Everyone called him Poet. She assumed that’s what he was, or what he used to be, back before he came here. She never even bothered to question that assumption because he spoke only in poems, which at first she took to be a brilliant affectation for someone who was supposedly senile. It was only after days of working there and paying attention to what he said, that she realized he wasn’t trying to be endearing, he was simply stuck in a loop of poems.

She wasn’t assigned to any particular patients, she went where she was needed, so her exposer to Poet was minimal at first. An occasional moment where he dropped something and she was walking by and could pick it up for him, or when bringing out the food trays and he’d yet to be served. That was the first time she realized his poems were situational and not completely random. She’d slid the tray in front of him with a smile and was turning to the person on his left, Mildred, a woman who insisted on wearing lipstick every day despite her exclusive wardrobe of gunked up slippers and a terry cloth pullover that left her looking for all the world like a bathmat.

“Women whose lives are food, breaking eggs with care.”

She was brought short by the words for a moment, repeating them softly to herself and later typing them into her phone and discovering they were the words of Joyce Carol Oates. She made a point later that day to swing near Poet and say, “Men whose lives are money, time-and-a-half Saturdays,” hoping to get a response, a smile even. But there was nothing. Not even a flicker in Poet’s eyes.

The next time she heard Poet speak was when she nearly slipped and fell coming rapidly down the hallway, the hallway that had just been polished before lunch and about which she had been warned, the warning quickly forgotten.

“How many times these low feet staggered, only the soldered mouth can tell.”

Dickinson, she discovered later with the help of her phone.

“Fearless – the cobwebs swing from the ceiling, Indolent Housewife – in Daisies – lain!” she whispered in his ear later that day while tidying his room.

Again there was no response.

There existed then several weeks where she had no interaction with Poet, the comings and goings of the place far exceeding the time a single volunteer could devote. The turnover from the latest flu was horrific, and it wasn’t until she was called in to the supervisors office that she even had a moment to think of Poet. Perhaps she could ask the supervisor about him.

“I want to thank you, personally, for all your hours here, miss Lin. We don’t often get volunteers and when we do they don’t often stick around past their nursing hours or community service requirements. I sincerely appreciate all you’ve done here. You’re a real asset, and if you ever decide you want to work here fulltime as an employee, I’d be happy to hire you.”

Frankly, this was not what she’d expected at all, she was stunned and her eyes were a bit misty as she replied, “thank you, sir. I enjoy it.”

“Yes, well, thank you again,” he said before turning to the papers on his desk and raking a hand through his hair. He was clearly overwhelmed by what lay before him and had assumed their meeting was over, his goal accomplished. She considered going back to the few tasks she wanted to complete before leaving for the day, but hazarded a question.

“Sir? If you could, I’d like a bit more info on the man they call Poet?”

He looked up at her a puzzled furrow of his brows, “Poet?”

“Yes, sir, I don’t know his real name, it’s not on his door and no one seems to know it. He speaks in poetry? The staff call him Poet?”

It took a moment, and then she saw the realization in his eyes, “ah, yes, Marcus. He’s an interesting man. Used to teach, I believe, I’d have to look it up. I’m afraid he’s been gone for quite awhile now, came to us with no responses to his name or questions, music or other stimuli. He’s one that simply exists here.”

“Yes, sir, only it seems he may be a bit more there? His poems seem to be about whatever’s going on around him at the time.”

His eyes widened at this, “are you sure? We put him through several tests when he arrived. As you know we like to be sure to keep our clients as sharp as possible for as long as we can. He failed, well, he failed everything. There was no response to anything, not even electrical waves. Has he spoken to you or given any indication he understands what you say?”

“No, sir, not exactly. It’s that his poetry is…situational, for lack of a better word,” and she proceeded to explain noting all the while that his expression slowly went from excited to bored. “I just think, sir, that he knows more than we give him credit for,” she ended weakly.

“Yes, well, I’d like then for you to be assigned to him. I realize there are a lot of things you’re currently tasked with, but those things can go to someone…Jordan. Give them to Jordan, and let her know your time here is to be spent exclusively in aiding…Poet?”

“Yes, sir, Poet.”

“Right. Off you go. And please check in with me at the end of one week with any updates.”

