A Delicious Destination

We packed up the camper with the essentials - the wine, the dog and our desire.  Our desire for each other as well as our desire to be at the water's edge, feel the wind in our faces and taste the delicacies that the ocean had to offer us - crab, salmon, prawns and oysters.

Our camping spot was right on the beach with nothing between us and China but the vast ocean that soothed and thrilled at the same time.  The enormity and sheer beauty of it never ceased to awe and restore.

It poured rain but we didn't care.  The soothing patter of the rain drops hitting the aluminum roof combined with the melodious swooshing of the waves crashing against the shore lulled us into a delicious, lethargic stupor and we were quite content to wallow in kisses and caresses while we waited out the weather.

When we finally did emerge wearing yellow rain gear and utter contentment, we sipped on crisp, bubbly champagne and supped on the freshest seafood - cedar-planked salmon, freshly shucked oysters and steamed Dungeoness crab so sweet that we ate it unadorned. 

We shared our bounty with a European couple who marveled at the beauty of the spot and the exquisite taste of the food.  And we nodded - knowingly and proprietorially - because we had already claimed this place as our own.

Flicker of Inspiration Prompt #8: I Need a Vacation

Write about a trip either you or a character has taken. It doesn't need to be a literal trip but can be more of figurative journey. If you're writing memoir, what do you remember most about this trip? Do you remember what it's like to go somewhere you've never been? If you're writing fiction, describe your character's trip vividly. Make us feel what your character felt, see what they saw, experience what they experienced.

I have also linked this post to Studio Thirty Plus as the prompt this week was "The Taste of Summer".

Finding the Right Fit

Red Writing Hood - Shoes 

Kir's prompt for us this week asked us to write about a topic very near and dear to many of us: shoes.  You were to write about a pair of shoes of yours or your character's. They can be real or symbolic.

Rachel often liked to compare the men in her life to shoes.  After all, you had to wear them for a while before you knew if they were a good fit or not, right?

For instance, take Marco.  Marco was stylish, expensive and Italian.  He looked great, eliciting many appreciate glances and complements, but after wearing him for just a short while, she found him quite painful.  He was so self-centered that it was difficult to even carry on a conversation with him.  All he cared about were appearances.  He definitely wasn't the permanent type.  It was quite a relief when she kicked off those shoes.

She soon opted for some more comfortable shoes.  Robert was practical like a pair of patent pumps that came in a respectable height.  She wore him for a while until she started to grow and then he just didn't fit any more.   He made no attempts to stretch with her and as difficult as it was she said goodbye to Robert when she started to feel confined and constricted.

And then she went through her Matt stage.  Matt was all free and easy like a pair of Birkenstock sandals.  They had a great summer road-tripping in his VW Van, drinking strawberry wine and smoking reefers.  She wore gauzy skirts and let her hair grow.  He was the perfect summer lover but when winter came along, like the Birkenstocks, he didn't offer much protection against the cold.  She still thought of Matt with a bittersweet nostalgia, often wishing she could slip into those sandals - just for the summer.

She met Joe when she and some friends drove up to a guest ranch for the weekend.  Joe was a bonafide pair of cowboy boots, her very own Marlboro Man.  With his well-fitting Wranglers and his leathery, sun-weathered face, he was very attractive in that rustic sort of way.  She had fun hanging out with him at the ranch, for a time. When he came to visit her in the city and she introduced him to her friends, she found that cowboy boots were only appropriate for certain situations.   It was obvious that he was uncomfortable in her world and he often made pointed remarks about her friends.  She watched with only a little regret as Joe rode off into the sunset.

After all her misfit relationships, she decided to go barefoot for a while.  Her feet and her heart hurt.  Just when she thought that she would be shoeless forever, along came Sam.  

Sam was different than the rest.  He made her feel like Cinderella.  She felt that he was made for her, the fit was that good.  He was the pair of shoes that stayed in her closet for years, the Mary Janes that she wore to the Farmer's Market on Saturday afternoons and to the flea market on Sundays.  With him, she had just the amount of arch support without compromising her wiggle room. She had never felt so comfortable before.

She, too, had left an impression on him, an imprint on his soul and he vowed to stand by her forever. Over the years, like a favourite pair of shoes, Sam, became scuffed and worn, but it didn't matter he was still the most comfortable shoes she had ever worn.  

She still looked at other shoes, occasionally, but her feet always brought her back to Sam. 

Happy Birthday Baby

July 1st was her birthday.  She had vivid memories of her mother holding her and pointing to the sky as it exploded into a myriad of colour. 

