What a great definition of story-telling. Some stories are yelled out the window, some chanted in rhythm with footsteps, some spread out over a rolling pin, some whispered into the downstairs bathroom.
I love the cycle of this relationship, Mary--the riding into the sunset and coming back, the tracking down, the sleeping in the car in the driveway...and the "I thought about thinking about you." Wow.
This was a great prompt, and I liked your take on it. But more important - and since I'm a not clear on how to find past conversations on substack I'm putting it here - I wanted you (and everyone else) to know how much fun I had reading your book! The characters are so real, and the situations they're going through - particularly the women, and not just Julia - rang true. I loved the moments when you stepped out of the story and added the Relationship Tests. Thanks for letting us know to search for it - I highly recommend to all.
We stood beside the sea. I explained the tides so many times.
Low tide and high tide work by the moon and also somewhat by the sun.
What?
The water stays the same like this big egg shape, from space, see, covering the earth.
You said OK.
And the earth turns through the big egg shape of water, see. Like this, and I drew it in the sand with a stick.
Now, here, I said, is where high tide is, and then later it’s low. And there are neap tides and spring tides, and an incoming tide is the flood and the outgoing tide is the ebb and in between it’s slack water.
I’ve heard a rising tide floats all boats, you said.
I said here on this Pacific Coast we have mixed diurnal tides.
You said now you’re showing off.
Mixed diurnal tides means one low tide follows two high tides in one day.
You said you didn’t see how these mixed diurnal tides squared with the egg shaped water. There must be two eggs, you said.
I said it’s complicated.
You said you mean I’m not smart enough to understand it.
I didn’t say that.
But you meant it, you said, hands on hips.
I said let’s just go for a boat ride and everything will make sense.
That boat has a bed, are you kidding?
The bed has absolutely nothing to do with the tide, which goes in and out.
That’s what I mean. I don’t like the ocean anymore.
I said let’s go to the desert then. It’s not that far, and the desert stays still.
It’s hot there, you said.
I said the desert doesn’t rock the boat.
You said snakes and big spiders live in the desert. I don’t think so.
Where do you want to go then?
I’m thinking this isn’t working out. I just want to get my hair done.
Your hair looks great right now
Now you’re revealing the clueless side of yourself.
I’ll read a magazine while I’m waiting.
You wouldn’t really read a magazine in the hair salon. You’d pretend to but really you’d be watching the women.
I don’t know how you can say that.
Yeah, well you think the tides are complicated, you just wait.
Basically, it’s all just another word for love, I said.
Oh, I see. Well buster, maybe you got something there.
Here's a link to my Substack. todcheney.substack.com. I started it about a year and half ago and have been posting once a week since. Thanks for the opportunity to mention this Mary.
What a story! Really wonderful, Tod. And I implore you people to check out Tod's substack where he is writing a marvelous story right now (among other things). You can catch up by heading to his archive.
Our friends said we would never make it. You said they were wrong. I said, “We’ll see.” And so, we embarked on our shaky journey.
I picked you up in my old Civic outside the house you shared with five others. You carried a backpack and a toaster oven. I said, “Why the oven?” You said, “My mother gave it to me.”
As for me, I had a jacket, a blanket, and one pillow. You said, “Why one pillow?” I said, “Because I don’t own two.”
Around midnight, we came to Weed, California. Passing under the “Weed Like to Welcome You” sign, you said, “I like this town. Slow down so we can find a place to pull over and sleep.” I sped up. Ten minutes later, we sat on the side of the road, a cop shining his flashlight into the car. He said, “Why the toaster oven?” You said, “Because my mother gave it to me.” He said, “Yeah, right.” Then he yelled at us in a sort of half-hearted way before sending us on. I said, “He feels sorry for us because he thinks we won’t make it.” You said, “Oh we will.” I said, “Maybe.”
Ten miles on, we came to a rest stop. We shared the blanket, but I kept the pillow to myself.
The next day, we rolled into Fresno. We found your friend, as promised, at the zoo next to an animatronic T-Rex. You handed him the oven. He handed you a tin of cookies, saying “My mother wants you to have these.”
Heading home, we again passed beneath the “Weed Like to Welcome You” sign. This time, we stopped at the Subway. As we sat eating our lunch, the cop came in. He walked over and said, “I was just looking at your car again. What happened to the oven?” You said, “Turned out it was broken. Must’ve been why my mother gave it to me.” Then he said, “And why just one pillow?” I said, “Because I don’t own two.” He gave me the stink eye and walked away.