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

Over forty years with Incle Corp, forty years and how many millions of dollars, and they’ve put together an employee potluck, bought a big box sheet cake, dollar store decorations, and there’s a cardstock achievement printout that I know Karla (“with a K!”) in HR has printed from her own computer. It’s unbelievable. I’m not even sure which is more unbelievable that it’s happening or that I’m forcing myself to smile as though it’s all okay. Which it is, really, everyone retires at some point, but it’s also not okay at all. Forty years for a potluck and a sheet cake?

I’m doing that breathing thing Karla is always going on about, “you have to breathe in deeply, count to four, then exhale for a count of eight. It really helps if you breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. Do it with me now. Good! You’ve got it!” And I do have it, the breathing thing, but it’s not helping. It never helps. Either she’s full of shit, and I’d put my money on it, or I’m doing it wrong, and how do you breathe wrong? Impossible.

But I can get through this. Keep the fake smile on, I can let it go if I’m eating or drinking, thank goodness I brought my own pop for lunch because they’ve neglected to include drinks on the potluck sign up sheet and I can see right about now that everyone is very much aware of this oversight. There’s Jim whispering to Bob in the corner and their both smiling. You know they’re wishing drinks had been included, they would have brought whiskey and pretended it was no big deal. I wish they had.

Oh geez, now Karla’s talking and smiling and gesturing, something about everyone knowing how much I’ve meant to the company blah blah blah. What’s this? What’s happening? Everyone’s staring at me. What did Karla just say?

“I’m sorry, dear, what did you say?” I ask. It helps to call them dear, the younger ones, they think it’s endearing. Sure enough I see her face loosen a bit, she’s probably reminding herself that I’m old, delicate. Ha!

“I asked if you’d like to think back on your years here at Incle and share with us your thoughts?”

She’s smiling. I know she thinks I’ll have nothing but positive things to say, because that’s me, always positive. Always trying to keep the company on track despite the way it’s being mismanaged, despite the way it’s all gone to pot the last ten years after Mr. LeBouche, Sr. died and Junior took over. Junior. That’s his name. Mr. LeBouche, Sr. never would have named him Junior but what do you do when it’s your wife’s dying wish? You have to go through with it, right? Ridiculous.

“Well, I remember when I first started here, I was hired on by Mr. LeBouche, Sr. himself. There weren’t but a handful of people here then, we all started together, see. They’re gone now, those first few, except me,” I say, trying to keep things light, forcing that smile even as I see their eyes starting to glaze over. Jim isn’t even pretending to listen, the bastard and I can’t help myself. I really can’t. Before I know it I’m telling the truth, “when it all started we were about customer service and proactive selling and positive customer interactions but that’s obviously not the focus any longer. I’m surprised I made it to retirement at all, really. One after the other I’ve watched as my longest term customers have made their excuses and walked away, watched even as they offered me a job with their company so I could work somewhere reputable.”

I can see the panic on Karla’s face. It started as a cocking of the head as she thought surely I was going to tell a joke, maybe rib Junior, who hasn’t bothered to show up, the pompous little twerp. But now she knows. Now she can see what’s coming, I think there must be a glint in my eye or a set to my jaw, because she’s just assumed the face she wears when she tells me to breathe. I should stop, I should laugh or find a way to make it seem like I’m not entirely serious, like I’m not embarrassed to be retiring from this joke of a company. But I guess she’ll have to find a way to stop me cause I can’t seem to stop myself, the words just keep tumbling out.

And that’s when the glaze in Jim’s eyes evaporates, he even shakes his head, his eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them, although that may have more to do with the lack of alcohol available than anything I’m saying. The next thing I know he and Bob are laughing loudly and walking towards me enveloping me in a hug, which is outrageous by the way, and now I can see, they’re embarrassed for me. I’ve just embarrassed myself in front of these people.

The next thing I know I’m being escorted politely to my desk, my box of knick knacks carried for me by the sweetest little gal who’s only been answering the phones here for a week and she’s saying something about how she wishes she’d started sooner to have more time to “get to know” me. And now we’re out at my car and she’s put the box gently on my passenger seat and she’s hugging me before returning to work and I do the only thing I can think to, which is to get into the drivers seat and start the car.

It’s a good idea to sit for a few minutes and let the engine warm up, not just put her in gear and go tearing off like these people do nowadays. So I’m sitting there waiting for all the lights to come on and go off again, for the engine to settle into that sound it makes when it’s got itself situated and I realize, I didn’t embarrass myself at all. There was nothing embarrassing about what I said except maybe for the fact that I said it. It’s not me that embarrassed myself, it’s those people. Those people are embarrassed because they still have to work there, while I’m free to leave. It’s their own sense of regret and guilt and fear that I was exposing and that they have to live with.

