Tattoos

This post is a piece of fiction I created from a writing prompt over at Write On Edge. The prompt: "This week, we’d like you to write a piece in which a tattoo figures prominently. Fiction or creative non-fiction. There is a lot to think about: why someone would get one, what they chose, when they got it, what message does the tattoo(s) send? You will have 300 words with which to play."

  

Tattoos

 by Lynn Retzlaff

Hank was big, burly and rough looking. Mandy knew her mother didn’t approve of their relationship but she was in love with him and desperately wanted her mother’s approval. To better acquaint them, Mandy planned a special dinner. Beatrice was punctual as always and was not shy to show her disgust that Mandy’s boyfriend had not yet arrived.

“Please, Mother. He’ll be here. Let me pour you a glass of chardonnay to calm your nerves.”  Mandy suggested.

“I’ll take the chardonnay, but if it’s nerves you think are bothering me, you’re dead wrong young lady. It’s bad enough your boyfriend has those God-awful tattoos, but to be late to a dinner that was planned weeks ago? That’s just unacceptable!”

“He probably had to work late.” Mandy went about her business pulling the roast from the oven and covering the potatoes to keep them warm. Hank may be hard on the outside, but inside he was made of teddy bear stuffing. Her mom simply needed to get to know him better.

            Half past the hour Hank came barreling through the front door. “Sorry I’m late ladies!” he practically sang as he flopped into the head chair at the table.

            Beatrice had downed two glasses of wine while waiting and could no longer bite her tongue. “You should be sorry! You should be downright ashamed! Look at you showing up late when Mandy has put so much work into this dinner, and WHAT is with those tattoos!! One is bad enough but you look like a road-map gone dreadfully wrong!” She focused in on one particular tattoo on Hank’s upper right arm that had bothered her since their first encounter. “And who in the world is Desiree!!”

            “Desiree was my kitten when I was a boy. She died in a house fire...”

A piece of fiction

childhood calling

Living in the deepest darkest room of her mind kept the world from intruding. It was safe and it was the chosen spot. Magical thoughts permeated the walls of the room originating from her imagination bringing a kaleidoscope of color which she played with and danced in. Rocking... rocking... back and forth brought comfort and kept the light at bay. Light was the enemy. Sarah did not dare face the light for that's where the voices were. The voices she once loved.

There was a time, a vague memory when the voices felt good. Inviting. Happy. She remembers happiness. Barely.

Then came the darkness. It enveloped her. There was bad. The darkness hid the bad. It hid the good as well but she was willing to sacrifice the good to cover up the evil lurking.

After the darkness, the occasional voice permeated the walls of her room. They had changed.

"Come back to us Sarah. We love you." said the voice who called itself mother.

"What's wrong with her? Why does she act so strange?" said the voice of brother.

Sarah knew that the voices lurked. She felt them trying to penetrate the walls of safety.

But the darkness moved over her like a cloak and she dove deep inside. Deep, deep in her mind where she had control. She found a safe place to rest. The room so deep and dark. Refuge. She has lived there a very long time now. Pulling magic and imagination in. Her own little world safe from the outside. It was lonely at times. It was then that she would turn to face a corner and begin to rock. Movement. Constant. Rocking, rocking, gently swaying. Reliable, secure, safe rocking.

Until one day. A noise. It was a most peculiar noise. Sarah would normally block all noise. The least little bit to make it to her dark place was rejected and expelled back to the life she no longer embraced. This noise was different. It was soft, gentle, angelic in nature. Almost as if it were singing to her soul. She had to strain to hear. She wanted more.

Leaving the dark room she slowly, suspiciously worked her conscious mind back through the path that led to her safe spot. It had been a long time. She wasn't sure if she would find her way. But that noise. That lovely noise.

"Follow the noise" she told herself. "It will lead you back. You must find what is making that beautiful sound. Capture it and bring it back."

She moved her body across the room to the open window. She turned her face toward the light for the first time in years. Glancing through her eyes at the world around her ever so briefly, the first sight she caught was the glistening of the dew on the morning lawn. The water shimmered so close to the beauty from her imaginary world she almost felt safe. Once again she forced herself to see. She looked up. That's when she saw...

I am leaving this piece of writing open for your interpretation. I'm not sure where it came from or why. It seems to be a combination of a memoir I am reading combined with recent happenings in my life all crashing together to form this fictional tidbit. 