Leaving Weed, I said, “I don’t think he feels sorry for us anymore.” You said, “See we did make it.” I said, “Time will tell. I’m more optimistic, but we still have another 500 miles to go.” You said, “Well, at least we have cookies.”
I looked it up and Weed has a population in 2020 of 2,862. So that cop must have plenty of time on his hands to wonder about a toaster oven and a pillow. He probably practices the stink eye when there's no other action in town. And who was that friend in Fresno?
Weed is named after its founder Abner Weed who reportedly discovered that the area's high winds were good for drying lumber. Perhaps the love of puns was engendered during the long hours spent stuck inside avoiding those same winds? The oven and the cookie tin - well, the statute of limitations hasn't run yet, so the truth must remain unsaid.
I am large. You are tiny, too tiny to see. But I know you’re there, swimming and swimming. I can’t keep anything down. All I have to do is think about food and I’m bent over double. You don’t have to think about food, or in fact about anything, which must be pleasant, I think.
We grow. You grow at an astonishing, exponential rate. I have to stop buttoning my jeans. I begin to feel as if I’ve been hijacked by a passenger. Even though I invited you for the ride, I find it terrifying to know that you’re the one steering the car.
You begin to kick your little frog feet as you swim. Sometimes I see their outlines distorting the shape of my belly. I push against them and you swim back the other way. I wish we could get on the same schedule; your favorite swim time is at my bedtime.
Now I can’t get enough to eat. All food tastes good, and the more of it, the better. I’m giving it all to you – when I look in the mirror, my face and arms are thinner than they were, but I have to start wearing roomy clothing. You still don’t have to wear anything at all.
My fear begins to ebb, and one day it’s gone altogether. In its place are energy, peace, and joy. I’ve never felt so buoyant, so confident. “You’re glowing,” people tell me. You, too, seem to have gained a new confidence as your kicks feel more purposeful.
We grow still larger. You’ve gotten heavy for me to carry around, and you don’t have much room to kick or swim anymore. I’m stretched tight around you, and it doesn’t feel like I can grow any further. When I lie down, there is no comfortable position. I wish you would stop sitting on my bladder.
What are you thinking? I wonder. Are you ready for new adventures? One day, you give an enormous kick, and the water you’ve been swimming in drains out. My body starts pushing you out, too. You try to hold on, but there’s no resisting the force that’s driving you. You’re the passenger now.
This is the hardest part for both of us, but we’ll both forget how it feels. At last it’s over, the cord is cut, and here we are, two separate people.
What a great pregnancy metaphor: "Even though I invited you for the ride, I find it terrifying to know that you’re the one steering the car." I will remember it!
You wanted to get another dog. I didn’t. You kept googling breeders and showing me puppies. I feigned interest.
Then you got sick. We went to your doctor appointment together. They scheduled the surgery a week later.
Before they wheeled you in to the OR, you were nervous. I was scared. I told you if everything turned out okay we’d get that puppy you wanted. You lit up and smiled. “Do you Promise?” you said. I nodded. I figured you would not remember the conversation due to the anesthesia.
Everything went great. You were fine. I was relieved. Then the day you came home you started googling puppies again.
We went to look at rescue dogs at the shelter. But you had your heart set on a Corgi. You heard about a local breeder that had a litter available. I agreed to go look because, well, puppies! But they were all spoken for. The breeder put your name on a list and promised to call when the next batch arrived in about a year. That seemed to stem your sense of urgency.
We fell back into our day to day routine. I went away to France on a work trip. You texted me that you would to pick me up at the airport when I came back. I was suspicious. You never picked me up at the airport. I always schlepped it home on the Airport shuttle bus.
You met me at the curb and put my bag in the trunk. In the car you introduced me to the new puppy. The breeder had a buyer drop out and offered you the dog. You said you did not call or consult me given the circumstances and the time difference. You named the Corgi Olivia.
We meet at the dog park. You and Olivia are so happy. I tell you I found a place. I’ll be picking up the rest of my belongings soon. You don’t hear me. You are busy chasing after your new love.