There’s a knock at my window that makes me jump, and when I turn to see who it is I’m genuinely surprised to see Jim. I roll down the window, a question in my eyes, and he blurts out, “Bob and me are going to the Wayback after work if you’d like to join us? We’d like to buy you a drink.”

I’m astounded. Not once in forty plus years has a coworker invited me out for a drink, and certainly not to some garbage hole in the wall like the Wayback, all forty year old women in tight jeans hoping for a second chance and pot bellied old drunks willing to give em something for their efforts. So I’m surprised when I hear myself saying, “why Jim, that’s so kind. I’d love to.”

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

I’d come to see my father, a man I hardly knew. I’d grown up with him, here and there, but only knew him as my dad, as a man who worked a job he hated and lived with a woman that wasn’t my mom. People would later tell me how funny he was, how much they enjoyed spending time with him, how adventurous he was. I wondered who they were talking about. But that would be later. For now, I’d come with a second hand book I thought he might like to have read to him and a vague idea that I would try to get to know him, or get to know what was left of his memories of himself.

Instead, as I was walking down the hall looking for room 204B, I heard a familiar voice and quite literally stopped in my tracks. It couldn’t possibly be who I thought it was, but it was very similar. Eerily similar. Far too close to be believed and I simply had to stick my head in to verify that this was in fact a case of my own memory playing tricks on me. Only there, right there upon a hospital bed that couldn’t possibly contain the personality upon it, was Mr. Tucker.

I quickly drew my head back out of the room and flattened my body against the wall outside the doorway. Feeling mildly ridiculous for such a move, I shook myself and realized I was smiling. Of course I was smiling. Who wouldn’t want to run into a man like Mr. Tucker after all these years. You see, Mr. Tucker was my teacher way back when, grade school, must have been third or fourth grade. Back when teachers told every student how perfect they were and every student believed them and adored them for it.

Would I be welcome in the hospital room. Would it be rude to walk in unannounced. What if Mr. Tucker suffered from the wasting away of his brain that my father was battling somewhere along this very hallway. The questions flooded my mind and rendered me immobile until I heard a shout that was so very un-Mr.Tucker-like that the next thing I knew I was within the room to stand witness to what was surely elderly abuse. It wasn’t, elderly abuse that is, it wasn’t at all. It was a young nurse, or perhaps even volunteer or candy striper, I didn’t think they had candy stripers anymore, who was finding that when Mr. Tucker said no, he meant no. She’d have known that if she’d had him in grade school.

I laughed aloud before I could stop myself and the scene froze before me: candy striper’s arms raised in battle with Mr. Tucker’s, a tray of grey food between them and a pink pitcher of ice or water or something precariously teetering on the edge of one of those rolling tables they insisted on providing to every hospital patient, as though anyone ever used them for anything other than setting vases of decaying flowers or the garbage from the latest injection.

“Mr. Tucker,” I said humorously, “you’re behaving badly. Give this girl a break, I’m sure she’s just doing her job. May I be of assistance?”

The young woman looked at me with a bit of relief before turning to Mr. Tucker and saying, “I’ll leave you to your guest, but you must get some of this in you or they won’t let you leave!” She backed away, straightening her uniform, before turning to leave but not before giving me a meaningful look. “I’ll be back in twenty, Mr. Tucker.”

Mr. Tucker rolled his eyes, a move he’d never have allowed from any of his students and I had to suppress another laugh. “Thank you for the rescue,” he said as he leaned forward looking towards the hallway, “and if you wouldn’t mind, there’s a toilet behind that door there you could take some of this and flush it for me.”

“I’ll flush one bite for every bite you take and if she tells me you’re allowed, I’ll give you a candy bar after, deal?”

He smiled and said, “you’re on! Now, you’ll have to forgive me, but I can’t quite place how I know you. Sit, tell me,” he indicated a chair near his bed as he picked up his fork and began pushing food around on the tray trying desperately to hide his look of disgust as he settled on a bite and forced himself to take it. I could see him cringing and figured the best remedy for a bad mean is good conversation.