The photo does not necessarily represent the story. I took it at the park last evening and fell in love with it. I'm calling it "Childhood Calling". It is unedited, though I may play with it at a later date.

Good Things Come In Two's

 -1-

I would like to introduce you to my daughter's blog. She is seven years old and itching to share her art with the world. I have shared some of her pieces (along with her brothers) over the years and now she has a place to call her own. A place for her to express, to inspire, to feel proud. I know she would be tickled to have some followers (besides her mother).  Introducing...

Paper Magic Maker

-2-

I love to write, rarely share, and never delve in fiction. My normal genre for reading and writing is non-fiction or poetry. Lately I have been back in the saddle of devouring fiction books and studying the art of fiction writing. Writing is something I have been in love with since I first put pencil to paper. It is also something I don't allow myself the time to do. From this day forward, I vow to allow myself time to write and the freedom to share.

I joined two amazing blogs to help me gain confidence, knowledge and practice in the art of writing. The blogs are The Magpie's Pen and The Red Dress Club. I am sharing a piece of my writing below. The prompt was given by The Red Dress Club and will be revealed in green at the end of the piece. Thanks for reading!

p.s. the piece is currently untitled.

 untitled

I can’t believe I made it to Friday. Getting through the past week has been a nightmare. Attending the funeral of my best friend last Saturday was the hardest thing I have done in my life. Cassie was young and beautiful and always so full of life. She was one of those free spirits who floated effortlessly through life. How could such a vibrant and inspiring young person be taken out so prematurely? It left me pondering some of life’s biggest questions.

What is the purpose of life? If Cassie, who was always helping people and had such a promising future could be taken out of the game of life so early, why am I still here? My life is boring, simple, monotonous. The parts that Cassie didn’t touch, that is.

How can life be so fragile? Cassie was here one minute larger than life, then gone in a mere instant, reduced to meager memories.

Perhaps the biggest question of all, how could anyone possibly think her fall from the window of her art studio be anything but an accident? Suicide? Cassie? No way! That’s the way the report was written and that’s the way it was confirmed. Suicide. Death by intentional fall.

The funeral was beautiful. Her favorite flower was lily-of-the-valley and the funeral parlor had placed gorgeous potted arrangements and cut flower bouquets everywhere. As loved ones walked in they were given a single sprig of lily-of-the-valley with a white satin ribbon tied around the stem. Encouragement was given to go up to a mic at the front of the visitation room and share memories of Cassie. The casket was closed due to the nature of her demise.

I had known Cassie for fifteen years. We met in fourth grade when she moved to our tiny Minnesota town from the warm and glamorous Los Angeles. She walked into the classroom so sure of herself. Not an ounce of fear in her. She was dark haired, sun tanned and had the most stylish clothes. Everyone in the classroom was whispering and pointing but Cassie just walked in, head held high, bright smile on her face and sat confidently in the only available chair, which as fate would have it  was directly in front of me.

Fifteen years of friendship. Fifteen years of girlish boy crushes and shared secrets to the more adult experiences of college and career. How could she be gone? More importantly, how was I supposed to function without her? She was the one who gave me confidence. She was the one who taught me to dream, to live life to the fullest. For the past week I have been left to wallow in loss and self-pity.  

This afternoon I arrived home from work and trudged out to the mailbox to retrieve today’s mail, most likely consisting of bills and junk mail. As I pulled the mail out of the box, I grabbed at the post the box is perched upon to keep from falling over. There was a pink postcard at the top of the stack of mail. It was addressed to me in curly, fancy writing. The “i”’s were topped with little hearts where dots were normally placed. There is only one person in my life with such happy and artistic penmanship. Cassie.

How could it be? Perhaps the suicide theory was correct as stated and this was her last goodbye. The card must have been lost in the mail. How else would it have taken so long to travel across town?

After gaining my balance and my emotional footing I flipped the postcard over. The back contained one simple sentence. “I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.”

Overwhelmed with happiness I fled as fast as my stocky legs could carry me and burst through the front door heading straight to the counter to snatch up my purse and keys. I gleefully patted my cat Charlie on the head, slammed the front door and hopped into my VW bug. Reminding myself to drive the speed limit, I headed to the pizzeria.

Could it be? Could it really be? Cassie is alive? Boy does she have some major explaining to do!

Prompt: One week after attending the funeral of a close friend, you receive a postcard in the mail with the words, 'I'm not dead. Meet me tonight at Guido's Pizzeria. Tell no one.'