You whisper, it's barely discernible, but I'm encouraged to look in your direction. You are slight, dressed in a modest shift. The tunic is white with delicate bronze threading. You gesture to your basket and the patterned leather belts and soft to the touch handkerchiefs. And then you indicate little purses, silky as an infant's palm; pearl bangles set in gold and rhodium and scented candles, hints of coconut and lime. Each of these things has a unique charm.
I spot the box, almost out of sight. I pick it up and caress the delicate carving. The sandalwood is exquisite, satiny to the touch. The box clicks open with a robust spring and closes neatly, as well-made as it is finely worked.
Proud of your merchandise, you respond to my interest with an artless smile.
I think of the child. She had been so different from the others. Those four cubs had been eager, irrepressible, demanding. She, a late arrival, was none of those things. Early timidity, so unfamiliar, gave way to shyness and then to her need for closeness and for comfort. That reliance was never unwelcome rather an appreciated confirmation of trust. A trust which sent out warmth and prompted a longing to respond. It hardly seems possible but did she have an inkling? No, these are simply the musings of an old man full of questions, full of regrets, full of pain.
You brush a fly from the white shift with the bronze stitching and tell me about the box.
I think about the child, never bored, always happy with her secret things – seashells, scraps of velvet, pressed flowers, old postcards – and know she would have loved this as a chest for her treasures. I ask the price.
You look sad as you tell me, '40 US dollars'. It's easy to say the price, but you baulk at expressing the real value, are content to say, 'I use it myself for silly keepsakes.'
I ask you to wrap the box. You do that slowly with a reluctance unusual in a vendor. When you're finished you give me the package.
I hold it in my hand for a moment. I take the photograph of the child from my wallet. I show it to you and return the package.
'A gift from a child whom I'm sure would have been your friend.'
I’d imagined the huge railway station in Mumbai but… once you pass the words to the reader it’s theirs to make of it what they want. Next time I read this I’m going to think of Scarborough Fair 👏
Since it's Substack time here, and I haven't got one...
I've been threatening myself for weeks with starting one up, and it's now time I got on with it. I'll serialize my long-revised novel, a chapter a week, along with other posts on another day. At least, I can make a start with the novel, and see how it goes for the rest.
I had expectations. That you would support me, emotionally
You had expectations, that supporting me emotionally was all I’d ever ask of you
I drank you, snorted you, shot you into my veins
We fought about everything you weren’t doing
You wanted to leave
No!
I’d scream apologies until you forgave me
clutched at your jacket
bought you a cashmere sweater,
I bought you a guitar
You had once mentioned wanting to learn to play
You looked at it like it was Office furniture
You proffered sex so I would feel loved
I stayed sober I went to therapy
I stopped paying for your car
I stopped apologizing
I stopped buying you sweaters when I felt your attraction waning
You became quiet
I found you sitting in the guest room weeping
What is it? What is it?
You waited until we were in my therapist’s office to tell me
Wait
You waited until we had already gone two rounds of IVF before explaining to me in a very calm tone that you were not interested in having children nor in continuing our relationship
And somehow you made it seem Like you were the Victim in All This!
I cried my guts out. You left the office. The therapist didn’t know what to do with me
She had someone waiting in the other room. The room with the white noise machine which wasn’t loud enough to drown out my keening.
You wanted to stay in our home until you found another place
I threw you out
Threw out your clothes
Your guitar
Your meditation pillow
I hated you. I had to. It was the only way I could be free
You had gotten sober before me
We met in AA
But you started drinking again because what was a little red wine to a Heroin user?
oh my god this is intense, i read it holding my breath all the way through. "I hated you. I had to. It was the only way I could be free." Oh, man, do I get that one.
I could tell the house was haunted. Just from the drawing in your sketchbook. The sketchbook I found at my feet after you scrambled out the door to meet your friends on the patio. I was sitting at a long table in the brewpub with two of my team members. Partners in crime, we called ourselves. I was perusing the menu under the glaring neon red “Old Stove” sign, with one eye on the leggy blonde at the end of our table when you arrested my attention by pitching yourself into my lap. A wave of beer sloshed onto the table. “Oh my God! Oh, fuck!” Your first words to me. Cheers and wolf whistles from the guys at the next table. A pair of emerald green eyes, a tumble of auburn curls and a sprinkling of freckles across a nose nearly squashing my own as you disentangled yourself and stood up. The culprit in this crime–the strap of your bag–hung on a nearby chair, the bag’s contents scattered across the room. Some guy at the next table held up a book. “The Once and Future Witches?” he called out. “You a witch?” he asked. Your eyes narrowed and your face flamed as you reached for it. A fistful of cosmetics appeared at my elbow. Someone called “Here’s your eyeliner!” You smiled your thanks them both. I spied pencils, pens, and a toothbrush scattered under my table. We dove under the table, you in pursuit of a package of tampons, and banged heads. Stood up laughing. Who knew a night at the pub could be a contact sport?