"Happy birthday, Baby," her mother whispered against her cheek as her strong arms held her high so that she could see better.  

It was magical until she finally realized that the fireworks weren't actually for her but for the country's birthday.  She was probably around six when she came to this realization and it was a little like discovering that there was no Santa Claus. She was crushed but it did explain why no one else had fireworks on their birthdays.  She had always wondered about that.  

Now twenty years later, she watched the dancing lights as they squealed and popped across the sky and there were strong arms around her once again.  Not her mother's arms but her husband's.  

His face was close to hers as he whispered in her ear, "Happy birthday Baby."

The memory came back to her in a rush of feelings, feelings of being special, unique and loved.  He did that to her.  She knew that if he could have lit up the sky for her, he would have.  

Shivers ran up her spine and just for a moment, she believed in the possibility of magic, once again.

"This week's prompt is all about fireworks. You can take that in a very literal direction, or you can include figurative "fireworks." Feel free to turn this prompt into fiction, non-fiction, or poetry, just be sure to include fireworks of some kind."

Dream Walkers

I decided to write sci-fi because it is really not my thing.  I apologize but I totally blew the 600 word limit.  I couldn't stop but you are welcome to do so at the 600 word mark if you so choose.  I think it is somewhere around "This could be heaven or this could be hell."  Hopefully, you want to read on though.  Concrit welcome.

Every morning, Celia woke with a sense of something lingering, something she should remember – a feeling of something important, something that she was missing.  She woke unrested as if she had been wandering all night instead of sleeping soundly in her bed.  Occasionally, she had a glimmer of a memory but it was as elusive as water pouring through her cupped hands and all that she came away with was a sense of…. white, for the lack of a better explanation.  Not white as a colour, but rather as a lack of colour, a void, a clean slate.

This went on for months and after many warm baths, lavender, and then sleeping pills, the doctor finally referred her to a sleep clinic.  She was a little apprehensive as she packed her overnight bag feeling a little like a kid going for a sleepover at a friend’s house.  But there would be no popcorn or movies where she was going and there would be no friends either. They were all strangers who would be watching her sleep.  She just hoped she didn’t drool.

As she pulled into the parking lot, she noted the oddity of an office parking lot filled with cars at night.  She grabbed her overnight bag from the back seat and locked her doors.  As she opened the front door to the clinic, she hesitated for a moment, expelling all the air from her lungs.

“Just breathe,” she thought.

She just hoped they would find something.  She was so exhausted and it was really starting to interfere with her life.  She couldn’t concentrate at work, she had no energy for a social life, and she had just about fallen asleep at the wheel, twice.  The first time someone had honked at her and the second time it happened she was saved by the flashing lights and siren of a police car as she was pulled over for crossing the center line.  Yes, it was definitely time to do something about this situation.

She approached the desk to check in and noticed the sign hanging on the wall behind the receptionist. 

“Sweet Dreams,” it read and this made her smile.

As the receptionist glanced up to greet her, smiling as well, she felt an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, like she had been here before.  

“Celia, right?” 

Celia just nodded and the receptionist passed her a clipboard with a form attached.

“Please fill this out.” 

She sat down in the waiting room to fill out the form. There were the standard questions regarding her health and her family history but at the bottom of the form there were some questions about dreams.  

1. Do you remember your dreams?

a)      Always

b)      Sometimes

c)      Seldom

d)      Never

2. Which do you dream mostly about? (pick one)

a)      People

b)      Places

c)       Objects

d)      Animals

3. Do you dream of any particular colour?

She thought this last question was odd but some part of her sensed the significance of the colour white.  It was a feeling.  She had the flash of a memory, a feeling of white.

She was starting to get a little creeped out now and she nervously giggled as the words from Hotel California starting playing in her head.

                “On a dark desert highway, cool wind in her hair….”

“Get a grip,” she thought to herself.

She finished the questionnaire and handed it to the receptionist.

“Someone will be with you in a moment,” she smiled.

A door, that she hadn’t previously noticed, opened and a nurse, dressed all in white called her name.  She was smiling like she knew Celia.

“There she was in the doorway, I heard the mission bell. 

I was thinking to myself this could be heaven or this could be hell.”

“Follow me,” she said.

            “Then she lit up the candle and she showed me the way. 

There were voices down the corridor; I thought I heard them say,

Welcome to the Hotel California….”

She followed the nurse down the long, sterile white hallway and then they stopped at another door.  The nurse punched a code into the keypad on the wall to the right of the door.  Celia heard the door unlock with a buzz and a click and as they entered the door buzzed and clicked behind them.

