After a long time away from the keyboard, I am jumping back on the fiction train and for my come back I am treating my readers with two pieces.

February gave birth to a sensual and mysterious heroine called Dora. Find out her secret and how her oceanic presence keeps haunting a former lover. In March watch her swim in deep waters after a  betrayal.

 

You are sitting at the edge of the bed.  Her words Kalimera giatre – Good morning doctor  still resonating through your whole body.  Cold sweat running through your spine.  She is there in the opening of the door, staring at you. The alarm reads 4:55. Red figures flashing at you.  The exact hour when your crime was recorded.  Ackward silence.

You try to articulate an apology  but your lips remain sealed. Your throat tight. Vain the words.  Vain the excuses.  Deep the betrayal. Deep the humiliation.  Caught red-handed. 

She shuffles through the wooden floor. She is now standing in front of you. Pale. Her hair undone.  Your wild tigress with hazel eyes, ready to jump at you.  Eyes burning with rage.

‘ Your curiosity was stronger, right Michael . How does it feel now? Look at me and tell me how does it feel to know Michael.’  She grabs the purple box of pills and throws it at you.

‘Who I am to you now? One more patient?  One more lost soul?  Call your colleagues from the asylum in Athens and tell them they have a new patient on her way.’

 Her mouth is still foaming with rage, her words tearing the silence of dawn. Yet, you sense that her voice is getting shaky, lowering its intensity.  The fear of the trapped animal.

You are standing in front of her now. Reaching out to her, wanting to hold her.  She is pushing you back.

‘ Oh Michael I do not need your pity. ‘ Silence. She is staring at you with her lost eyes.

 ‘Now that you know… am I… am I still loveable to you?’  She breaks into tears. Surrendering.

You are both sitting on the floor at the bottom of the bed. You are holding her in your arms. Fragile. Still immensely beautiful in her vulnerability.  You are striking her hair, comforting her. 

‘Let me be Your Healing. Let me unchain you from your demons.’

And as you are whispering those words to her, you see yourself by your mother’s bed. You are eight. She did not come to wake you up that morning.  A tube of pills spread on the floor.  A bottle of whisky on the bedside table.  The innate knowing that she will not wake up anymore.  The innate knowing that pills do not fix broken souls and hurting bodies. And a promise. To Her, to yourself, that you will become a doctor. A doctor for the wounded souls.

The prompt created by yours truly was:

“The bud
stands for all things,
even for those things that don’t flower,
for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;
though sometimes it is necessary
to reteach a thing its loveliness,
to put a hand on its brow
of the flower
and retell it in words and in touch
it is lovely
until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;”

Inspired by this excerpt from Galway Kinnell’s poem “San Francis and the sow”, you will describe a situation where your character is remembered of her/his own beauty/talent/gift. Let your imagination and words flow this is your blossoming time too dear co-writers!

More fiction stories by my awesome co-writers:

Molly Field        Susanne’s World            Clearly Kristal

 

Your mother beats the hell out of you. This is what you want to write in your essay for Mother’s Day.  Two words written with white chalk on the blackboard:  ‘My mother... ‘ Fill in the blanks. You have one hour to finish. All the other children are already writing. The sound of their pencils on the paper pouring their words of love.  You are numb in front of your white page. You know you have to play smart. One more year. Again.  Pretend. So you close your eyes and in your child’s heart you send a prayer to La Macarena to inspire you this year. Again.

The previous years it was easier though. Even if you were numb in front of the white paper you could sneak over Rosa’s shoulder and just see what she was drawing for her mother. You would even turn round and get ideas from the neighboring desks. Hearts, flowers and shining suns this is what drawings for Mother’s Day are about.

Rosa is your best friend. Her mother’s dance studio is just below your bedroom. She teaches flamenco.  When they stomp you stomp. You stomp you stomp you stomp your rage. You stomp you stomp because you know you are innocent. You stomp and you pray La Macarena to make your skin harder so that you cannot feel pain anymore.

It is Rosa’s birthday party in her mother’s studio. You are wearing your new red shoes for the occasion.  Rosa’s mother inserts a tape in the stereo. Sevillanas. All the other little girls gather in groups of four . All the other little girls except you. You do not know sevillanas. Your mother does not send you to dance classes. You close your eyes and rise your hands in the air. You twist your wrists and unfold your fingers in the air and you start stomping. This is your dance.

Rosa’s mother is smiling at you. Her eyes are shining.She looks like the living portrait of La Macarena.

‘Who taught you that Teodora?’

Your child’s heart is pounding, you know deep in your soul that your answer will change your destiny.

‘The duende I think she got me. ’

You remember Rosa’s mother patting your head. A comforting touch that makes you shiver. And in the following days an unexpected miracle that you had not asked La Macarena for.  Once a week you will be attending flamenco classes.

Your mother beats the hell out of you but she works hard cleaning houses so that you can attend flamenco classes. Because Rosa’s mother said you have a gift. And in your child’s resilient heart when you do the maths it is all good and it is all fine you can put up with the pain and stomp stomp stomp it away.

The prompt created by Kelly DeBie was: May is the month to celebrating motherhood. Start this week’s post with the following:

“Your mother….”

 

 

More fiction stories by my co-writers:

Molly Field          World’s Worst Moms          DeBie Hive

Clearly Kristal        Susanne’s World