“I wouldn’t expect you to remember me, Mr. Tucker. My name is Alice, and I was one of your students back in the day. Alice Tanner. I was walking by on my way to visit my father, he’s somewhere along here, when I heard your voice. It was unmistakable,” I smiled.

He smiled, too, and forced a swallow. “Right, that was four bites, I figure that’s about all I can handle unless you’d like to see it again. Off to the toilet with you,” and he handed me the tray.

I had to agree with him, whatever it was they were feeding him looked disgusting and none of it looked like anything I could name which was a bit frightening. I supposed if he was on a diet like this the odds of him being allowed a candy bar were slim to none, but I went to the toilet and flushed away a bit of the food as I’d promised. I returned the tray to the table and myself to the seat.

“Alice Tanner, yes, I’m beginning to see the girl inside the woman. You’re still very much the same, really, your walk. It’s there in your walk. Very determined. Good to see. What have you done with yourself these twenty years, or is it thirty? You’ll have to forgive me as I’ve lost track of time since retiring.”

“I’m surprised you remember me, sir, I never much thought I stood out,” I laughed. “I don’t know that I’ve done much of anything to tell you except that I tried my hand at marriage and failed, tried my hand at travelling and found it wasn’t for me, tried my hand at a multitude of odd jobs and while I’m proficient in quite a few things now because of it I’m not particularly good at anything,” I laughed again, realizing as I said the words that they were true. I realized my eyebrows were raised, I’d surprised myself with my lack of a life, with my inability to recognize my own lifelessness until this moment.

“That, my dear, does not at all sound like the Alice Tanner I remember. Perhaps I have you confused with a different student? Alice Tanner was confident. Independent. She was going to change the world. She told me so herself on a few occasions,” he said, his eyebrows drawn down low, and a glint in his eye. No longer facing me head on, he was giving me a sidelong glance as though his peripheral vision afforded him a bit of time-travelling.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

The storm had been expected. You don’t live in the mountains without checking the weather reports religiously. So everyone knew and was well stocked. Most people had generators for back up power, but not everyone. Even those with generators had water put by though. You don’t live in the mountains without having a bit of common sense and a healthy understanding that you’re but small on this large plane.

Despite having prepared for the storm, there was the occasional person, like herself, who without a backup generator would be struck with a loss of power and an overstocked fridge and inevitably there’d be an invitation to dinner. The food needed to be used up before it went bad and who knew when the power would be back on and yes, yes, thank you, but no, I’d rather not move everything to your fridge but you’re very kind to offer.

And so it was that she found herself knocking on her neighbors door at five til, a bottle of sparkling cider in one hand and a flashlight in the other. She was welcomed in by a different neighbor who’d apparently also just arrived and was still hanging up his coat. Good to see you, how are you faring, did you get that generator put in this year, yes, yes, excellent timing.

There was small talk in the living room with a few other local faces, lots of laughter, a bottle of red being passed around, yes, I know it won’t spoil as it was never in the fridge, but on a chilly night who wants a white, after all. The smells from the kitchen were overwhelming and her stomach had started to murmur, she realized she’d skipped lunch what with the added chores a storm brings like felled trees and washed out driveways. The call to come eat came in the nick of time.

Having been invited to a fridge cleaning party her expectations had not been high. She honestly expected to find a bit of this and a bit of that. Smaller amounts of food all cooked up to create a larger spread, but not very much of any one thing. She was wrong.

There was a turkey and a ham, as though it were Thanksgiving. There were two kinds of rolls, one of which appeared to be very much homemade. There were the expected frozen veggies, warmed and slathered in thick pats of melting butter. There was the occasional odd dish here and there, clearly leftovers that would get thrown away if not eaten tonight, a bit of macaroni and cheese, some cottage cheese, an odd assortment of olives and dill beans.

The thing that took her breath away, the thing she realized she’d been smelling, that had set her stomach to rumbling and her mouth to drooling were the oranges. There was an entire platter of oranges that had been gutted and filled with sweet potatoes. They smelled absolutely delicious and she hoped there were enough for everyone, or that she’d at least get first crack at ’em and not have to miss out. She deliberately edged closer to them in an attempt to be seated within passing distance in order to be in the first one or two served assuming passing would go clockwise, because of course passing would go clockwise.