I watched you escape and begin telling your friends about our encounter until my buddies asked me if I planned to sit down again. That’s when I found the sketchbook and opened it. Shamelessly. Your name on the first page. And on the second page: A Vintage, three-story house, surrounded by trees, a pathway leading from a wooden garden gate to the front steps. A face–pale, with overlarge dark eyes–peering from a third story window. The caption: “Paulina watches me sketch the house.”
I placed the sketchbook beside me on the table. Waited until your friends and mine were gone.
You were sipping the last of your beer when I stepped outside with your sketchbook.
Mary, I love the readings! My Substack is a collection of stuff I have written in response to your stellar and engaging prompts and a few are pieces I've submitted to the London Writers Magazine contest that is just finishing up. If you click on my little photo, you can check them out. I've been challenged and I keep on learning about writing from both experiences. The piece I have submitted today is going to be in third person close POV --one small scene from my current WIP.
I hated my childhood pony, his mean streak and smelly coat. You posed on a pony on a New York City sidewalk with your official cowboy hat, looking as if you were on patrol.
I like cups and glasses, pretend my kitchen table is a café when I drink my morning coffee, alone. You drink milk from the carton, standing at the open refrigerator door bathed in its yellow frigid light.
You are compelled to listen to the long-haired women with their toned arms and jewel bright outfits repeat the same old story at half hour intervals. I hate their makeup and their smiles, as if the truth comes packaged pretty.
I’m afraid to eat out at restaurants, afraid the diners will think I’m a loser who can’t get someone to eat with her. You love to eat alone and stare at all the other diners as if you were a drug enforcement officer and they were hiding contraband beneath their napkins.
I am not as self-sufficient as you thought. You are not as self-sufficient as you pretend to be.
I told you my worst secret and you forgot it. You told me your worst secret, then tucked it in my breast pocket like a receipt for something you would never return.
I never lock the door. You like knowing you have a gun in the drawer.
Wow, Christine. I love these two characters! Especially the contrasting styles of eating out alone in a restaurant. But then the realization that one is not as they pretend to be. So well done! about eating out alone in a res
I'm waiting for the beat to kick in (aka inspiration for today's prompt; and what's with the musical sub-prompts, third week in a row!), but in the meantime:
Thinking I might need something to do on Mondays soon, I've started a stack of my own: *Stories I Tell Myself.* We'll have games, puzzles, goofy lyric competitions, recipes, tidbits and flimflams, deep discussions of important topics, and stories. Probably just stories and story adjacents, to be honest. The first couple started life here on What Now, so, thanks, Mary!
And here's something I just read yesterday, somewhat along the lines of today's prompt. It's an old story, almost 100 years old, in fact. Here We Are, by Dorothy Parker.
My Substack has a lot to do with book bans. I was a high school teacher librarian for decades. I bought, book-talked, and encouraged teens to read so many of the books on ban lists right now. So—I write about why those books belong, from the POV of a foot soldier. Anyone interested or worried about the censorship might enjoy “Be a Cactus.” Https://VictoriaWaddle.substack.com
Mary, I am writing a post about my mom because the anniversary of her death is this coming Sunday. So—more creative nonfiction than fiction. I’ve tried three drabbles and changed one of them into a poem that is more than 100 words. Figuring out if the ‘you-I’ format is the best. Your prompt last week also made me think of the last time I saw my mother (again, nonfiction). So thanks for these prompts. Here’s one go at ‘you-I’ with my mom:
Where did your consciousness go? I call you
from every corner of the room. Some days
you identify me. My daughter.
I can see this is a win for you, but the home
care nurse presses. What’s her name?
You pull many from memory, none of them mine.
