had asked me to design the most hideous dress imaginable, this dress wouldn't have been that far off.  The bodice looked like a wedding dress from the eighties - sweetheart neckline and poofy sleeves - the kind of thing that only looks good on a Disney Princess.  From the waist to the knee, layers and layers of taffetta stuck out from the gown, looking like a twisted slinky ... or like the dress had been mauled to pieces by pit bulls before they'd brought it to the store.

Sidney slid around me and reached out to the dress, caressing it softly.

"I just adore the color.  Bronzed Chocolate!  It's all the rage these days.  It'll really set off your eyes, don't you think?"  She fixed her gaze back on me.

My smile faltered.  Maybe I didn't have blue eyes, like Sidney, but they definitely weren't the color of dried elephant dung.  And I wasn't about to wear a dress that would make me look like a half-charred marshmallow.

Two could play at this game, though, and it was my move.

"Oh, sweetheart, you must have been thinking of yourself when you picked this one out.  I totally think you should get it - take it on your honeymoon!!!"

Sidney froze.  Then blinked.

"Now let's find something else for me, shall we?"  I smiled sweetly. 

The wheel is still spinning

This prompt is thanks to some old friends I had in high school.  They used to say, "The wheel is still spinning, but the hamster is dead." 

It's just a variation on, "No cups in the cupboard," but the imagery of it is so much more ... dramatic?

So, in honor of old friends, this week's prompt is:

"The wheel is still spinning, but the hamster is dead."

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My response:

I stood at the counter.  The kitchen smelled of french fries and chicken nuggets, and the air was heavy with evaporated oil.  I could feel it settling on my cheeks and forehead. 

The sounds of children playing rang out from the other room.  At least, until a shrill cry pierced the playful chatter.  It was McKensie.  I waited.  The cry died down and the chatter resumed. 

Crisis averted.  For now.

I looked down at the cookie sheet covered in foil.  I wouldn't need to wash the cookie sheet, the foil was still intact.  I'd just have to throw away the foil.  I reached down.

The red casserole dish still sat on my counter.  I counted the days.  Six.  It was about time I get it back to Jennifer.  Mom always said to never return an empty dish.  Maybe I should bake cookies tomorrow ...

I looked up at the spatula I was trying to stuff into the vase that held the larger utinsels on my counter.  The rubber handle was sticking and didn't want to go in.  Then I noticed the french fry crumbs and a few smears of oil on the end.  Why was I putting a dirty spatula away?

I looked down at the cookie sheet, still covered in foil.  I had meant to put it away, and it didn't need to be cleaned ...

I yanked the door of the dishwasher down and tossed the dirty spatula on the top rack, glad that it hadn't gone into the vase easily.  At least the greasy top hadn't touched the rest of the utinsels.

Then I reached for the cookie tray, yanking the foil off.  I kept it in the pantry/laundry room just a few feet down the hall from the kitchen, so I headed there, intent on putting it away. 

I glanced into the living room as I passed the doorway.  The kids were more playing than cleaning up, but at least I was going to be able to get the dishes done.

The door of the pantry swung in with a squeak, and I tossed something into the dirty hamper.  Then I stopped.

Why had I just tossed a balled-up wad of tin foil into the dirty clothes hamper?

I blinked. 

The cookie sheet still sat on the stove.

I snatched the tin foil back out of the dirty clothes and tossed it into the trash can.

I stalked into the kitchen, picked up the clean cookie sheet, turned and walked directly back into the pantry, and put it in the pile of flat baking impliments.

Cursed cookie sheet.

She didn't wait.

I've just recently finished reading "Stormdancer" by Jay Kristoff. If I were to say just one thing about the book, it would be that Kristoff is very clever with words. I enjoyed the way he phrased things and the way he played with dialogue.

The prompt for this week is not a direct quote from his book, but it is inspired by it.

Prompt:

"I promise I'll return for you," he said.

But she didn't wait.

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My Response:

Splinters tore into her calves as she knelt on the wooden flooring. The press of the iron bar against her ribs was unyeilding and frigid, her own body heat not enough to warm the metal. Tara wore only her togep, a sleeveless, knee-length dress of tanned skins, tied at the waist with a thin strip of rawhide. Usually her sheathed braok hung near her hip, but the servants who found her, coming like cowards while she was sleeping, had stolen the blade, the largest of them slipping it into his robes before they even finished tying her hands.

Tara stared longingly at the one square of light in the room. The Regent's prison at this outpost only consisted of one floor of the government house. The stairs leading up and down took up one end of the room. The wooden planks that formed the walls of the room were lined with iron cages. Two special cages stood in the middle of the room separate from the others. One lone window let in streams of light from above the lower stairwell.

"Tara. Tara, forgive me." The other cell's ocupant pressed himself up against the row of blue metal between them, reaching his hand out towards her. Tara kept her head down, trying to press her body further into her own set of iron rails. The two center cages denied the prisoners even the slight comfort of a wall to lean against.

"Tara, I didn't want to try and make you out to be anything other than what you are. You've done nothing wrong. Nothing. I know you don't have the Touch, and when I get a chance to explain, they'll free us." He wasn't a young man, but neither was he old. At his temples, his dark hair was scattered with gray. His face was marked with creases both in his forhead, from scowling, and at the corner of his eyes, from smiling. He had been ambitious and passionate, fighting his way up the chain of command in the Regent's service, starting as the lowliest shoveler and now a minor magistrate in a dilapidated old fort. Maybe his current assignment wasn't grand, but it was stories above any of his old mates, many of whom had long passed on into the Netherlands after a life of hard service.