As everyone sat down and voiced the expected thank yous and this looks lovely and even a my goodness but it looks like Thanksgiving, she smiled, for she’d managed a chair directly in front of the platter of oranges. Up close they were even more delectable, she could see the sweet potatoes or yams or whatever they were inside had been mashed about like a twice baked potato and instead of marshmallow there appeared to be something else, honey perhaps, at the edges. She’d missed whatever was being said but recognized the people around her were grabbing dishes, serving, the passing would begin shortly.

She grabbed the oranges, placed one on the plate before her and passed them along, clockwise, of course, accepting the platter from her right and taking a tongs-ful of green beans, passing again and again and again. The food came in a near endless stream and she found herself running out of room, a balancing act now of food piling on food, the green beans succumbing to the turkey, the turkey to the roll. She left the orange undisturbed.

Finally the first round of passing was complete and people were taking their first bites, the conversation had died down and the occasional mmm or aaaah or clink could be heard. At one point someone paused their chewing long enough to say delicious and there were murmurs of agreement, a bit of laughter here or there, the host saying thank you, or I’m so glad, or please please eat up.

She took her fork and pressed it gently into the tuber mix, swirling out with a beautiful biteful and swiftly brought it to her mouth before any bits could fall. As the fork sat on her tongue and the flavor spread across it she closed her lips, unable to remove the fork, unable to move for a moment as the sweetness overtook her tempered a moment later by the tang of the orange flavor, subtle but there. It was like nothing she’d ever tasted before. She removed the fork and mushed the bite against the roof of her mouth, inhaling deeply before swallowing on an exhale. Phenomenal.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

Judging by the empty disposable cups of coffee on her passenger floor, she’d been driving for at least two days, it’s possible it’s been closer to three, but she doesn’t want to give herself too much credit. Remembering to throw out the empties every times she fuels up has been harder than she thought, there’s the fresh fuel to pump, the “fresh” coffee to obtain, the toilet to use, and if she can remember to buy a bottle of water or something to eat she feels like she’s winning.

Shauna is very much aware that one should not have to travel cross country at break neck speed with very little sleep and too much coffee, but when your best friend calls from New York and asks you to come and get her…so here she is. She should be arriving any minute now, or at least that’s what her phone’s map is telling her if it would stop rerouting…ugh, New York. Upstate is beautiful, she’ll concede, but it’s a nightmare on her GPS. Normally Shauna would pull over to make a call, but this is an emergency.

The phone rings and rings and, there! Nope, went to voicemail. It’s good to hear her friends voice so cheery, the tone and whispering were very concerning yesterday when Shauna’s touched base to tell Elise she would be arriving today.

“I’m here, El, sort of, I think. Call me,” she hangs up the phone then sends the same message in a text. Using fuel to drive in circles in ridiculous so Shauna pulls to the curb and waits, noticing the houses around her for the first time. Adorable little houses with quite a bit of land all around and not a fence to be seen. “Huh,” she says, not realizing she said it out loud til she jumps at the sound. She laughs at herself and then continues aloud, “must not have dogs.”

There’s a pounding on her window that makes her scream before she turns and see’s Elise there all smiles. Shauna throws open the door, jumps out and hugs her friend. “I’m here,” she says, “I’m here.” When she pulls away she expects to find Elisa crying but she’s not. She’s still smiling, not only that, she has grasped Shauna’s hand in her own and is tugging her towards the house across the street.

“Come on! You have to come in and meet Frank!” Elise says.

“Wait, what? He’s here?” Shauna asks, stunned and pulling back on her hand, looking up and down the block for cars in driveways, or a postal carrier, or someone they could call upon if assistance were needed but finding the street empty, quiet, nothing but birds singing in the trees.

“Of course he’s here! I told him you’d be arriving sometime today so he took the day off to meet you. How long can you stay?” Elisa asked.

“Stay?” Shauna’s mouth dropped open and she ran her free hand across her face. What was going on? “What’s going on?” she asked, “I rushed out here because you said you needed me, I thought it was an emergency,” I haven’t slept more than two or three hours in days, I’ve had nothing but coffee and bags of chips, I’m filthy, exhausted, starving, and more than a little dehydrated, so you better tell me just what in the actual fuck is going on and quickly.”