Rosemary is a favorite. Finally it is simply
you watching me watching you, suspicious
of my presence. Where
did your consciousness go? I imagine it
hanging out at a single’s bar, bourbon and cigarette, waiting
So beautiful and moving, Victoria. Note to everyone: Victoria's substack is incredibly written and researched, week after week. She is providing an amazing service to anyone who cares about the recent and horrifying book bans occurring in this country. Go take a look!
Sorry, it's so hard to understand how this can be done so openly.
Here in the UK, I am not aware of this being a thing any more at all. Of course, there are other ways to silence voices, some outright, some historical, some subtle, all insidious.
But to have books banned so openly. That must feel terrifying?
It does—in the U.S., particular states are really going at it. Utah is banning books statewide from public school. (Usually book selection is a local, school district issue.) Other states going wild with banning are Florida, Texas and Iowa.
Proud of myself for publishing every week for over a year an essay about reading, writing and real life. This week I took on Sally Rooney‘s latest novel called Intermezzo. It’s at christinebeck.substack.com.
We met at a gate. You were going one way, I was going the other.
I tried to untie the knot in the rope that fastened the gate closed. You waited patiently. My fingers started to shake with embarrassment. You thought it was frustration, I felt, which made my fingers even worse.
You touched my hand.
“It’s ok,” you said, “thanks though.”
You climbed the gate, swung your leg easily, and dropped onto my side.
“See you!” You shrugged and walked down the lane.
I watched you go. You picked something from the hedgerow and popped it in your mouth. You crouched to examine something in the long grass. You ran your hands through your hair, and tied it expertly without even looking.
I climbed the gate myself and continued on my way. I could still feel your touch on my fingers.
You were with me for the rest of my journey. You were with me as I drummed my fingers on the armrest of my chair at home. You were with me when I turned out the light.
You were with me when I woke. You were with me as I tied my boots. You were with me all the way to the gate. I crouched to examine something in the long grass. I reached up and plucked a berry from the hedgerow.
You did not come to the gate that day. You did not come to the gate the next day. I picked berries until the berries were gone. The longer grasses browned.
One day the gate was open, the rope hung loose, the ends were still knotted but the rope was roughly cut.
“Did you do this?”
The farmer grabbed at the frayed rope ends.
“You shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you,” he said, just like my grandmother used to say. I understood now, why she said it.
I reached down into the longer grass, cupped my hand and came away with a small, green frog. Its underbelly pushed in and out, but he seemed happy to be held.
I understood my grandmother’s instruction, now, for what it had really been. I took off my hat, turned it upside down, placed the frog in there with some grasses and took it home to over-winter.
No substack or anything, and no publications, but I would like to say that this has been the most wonderful year. Thank you all of you, I have loved reading the stories, reading the comments, thinking anew, and being part of something. And thank you Mary for giving us all this wonderful gift.
You thought my shirt was lavender and I thought it was blue. Twenty years later we both came to understand I'm color blind. I remember you said what a nice lavender shirt and I thought, no its blue and I have a closet full of them. I got them on sale for my new job. And so it went, you thinking lavender and me thinking blue for I don't know how long, but you do. Because it's not just that I'm color blind, I'm also self absorbed and forgetful and full of big ideas about myself. And you think its too late and I never do. I believe there are some things you can change and some things you can't. You think none of it can be changed. And we will just have to wait another twenty years to find out.
Here's my story that was recently selected for the Elder Voices Anthology to be published in early 2025 by the Palliative Care Institute at Western Washington University.
Love the color-blind story. And yes, everyone--go check out Charlie's substack where he posts pieces from his memoir-in-progress. He's had a super interesting life and done all kinds of things I've never done! Also, congrats Charlie on the story publication!
I think of them as different colors, though they probably fall in the same color family. But definitely different shades and people who are not color blind can see the difference without a problem.
Thanks for your reply, Niall. I think I was trying to say that people see things differently and that there is no way to tell if the color I’m seeing is exactly like the the color you’re seeing, which is interesting to me, if not a bit perplexing.
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"I liked to yell out the window."
What a great definition of story-telling. Some stories are yelled out the window, some chanted in rhythm with footsteps, some spread out over a rolling pin, some whispered into the downstairs bathroom.
Yes...and so many of the really good ones are whispered into that bathroom!
Well put, Niall!
You loved alcohol coffee and me, in that order. That could be the title of this piece!