"I'll get my position back, and they'll allow us to marry."

Behind her mask of indiference, Tara listened to his pleas. She couldn't help but think he was trying more to convince himself than to comfort her. And yet, if he had just let things be, if he hadn't insisted on applying for a proper, Regent Approved, Union Certificate, they wouldn't be where they were today.

The tribes of the Touched mingled with the servants of the Regent only in the darkest corners of the land, but that was where they were. Tara had grown up half in the fort and half in the forest. Her mother had been a saralie ... a curse, according to the Touched. A woman willing to give her body to a man for a meal or a new dress was a shame to them. But the Code prevented them from throwing her out, and her daughter, though the spawn of disgrace, was still one of them.

Tara herself had learned to follow the Code of the Touched. She yearned for acceptance, and the kind hearted ways of her people had given it to her, wholeheartedly.

She had also learned the ways of the servants of the Regent. When Aarek came to the fort, she'd admired his bold personality, his command over his men, and the way the moons seemed to dance to his laugher. The day he'd taken her in his arms for the first time had been the happiest day of her life.

It would have been better if he'd known everything, accepted her for all she was, but for a time, the fact that he loved her at all was enough for her. Aarek was faithful to her, took her into his house, provided her with everything she'd ever needed or wanted and showered her with attention. She in turn had let him invent a past for her that excused his actions in taking one of the Touched as wife.

"I will tell them your father was a soldier, that you were raised in the fort …"Aarek's whining continued. This was the first time she'd ever seen him look weak. Almost, her heart was persuaded to steal over to him, to pull him to her chest with the bars between them, and to sing to him. Almost.

Tara wondered, if they asked him outright, if he would admit her mother was a whore. One thing was certain, no matter how truthful he believed he was when he swore she didn't have the Touch, he wouldn't be telling the truth.

The high magistrate called for him near the setting of the First Sun, when gloomy shadows crossed the land, and they were left with only the dim, blue light of the Elder Star. The servants pulled Aarek from his cage. His lips never ceased their cries as his hands, now tied, continued to stretch towards Tara.

"Tara, my beloved, I promise I'll return for you!"

Tara watched as the last servant descended the stairs, his head disappearing out of her sight.

She couldn't afford to wait. Waiting was leaping into the jaws of death.

She reached out and Touched a bar of iron.

Softly, she began to sing.

Slowly, the iron melted.

 

Favorite Song

I just wanted to start off this week with a little note:  I like to write in first person.  It's not for every piece, but in my less than humble opinion, nothing draws you into a character more than hearing their thoughts.  You get their insecurities, anxieties and doubts all spelled out in front of you, and you realize that many of their fears are things you've thought about, too.  (I do like third person, too.  The novel I'm trying to publish right now is in third person.  This is not third person bashing, just first person promotion.)

So, please do not assume any of my first person posts are autobiographical.  Unless I specify that it's a memoir, at the very least I've exaggerated the story, if not made it up completely.

(I think this comes up now because my response to this week's prompt is in first person … but it's a guy.  I'm not a guy … but I thought it would be fun to see if I could write one.  So, here goes …)

Now, for the prompt of the week:  "It was my favorite song."

Remember, it does not have to be autobiographical.  J

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My response:

"Life is a highway … I wanna ride it  … all night long!"

I could feel the vibration of the speakers coming up through the seat as I pulled up to the stoplight.  I tapped the faded leather of the steering wheel with the heel of my hand and sang out the last three words, feeling the answering rumble rise from my own chest. 

Friday night.  My own truck (if a little battered).  A full tank of gas.  What could be better?

I glanced over at the car stopped to my right.  It was a little blue hatchback, older even than my Chevy.  Waves of blond hair caught my eye as they swayed back and forth, moved by the gentle breeze from her open windows and the subtle bobbing of her head … to the beat of the song coming out of my own speakers.

"If you're goin' my way, I wanna drive it … all night long!"

Her voice rang out clear, even over the thudding of my own sound system.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulders as she sang along to my favorite song, oblivious to my gap-eyed stare.  I recognized her.  She was the new girl, just moved to town from Illinois, or Iowa, or some nondescript Midwest state.  She'd looked different in my geometry class, her hair pulled back in a pony tail, her brown creased, and her lips pursed, like she was sitting on a pinecone.  I hadn't bothered to look twice.  Maybe I should have.  She was gorgeous.

And she was singing my favorite song.

I moved my hand to the armrest on the door and pressed a button.

"There ain't no load that I can't hold,

This road's so rough, this I know …:"

She froze, then slowly turned her head towards the window between us as it sunk down into the door.

I flashed the widest smile I could manage while singing,

"I'll be there when the light comes in,

Just tell 'em we're survivors!"

Her cheeks burned red.  She glanced away, and for a moment, I thought she was going to roll up her own window.  Then she turned back to me and met my gaze with a sparkle in her eyes.

"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it … all night long!"

Our voices rose into the night air together, neither one of us caring about the other cars around us.  My confidence rose, and I motioned with my hand, pointing at her.

"If you're going my way … I wanna drive it … all night long!"

Her laughter bubbled up and stopped her singing, but she kept her eyes locked on mine until the chorus came around again.

"Life is a highway, I wanna ride it …"

The light turned green, and she saw it.  She turned back to me and sang out, "All night long!"

Then she hit the gas, and her little hatchback laid rubber on the asphalt.  I left a pair of matching black stripes in my lane as I sped off after her.