Elise quirked an eyebrow, “I appreciate that you rushed, and I’m sorry if I scared you, but it turns out I just misunderstood. Everything’s fine. Everything’s great! I really want you to come inside, meet Frank, stay a few days. You can rest up here! I can feed you and we’ve got really good water, we’ll get you all fixed up super fast,” Elise finished with a smile.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

Everyone is always obsessed with whether or not they’re a good Catholic, but I don’t know that it really matters. You’re either a good person, or your not. That’s the key. It’s not about practicing your religion or donating to your church or attending midnight mass, it’s about waking up and being a good person. A good human. But maybe you shouldn’t listen to me, because I haven’t been a good human in years. That’s all going to change though. I woke up this morning and decided to be a good person. I also decided it wouldn’t hurt to go to church and see if maybe a little Latin, some genuflecting, and a confession would help me. It can’t hurt.

I decided to go to the closest church, because I want to get started on being a good person today immediately, so why not go to the closest church and get this show on the road. Man, this church, it’s really beautiful. The people who attend here and give their money, I can see why. There are tall spires on the outside, stained glass on the inside, stone floors. I don’t think anyone really builds like this anymore. It’s beautiful.

I remembered to stick my fingers in the water as I came in, crossed myself. I probably shouldn’t say “I remembered” because it’s more like I walked in and my fingers were wet and making the cross without my even noticing. A muscle memory mind of their own. The next thing I know I’m halfway down the aisle and sitting in a pew.

These are nice pews. I remember growing up and the pews were so hard I’d be grateful to stand up, bow down, kneel, stand up. But these pews are nice. These have cushions and not just those hard foam kind, these are real cushions covered in a some kind of soft material. Is it velvet? It might be velvet. Nice.

I don’t think there’s a homily today. It’s not Thursday or Sunday and I don’t see anyone around besides a little old grandma lady lighting candles over there by Mary. That’s a good looking Mary. You know, sometimes you see Mary and she’s not beautiful. She should be beautiful, why not? She’d have to be beautiful, who knocks up a thirteen year old kid? You’ve got to make her beautiful to make it all make more sense.

I may not be getting a sermon today, but I can see the confessional has a curtain open. That’s probably for the best, I need to show I really mean this whole change I’m making. I realize as I’m walking towards the claustrophobic box that this really is my chance to make good. I was an altar boy once and I can change. This is gonna be great. No more violence or shame, I’m starting over today.

I squeeze myself in and close the curtain. The little box smells like incense and sweat. Perfect. There’s no room to kneel in this thing so I lower my head and clasp my hands in front of chin. “Bless me father for I have sinned. My last confession was…twenty years ago or so.” And then it all came out. I blabbed for what felt like an hour, if it weren’t for the occasional “mmhmm” or “go on” from the priest I’d have thought he was asleep, although who could sleep through the dirt I was spewing. I finally came to the end and heard myself saying, “that’s all I can remember. I’m sorry for these and all my sins.”

And there was a moment there, right there, where I sighed on those words, where all the words had been spoken and I did feel good. I did feel lighter, more relaxed, ready to make good. I was shocked. I didn’t think it would work that good. But it did.

But then the priest gave me my penance.

I had to check with him again about what he’d just said, cause I couldn’t believe it. “Are you sure I’m not supposed to do some community service or something, Father,” I said. I mean, I just couldn’t believe this, what I was hearing, what I had to do. But he insisted. And I said, “but Father, that would be murder. It’s a sin, Father!” But he insisted. He kept telling me there was great evil in the world, and if I was sure I was ready to be forgiven, if I was sure I wanted to make good on all I’d done, the only way was to kill Tony Scarpone.

So I went home saying my Hail Mary’s. I made sure the place was clean and nice and I grabbed my gun. I figured a gun is the simplest option, it’s what I started with, so it seemed appropriate now. I double checked that everything was neat, that I’d said all my prayers, and I pulled the trigger on Tony Scarpone.

I thought the death would be more instant. I’m a good shot, I know I did it right. But it took a little longer than I’d thought. Couple minutes maybe before everything went totally dark. And it was as the light was fading, as I held as long as I could to the knowledge that I was helping to make the world a better place, that I realized the Father was right. Tony Scarpone was finally a good person.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here.

“You have arrived,” the robotic voice intoned.

“I thought we were going to Jodi’s house?” she said as they pulled up to a man standing under cover of trees. An otherwise unnoteworthy location in the forest along the highway.

“You put in the address! I have no idea where we are,” he said putting the truck in park and turning to look at her pointedly. She had a habit of getting them lost, hence the use of GPS.