My favourite line as well... :)
"a floor wasn’t clean if you didn’t clean it"
Nuts.
Who'da thought? And yet....
The affection and the contradictions and the personalities are so well written. Interesting how 'you' is doing all the pursuing and tracking down.
oh, yes, I see that now. I love thinking about that--thanks for pointing it out.
I like how that energy is counter to the precision of the character (the clean shirt; the clean floor).
I love the cycle of this relationship, Mary--the riding into the sunset and coming back, the tracking down, the sleeping in the car in the driveway...and the "I thought about thinking about you." Wow.
Thank you, Angela!
And oh, that wistful life, that clean unclean floor, and more.
This was a great prompt, and I liked your take on it. But more important - and since I'm a not clear on how to find past conversations on substack I'm putting it here - I wanted you (and everyone else) to know how much fun I had reading your book! The characters are so real, and the situations they're going through - particularly the women, and not just Julia - rang true. I loved the moments when you stepped out of the story and added the Relationship Tests. Thanks for letting us know to search for it - I highly recommend to all.
Thanks so much, Janet. That means a lot to me. So very sweet to hear.
A snapshot in time. Love.
Also this prompt is so fabulous. I could apply it to every relationship Ive had or am having
Thanks, Dinah! And yes--it's a really good prompt. I'm going to try it a few times and see what comes up.
I loved the pace of this story, the turns of phrase, and the final sentence ‘always on duty’. Terrific!
Thanks so much, Terry.
Beautiful. " You loved alcohol, coffee and me, in that order." :)
We stood beside the sea. I explained the tides so many times.
Low tide and high tide work by the moon and also somewhat by the sun.
What?
The water stays the same like this big egg shape, from space, see, covering the earth.
You said OK.
And the earth turns through the big egg shape of water, see. Like this, and I drew it in the sand with a stick.
Now, here, I said, is where high tide is, and then later it’s low. And there are neap tides and spring tides, and an incoming tide is the flood and the outgoing tide is the ebb and in between it’s slack water.
I’ve heard a rising tide floats all boats, you said.
I said here on this Pacific Coast we have mixed diurnal tides.
You said now you’re showing off.
Mixed diurnal tides means one low tide follows two high tides in one day.
You said you didn’t see how these mixed diurnal tides squared with the egg shaped water. There must be two eggs, you said.
I said it’s complicated.
You said you mean I’m not smart enough to understand it.
I didn’t say that.
But you meant it, you said, hands on hips.
I said let’s just go for a boat ride and everything will make sense.
That boat has a bed, are you kidding?
The bed has absolutely nothing to do with the tide, which goes in and out.
That’s what I mean. I don’t like the ocean anymore.
I said let’s go to the desert then. It’s not that far, and the desert stays still.
It’s hot there, you said.
I said the desert doesn’t rock the boat.
You said snakes and big spiders live in the desert. I don’t think so.
Where do you want to go then?
I’m thinking this isn’t working out. I just want to get my hair done.
Your hair looks great right now
Now you’re revealing the clueless side of yourself.
I’ll read a magazine while I’m waiting.
You wouldn’t really read a magazine in the hair salon. You’d pretend to but really you’d be watching the women.
I don’t know how you can say that.
Yeah, well you think the tides are complicated, you just wait.
Basically, it’s all just another word for love, I said.
Oh, I see. Well buster, maybe you got something there.
Here's a link to my Substack. todcheney.substack.com. I started it about a year and half ago and have been posting once a week since. Thanks for the opportunity to mention this Mary.
What a story! Really wonderful, Tod. And I implore you people to check out Tod's substack where he is writing a marvelous story right now (among other things). You can catch up by heading to his archive.
Thank you, Mary.
Tod, the disquisition about tides is delicious. And then the turn to the desert! But the hair salon? That’s what got me. Well done!
"Yeah, well you think the tides are complicated"
Love this
"The bed has nothing to do with the tide..." I love this piece, Tod!
Dare I say you mansplained? But that's ok, it was all for love!
Fatal omission, apparently. I forgot to have Her ask the question.
clueless, she says you are clueless....makes me laugh
A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do.
john you are a hoot!
Our friends said we would never make it. You said they were wrong. I said, “We’ll see.” And so, we embarked on our shaky journey.