                “Last thing I remember I was running for the door.

                I had to find the passage back to the place I was before

                Relax, said the night man, we are programmed to receive.

                You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.”

She seriously had to get that song out of her head.  It wasn’t helping matters.

She looked around the room they had just entered.  Everything was white.  There were three other nurses busily writing in charts.  They all looked up as she entered and smiled in that knowing way.  It was all very "Stepford-ish" and did nothing to calm her anxiety. 

Along the back wall, there were six cubicles separated by glass partitions.  Each cubicle had a bed and three of them were filled.  The people in the beds were hooked up to large machines and appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

A tall man entered the room and strode towards her.  He was dressed in white, of course. He must be the doctor.  He reached for her hand and both of his warm hands enveloped hers as they shook, slightly. 

“Welcome, Celia,” his voice resonated deep within in her. 

Again, she had the feeling that she had been there before but this time it was comforting.  It was like coming home, as if she was supposed to be there.  All her apprehension ebbed away.  He took her by the elbow and led her into a smaller room with two white love seats and a low coffee table set between them. Upon the table was a glass pitcher of iced water with slices of cucumbers floating atop.

“Please sit down,” he gestured to one of the couches.

She obeyed and sunk into the overstuffed furniture accepting the glass of water that he poured for her without asking.

“You are probably wondering why everything seems so familiar to you, like you have been here before.”

He paused for a moment as she nodded.

“Well, it is because you have been here before, several times, in fact.  You come to us at night in your dreams.”

She should have been shocked but she wasn’t.  She knew it was true.  Her acceptance of the fact lifted the veil surrounding her consciousness and everything became clearer for a moment.

 “Why?” she asked.

“We don’t really know,” he said gently, “but we are trying to find out.  We believe it has something to do with the healing properties of an all-white environment but it is much more complicated than that.”

“When I set up this clinic about ten years ago, my goal was to treat people with sleep disorders, such as apnea.  And we did and still do, actually.  We designed the all-white environment because of the theory that the absence of colour promotes a deeper REM pattern – kind of like the visual version of white noise, if you will.”

“Then something strange started to happen.  We have six beds and not all of those beds are filled every night.  On the nights when we were supposed to have an empty bed, a patient would show up in the bed anyways.  They were always gone in the morning.  This caused a great deal of confusion, as you can imagine, and fright.  I have lost several employees because of it.  Anyways, we noticed that some of these “patients” would return night after night whenever we had an empty bed." 

"And then another thing happened.  We recognized one of our real patients as one of our "phantom" patients.  She had been coming to us for a few months in her dreams before she ended up here in the flesh."  

"Since then we have had fourteen more patients just like you find their way to us.  You are the sixteenth.  You must have many questions, but unfortunately, I don’t have the answers to many of them.  Yet.  We are working on it. I do know this much, though, that when our phantom patients – Dream Walkers, I like to call them – finally make it to us, they are very tired.  Am I right?”

She nodded, wearily, not sure if she could find her voice at the moment.

“All of our Dream Walkers have the best sleep of their lives after finding us.  It is like they have found what they have been looking for so they no longer have to wander in their dreams.  Are you ready to go to sleep?” he reached out his hand.

Again, she nodded as tears of relief slid down her face.  She was just so tired.

Sara's Smile

“Life is what you make it”, she said. 

He could hear her now.  She was always giving him advice on how to live more positively and therefore more happily.  Sara-isms, he called them. 

The thought of this made him smile and as he did so, he could hear her saying, “Did you know that when you smile your body releases endorphins that will help your mood?  So smile even when you don’t want to and things will seem a lot better.”

“Be grateful for what you have,” she said.  And he was - grateful for her, for their new baby daughter and grateful for the opportunities that he had been provided at work.  So why did he have this niggling feeling that something just wasn’t right?

As he pulled into his driveway, he just couldn’t shake the feeling.  Opening the front door, he thought about how he would try to explain it to Sara and how she would make him laugh with one of her Sara-isms. 

“All you have is here and now,” she would say, “Don’t worry about what hasn’t happened.”

“Sara, I’m home.” 

Nothing. Maybe she was sleeping.  She had been up with the baby quite a few times last night and she was probably tired. 

He walked down the hall to their bedroom. His wife was slumped in the rocking chair where she sometimes nursed the baby.  Her nightgown was stained with breast milk, her hair hung limply around her face and her red-rimmed eyes stared straight ahead.  As she saw him in the doorway, fresh tears started to roll down her cheeks.