“Should we ask him for directions?” she asked pointing towards the man who appeared to be waiting for them. Impossible.

“I think we should ask him not to skin us. Seriously, Amy, this is getting ridiculous. I thought you said you’ve been using the GPS?”

“Seriously, Adam,” she said snidely, mockingly, her eyes squinting and her arms crossing her chest, “I have been, and aside from the impossibly long time it takes to put in an address, the thing has been quite helpful. Now, in this instance, and forever whatever reason it is not,” sighing she dropped her arms and picked up the surprisingly heavy little machine. “Maybe there’s a typo in the street or something,” she said as she began to fiddle with it.

She startled as the knock upon the window sounded. A sharp sound in the small space of the cab. She’d made a surprised sound as she inhaled, a sound that drove Adam crazy, and she looked towards him apologetically, before rolling down the window.

“I’m sorry I had to rig your GPS,” the man said, “but this is urgent.”

Afraid to turn away from the man at her window, who was clearly insane, Any reached her hand across the seat towards Adam, clenching his hand when she found it. Perhaps if I speak calmly and smile he won’t kill us, she thought, plastering a smile on her face. “Are you lost?” she asked, looking for another vehicle and not finding one, “broken down somewhere?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not lost and neither are you. Again, apologies for rigging your GPS, but this is an urgent matter,” he looked Amy directly in the eyes and she saw that he wasn’t crazy, or at least didn’t seem to be, he was quite serious and confident. She reminded him a bit of an FBI agent in a movie she’d seen recently.

“I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood, you rigged my GPS?” she asked, “I didn’t, I mean, I don’t,” stumbling for the words she ultimately blurted, “how is that even possible?”

“Well, ma’am, you see, we’ve been trying to reach you about your vehicles extended warranty.”

Apologies to everyone who reads this. I’m so, so, so, so, SO sorry. This was terrible. It was. I know this. These prompts though…this is not my kind of writing, but I’m giving it my best…until today. This was not my best. But I hope I made you laugh. -sunday

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

My parents named me Blanca. We’re not Spanish or Mestizo or Latino or anything like that. We’re white. Like, super white. Like soooooo white. But people always ask, because my name. So I’ve learned a bit about the other cultures, a bit about the history of my name, this name that doesn’t feel like mine because I haven’t earned it. But it is mine. My name. Cause what else could I call myself? I mean, I guess I can change it when I’m eighteen or whatever, but like, it’s mine. My name. I was born and they named me and now it’s mine. I don’t even know what else I’d call myself, because my name is Blanca. I’m not a Sarah or a Jessica or a Tiffany or any other super white girl name that would be more appropriate. I’m Blanca.

Right, so the why, I’m sure you want to know why. Why in the world would two super white, ultra white, parents name their kid Blanca? Are they super woke? No. In fact, I’d argue that if they were woke they would have known better than to steal someone else’s culture. Def not woke, but I’m working on them. Still, the question: how did I end up with this name? First of all, and you may not know this because I didn’t know it til I started doing research around twelve years old, Blanca is also a French name. Like Blanche. Second of all, my parents are not French either, and the only other Blanca’s I’ve ever heard of have been Spanish speakers. So.

I’m Blanca cause when I was born it looked like I had no hair, or like that super fine and super light blonde hair that makes everyone call you a Toe Head, whatever that means, I mean, my toes aren’t blonde so whatever. Anyway, as may parents are cooing over their little blonde marvel (my mom’s a ginger and my dad’s a brunette so the odds were low) they realized that it wasn’t actually fine blonde hair on my head, but white. I was born with low melanin and therefore am what people refer to as albino.

When people realize I was born with white hair they’re always shocked. “I thought you just dyed it white cause of your name,” “why would anyone name their albino kid Blanca,” “wait, so it just stayed that way?” I’ve heard it all. Some of it is insulting, upsetting, rude. Some of it is just curiosity or lack of tact. I dunno. I try not to let it get to me. People are messed up, not just kids being mean to kids, but like adults really don’t know what the hell they say sometimes either.

So here I am, an albino chick with a Latin name and honestly, it’s all good. I wouldn’t change anything. I mean, I’m super lucky because really there are a lot of issues we people with albinism sometimes have like the obvious sunburn concerns and a higher risk for skin cancer, but more than that, stuff like blindness and racists. I lucked out and have really great vision, I mean I need glasses and all, but that could be just as much due to the fact that both of my parents needed Lasik as it is to the albinism. The major thing though is people. People can be assholes.