I picked you up in my old Civic outside the house you shared with five others. You carried a backpack and a toaster oven. I said, “Why the oven?” You said, “My mother gave it to me.”
As for me, I had a jacket, a blanket, and one pillow. You said, “Why one pillow?” I said, “Because I don’t own two.”
Around midnight, we came to Weed, California. Passing under the “Weed Like to Welcome You” sign, you said, “I like this town. Slow down so we can find a place to pull over and sleep.” I sped up. Ten minutes later, we sat on the side of the road, a cop shining his flashlight into the car. He said, “Why the toaster oven?” You said, “Because my mother gave it to me.” He said, “Yeah, right.” Then he yelled at us in a sort of half-hearted way before sending us on. I said, “He feels sorry for us because he thinks we won’t make it.” You said, “Oh we will.” I said, “Maybe.”
Ten miles on, we came to a rest stop. We shared the blanket, but I kept the pillow to myself.
The next day, we rolled into Fresno. We found your friend, as promised, at the zoo next to an animatronic T-Rex. You handed him the oven. He handed you a tin of cookies, saying “My mother wants you to have these.”
Heading home, we again passed beneath the “Weed Like to Welcome You” sign. This time, we stopped at the Subway. As we sat eating our lunch, the cop came in. He walked over and said, “I was just looking at your car again. What happened to the oven?” You said, “Turned out it was broken. Must’ve been why my mother gave it to me.” Then he said, “And why just one pillow?” I said, “Because I don’t own two.” He gave me the stink eye and walked away.
Leaving Weed, I said, “I don’t think he feels sorry for us anymore.” You said, “See we did make it.” I said, “Time will tell. I’m more optimistic, but we still have another 500 miles to go.” You said, “Well, at least we have cookies.”
Sweet little circular story!
I looked it up and Weed has a population in 2020 of 2,862. So that cop must have plenty of time on his hands to wonder about a toaster oven and a pillow. He probably practices the stink eye when there's no other action in town. And who was that friend in Fresno?
I love the "We'll see" beginning and the "Time will tell" equivocation of at the beginning and the end of this!
Sounds like a pretty fun relationship to me. Hope they make it.
Love the pillow line, and the way so many details come back around.
I loved that pillow line, so I was happy to see it back!
Great way to start a story: You said they were wrong. I said, “We’ll see.”
But, but, what was in the oven? And the cookie tin? And why did they call their town Weed and make crappy puns about it?
So many mysteries.
Weed is named after its founder Abner Weed who reportedly discovered that the area's high winds were good for drying lumber. Perhaps the love of puns was engendered during the long hours spent stuck inside avoiding those same winds? The oven and the cookie tin - well, the statute of limitations hasn't run yet, so the truth must remain unsaid.
I am large. You are tiny, too tiny to see. But I know you’re there, swimming and swimming. I can’t keep anything down. All I have to do is think about food and I’m bent over double. You don’t have to think about food, or in fact about anything, which must be pleasant, I think.
We grow. You grow at an astonishing, exponential rate. I have to stop buttoning my jeans. I begin to feel as if I’ve been hijacked by a passenger. Even though I invited you for the ride, I find it terrifying to know that you’re the one steering the car.
You begin to kick your little frog feet as you swim. Sometimes I see their outlines distorting the shape of my belly. I push against them and you swim back the other way. I wish we could get on the same schedule; your favorite swim time is at my bedtime.
Now I can’t get enough to eat. All food tastes good, and the more of it, the better. I’m giving it all to you – when I look in the mirror, my face and arms are thinner than they were, but I have to start wearing roomy clothing. You still don’t have to wear anything at all.
My fear begins to ebb, and one day it’s gone altogether. In its place are energy, peace, and joy. I’ve never felt so buoyant, so confident. “You’re glowing,” people tell me. You, too, seem to have gained a new confidence as your kicks feel more purposeful.
We grow still larger. You’ve gotten heavy for me to carry around, and you don’t have much room to kick or swim anymore. I’m stretched tight around you, and it doesn’t feel like I can grow any further. When I lie down, there is no comfortable position. I wish you would stop sitting on my bladder.
What are you thinking? I wonder. Are you ready for new adventures? One day, you give an enormous kick, and the water you’ve been swimming in drains out. My body starts pushing you out, too. You try to hold on, but there’s no resisting the force that’s driving you. You’re the passenger now.