“I can’t do this,” she sobbed. “I am not a good mother.”

He crossed the room and scooped her up out of the chair.  Falling onto their bed, he rocked her like a baby while she wept, uncontrollably.  He struggled to find the words to comfort her but all that came to mind were Sara-isms. 

“Well, why not,” he thought.

“A very wise woman once told me,” he started, “that God wouldn’t give us more than we could handle.”

She smiled beneath her tears as she recognized her own words and at that moment he was so grateful for endorphins and Sara-isms.

Red Writing Hood

This week's Red Writing Hood prompt comes from Carrie of Views from Nature.

Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE.

Where I Belonged

 

I stood with the other spectators, hot and sticky in the stagnant air of the gymnasium.  Programs waved in an effort to create a little movement of air which gave the illusion of cooling you off but actually only served to move the hot air around the room.  I wiped my sweaty palms downward on my purple suede skirt, oblivious to the fact that it would probably stain.  

I was trying to maintain my composure, trying to ignore the lead balloon in the pit of my stomach.  "I am not going to cry.  I am not going to cry."  It was difficult to be there but it would have been more difficult not to.  

The speeches droned on endlessly.  People were shuffling in their seats, waiting for their escape, waiting to see their son, daughter, niece, nephew, sister, brother or cousin walk across the stage and accept that piece of paper that signified the next chapter in their lives.  My mother wasn't there.  There was no need, her daughter wasn't graduating.

Finally, the time came for the graduates to walk across the stage, one by one, as their names were called.  I watched as my friends, wearing caps and gowns, accepted their diplomas with broad smiles of accomplishment and pride.

Still trying not to cry, I wallowed in self-pity even though my spectator status was entirely my own fault.  I could hold the tears no longer, though, as the theme song played.  

"Love lifts us up where we belong.  Where the Eagles fly, on the mountain high....."

I didn't belong here.  I belonged up there with my friends.  Some of them I had gone to elementary school with including my best friend since grade three but I had veered in another direction.  I dabbed at the corners of my eyes, trying not to blink so as not to smear my makeup, willing the song to end so I could escape the stifling gym.  

Mercifully, the song was over and the procession ended.  People started to shuffle out of the gym.  Head down, I weaved in and out of the throngs of people, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone.  I didn't want to see anyone that I knew, such as teachers or parents and siblings of friends.

I desperately wanted to escape the disdainful looks that said, "Loser.  I always knew you were bad news." Or worse yet, the pitying looks that said, "But you're such a smart girl, what went wrong?"

Finally, I made my way to the door and escaped into the late afternoon heat.  My legs carried me automatically to familiar territory - the smoke pit. I sat down on top of one of the worn picnic tables.  My legs dangling, I let my shoes fall to the ground.

I pulled out my package of king size Player's Light and removed one of the cigarettes.  I placed the cigarette in my mouth and flicked my lighter, inhaling deeply while closing my eyes.  

This is where I belonged.  This is what I deserved. 

A few more smoggers came to join me on my picnic table but before they did, I assembled the look.  You know, the "I don't give a shit that I didn't graduate because I am way too cool anyways look."

This post was inspired by this week's RemembeRED prompt over at the Red Dress Club:

It's that time of year...graduation.

For this week's prompt we are asking you to remember a graduation.  It doesn't have to be yours and it doesn't have to be high school

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The Year of the Tiger

This piece was written in response to a prompt from my IRL Writing Group.  We had to write a short story based on a postcard.  My postcard had the picture of a Chinese tiger with the caption  "Year of the Tiger" written beneath.

Her father always said she had too much yang, not enough yin.  It was because she was born in the Year of the Tiger, he said.  Girls shouldn’t be born in the Tiger Year.  It was a waste, he said.

Instead of quelling her stubbornness and diminishing her yang, his words only served to make her more defiant and she fiercely held onto her birthright, the tiger.

As a child, she collected tiger figurines, stuffed tigers, and key chains and T-shirts with tiger motifs.  Anything that bore the resemblance of a tiger was added to her collection until her bedroom was filled with tigers in every shape and form.  Her father would just shake his head and mutter, “Too much yang.  Too much yang.”

Predictably, her teenage years were filled with conflict.  Father and daughter did not agree on anything.  

“It’s not fair,” she would cry.  “You can’t treat me that way.  You are no longer in the old country!”

“You are a girl!” he would yell.  “You are not supposed to talk to your father as you do.  You bring great shame on this family.” 