Did you know that people actually think I’m a witch? Seriously. That costume is out at Halloween, because people already believe it. Ridiculous. Or like, a ghost. Can you see how far back into my head my eyes are rolling right now? Cause oh my god, people think I’m a ghost. Not all people, obviously, but this is a sincere issue for us. I’m lucky in my small town though that everyone has been welcoming, at least outwardly anyway. I’ve lived here my whole life and no one has ever said anything mean or bad to me. It might have something to do with the fact that we’ve studied albinism in every grade I’ve ever been in, which I think is thanks to my parents being sure it was always included in our science curriculum, but I mean, I think people would have been cool without that too. Or I hope so anyway. I dunno.

I guess it just could be worse, and I’m pretty lucky, all things considered. My parents didn’t know what they were doing when they named me, but I don’t think any parents ever do. They did their best. And when they saw a little white haired baby they said, “I’ve always thought Blanca was the prettiest way of saying white.” So I know they think I’m pretty, and that helps. I think I’m pretty too. Not like in a stuck up way, but like a confident way. And that’s cool.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here

Her mom had always called it the “magic book,” and growing up it would appear anytime people were sick or stuck in bed for any reason. The magic book contained poetry, prose, recipes, incredibly simple but beautiful drawings of foxes and squirrels and toadstools. It was easy to believe it really was a magic book because just the sight of it would have her feeling better, the anticipation of a woodland story to take her mind off her ills.

All grown up now and still feeling very much a child, she’s going through all her parents things, it must be done, and it falls to her. It’s all just stuff. The smell of her childhood is no longer on these things, they just smell musty, unwashed, the clothes are easily bagged and given to the thrift store. With the exception of the occasional bowl or mug, the kitchen is swiftly dispatched to the thrift store as well. She ought to hold a garage sale but that would take too much out of her. The thrift store runs are smooth, and the furniture she can sell to an antique store that was more than willing to give her a price that included all of it except the books.

“No one buys books anymore,” she is told.

The antique store will be there tomorrow to pick everything up, so the books must be dealt with, the shelves must be empty, the drawers, the nightstands. She is digging through every title, every leather bound and cloth bound edition. Most are going into boxes for donation to the local library which, thankfully, is happy to have them for their upcoming book sale. An occasional volume is stacked near her purse, a book she’s always wanted to read but never taken the time, The Painted Veil, The Screwtape Letters, The Art of War.

She remembers the magic book before she ever finds it. Begins searching for it subconsciously, no longer stacking books near her purse but throwing every book that is not the magic book into boxes. Faster and faster they are tossed, she’s no longer reading titles or checking bindings. She can tell immediately that this book is not it, nor this one, and into the box they go. She’s becoming frantic but is unaware. Her face now contorted by panic, by need, by an overwhelming sadness at the loss of her mother, which is suddenly there with her. The loss.

She begins crying, a copy of Eudora Welty’s The Optimists Daughter in one hand. She has been delaying this. The crying. Not at first, the delaying, that is. At first there were no tears, this was the thing she’d known was coming, if the timing was a mystery. And now it’s happened and she’s here and suddenly there’s nothing to say, nothing more to do once the books are delivered and the furniture removed. The house will be sold by a realtor, the money forgotten in a bank account somewhere, perhaps coming in handy in the event of one of life’s unexpected turns. There’s nothing left to require her attention except the absence.

Surrounded by her grief, her tears having ruined the book in her hands, she stands, slowly, as the though the arthritis affecting her mother was now hers. She lets the book slip onto her pile as she passes her purse and heads towards the kitchen. A cup of tea ought to help, she thinks, as she takes her mug from this mornings coffee and fills it with water.

She is about to set the mug, now full of tap water and a tea bag, into the microwave when she becomes aware that the microwave isn’t quite flat. It has been set on something to boost it up higher in the cabinet, to allow the door to swing freely open. She places the mug on the counter and attempts to life the microwave with one hand, pulling the thing out from underneath it with the other.

And there it is. The book. The magic book. She feels she ought to laugh, to be surprised by this find, yet she’s sure the book was waiting for precisely this time to appear.

This #writethirtyminutes session was prompted very loosely from “A Year of Writing Prompts” by Writer’s Digest, available here