She continuously disobeyed him; skipping school and staying out late, drinking with her friends.  For her nineteenth birthday, she committed a grave act of defiance; she got herself a tattoo on the small of her back.  It was, naturally, a tiger.  When her father found out what she had done, he exploded.  She had never seen him so angry.  

“You have defied me and shamed this family.  You will leave my house.  Now.”

He turned his back to her to signify that he was finished speaking and that his word was final.  She threw a few things in a bag, kissed her mother and her brothers goodbye and left the house without turning back.

For years she drifted aimlessly eventually meeting a kind man who appreciated her tiger traits.  They married and had children.  She had so much joy in her life but with each milestone she quietly noted the absence of her birth family.  Only her husband knew the story of how she had left her father’s house and how deeply she was affected by his rejection.

One day, she received a phone call.  It was her older brother. 

“Come quickly.  Father is not well.  There is not much time.”

She hesitated for only a moment, not sure that her father would want to see her and not sure how she felt about seeing him.  She threw a few things into a bag, kissed her husband and kids goodbye and drove the couple of hours to the hospital where her father lay dying.

As she entered the room, she drew in her breath at the sight of him.  The passage of time and the cruelty of sickness had diminished his body, leaving him nothing more than a whisper of the man that he once was.  The smell of death clung to every surface in the room.  She was not prepared for the effect this would have on her and she nearly doubled over from the force of it.  Overwhelmed with sadness and regret, she stood there staring at the skeleton in the bed.

He must have sensed someone watching him and his eyes fluttered open and scanned the room until they fell upon hers.  It was only a fraction of a moment before recognition seeped in and as it did, one single tear slid down his wax paper face.  It appeared to take all his effort as he reached a hand towards her, beckoning her to come closer.  Hesitantly, she moved towards the bed and took his cold, bony hand in hers.  A single word escaped his dry, parched lips, barely audible but unmistakable, nonetheless.

“Tiger.” 

The smallest of smiles played on his lips.  

It was in that moment that she knew he was gone.  She sobbed for all the missed years, for her children who didn’t know and now would never know their grandfather, for the forgiveness that she felt for him at that moment and for the forgiveness that she would never receive from him. 

But forgiveness comes in many forms and as she slowly disentangled her hand from his, something fell onto the bed beside him.  She reached over and picked it up.  It was a key chain.  Warmth washed over her as she recognized it.  It had been hers.  Attached to a short silver chain was a round, gold medallion and upon it was engraved a proud figure.  Gently, she ran her thumb over the words beneath it and she was smiling beneath her tears as she read them aloud…. “The Year of the Tiger.”

Sun Goddess

As we reach the sand, I automatically discard my flip flops to walk barefoot.

“It’s not actually sand,” he says, “It’s ground coral.  That is why it’s not hot on your feet.”

“Really,” I replied.  I, myself, would never thought of this detail but he is forever logical. 

I sifted the ground coral between my French-manicured toes, luxuriating in the feel of it; warm, not hot.  We find a couple of lounge chairs near the edge of the sand close to the rocks and somewhat removed from the other resort guests.  We recline our chairs and ease into them, the warm ocean breeze pressing down upon us and the frosty, watered-down resort Pina Coladas within easy reach.

“You know,” he says in his logical voice, “This is an international resort and there are quite a few Europeans here.  I’ve noticed a lot more people smoking and some of the women are going topless on this beach.”  

He had been walking this morning while I lazed in bed, tired from the flight and the weeks of wedding planning.

“Hmm,” I say, already sinking into that lazy, sun-kissed stupor that is only achieved with that delicate balance of tropical sun and tropical rum, “What are you suggesting?”

“Well, I wasn’t suggesting anything but, now that you mention it, if you have ever wanted to go topless, now might be the time to try it,” he says, logically.

Surprisingly, it doesn’t take any further prompting.  Why not?  I don’t know anybody here and we are far enough away from everyone else on the beach.

I reach to the back of my neck to undo the halter strap of my bikini top and then arch my back and reach behind me to undo the clasp.  I pull it away and drop the gauzy bit of fabric to the ground. Not too far.  I might need it in a hurry.

Then I lay back to bask in the warmth of the sun and the warmth of my husband’s gaze.  I have never before felt more at ease in my own skin as I do at this moment. 

I think, perhaps, he is a little shocked that I have actually removed my bikini top, but he goes with it.

“You are a goddess,” he says, illogically.

And truly, I feel like one.

This was the RemembeRED prompt over at The Red Dress Club:

So this week, we want you to write about sand.

Yes…sand.

It doesn’t have to be summer-related.