This is the hardest part for both of us, but we’ll both forget how it feels. At last it’s over, the cord is cut, and here we are, two separate people.
"here we are, two separate people." Yes, so true. And so it begins....
"the cord is cut,"
I like how this speaks to storytelling as well as the literal meaning in the story
What a great pregnancy metaphor: "Even though I invited you for the ride, I find it terrifying to know that you’re the one steering the car." I will remember it!
"You're the passenger now." Great line! I love this piece.
Wow. You brought it all back...! Those little frog feet and seeing an elbow move across my belly once in awhile...Nicely done!
You still don’t have to wear anything! Yes!
Great - I and You. Great read.
You wanted to get another dog. I didn’t. You kept googling breeders and showing me puppies. I feigned interest.
Then you got sick. We went to your doctor appointment together. They scheduled the surgery a week later.
Before they wheeled you in to the OR, you were nervous. I was scared. I told you if everything turned out okay we’d get that puppy you wanted. You lit up and smiled. “Do you Promise?” you said. I nodded. I figured you would not remember the conversation due to the anesthesia.
Everything went great. You were fine. I was relieved. Then the day you came home you started googling puppies again.
We went to look at rescue dogs at the shelter. But you had your heart set on a Corgi. You heard about a local breeder that had a litter available. I agreed to go look because, well, puppies! But they were all spoken for. The breeder put your name on a list and promised to call when the next batch arrived in about a year. That seemed to stem your sense of urgency.
We fell back into our day to day routine. I went away to France on a work trip. You texted me that you would to pick me up at the airport when I came back. I was suspicious. You never picked me up at the airport. I always schlepped it home on the Airport shuttle bus.
You met me at the curb and put my bag in the trunk. In the car you introduced me to the new puppy. The breeder had a buyer drop out and offered you the dog. You said you did not call or consult me given the circumstances and the time difference. You named the Corgi Olivia.
We meet at the dog park. You and Olivia are so happy. I tell you I found a place. I’ll be picking up the rest of my belongings soon. You don’t hear me. You are busy chasing after your new love.
What an unexpected ending! Great use of the prompt here. Well done!
Thanks Mary!
Wow. The ending just slapped me in the face. Nicely done!
Agree. Great ending.
Love the flow back and forth here in this one. The story breathes.
Whoa! Nice shift in the ending!
Totally relate to this story.
Uh oh…;-)
I close my eyes, try to fade the anger.
You whisper, it's barely discernible, but I'm encouraged to look in your direction. You are slight, dressed in a modest shift. The tunic is white with delicate bronze threading. You gesture to your basket and the patterned leather belts and soft to the touch handkerchiefs. And then you indicate little purses, silky as an infant's palm; pearl bangles set in gold and rhodium and scented candles, hints of coconut and lime. Each of these things has a unique charm.
I spot the box, almost out of sight. I pick it up and caress the delicate carving. The sandalwood is exquisite, satiny to the touch. The box clicks open with a robust spring and closes neatly, as well-made as it is finely worked.
Proud of your merchandise, you respond to my interest with an artless smile.
I think of the child. She had been so different from the others. Those four cubs had been eager, irrepressible, demanding. She, a late arrival, was none of those things. Early timidity, so unfamiliar, gave way to shyness and then to her need for closeness and for comfort. That reliance was never unwelcome rather an appreciated confirmation of trust. A trust which sent out warmth and prompted a longing to respond. It hardly seems possible but did she have an inkling? No, these are simply the musings of an old man full of questions, full of regrets, full of pain.
You brush a fly from the white shift with the bronze stitching and tell me about the box.
I think about the child, never bored, always happy with her secret things – seashells, scraps of velvet, pressed flowers, old postcards – and know she would have loved this as a chest for her treasures. I ask the price.
You look sad as you tell me, '40 US dollars'. It's easy to say the price, but you baulk at expressing the real value, are content to say, 'I use it myself for silly keepsakes.'
I ask you to wrap the box. You do that slowly with a reluctance unusual in a vendor. When you're finished you give me the package.
I hold it in my hand for a moment. I take the photograph of the child from my wallet. I show it to you and return the package.
'A gift from a child whom I'm sure would have been your friend.'
You smile again.
The last of the anger leaves me.
So very intriguing. I've read it twice, trying to parse that ending.
I’d imagined the huge railway station in Mumbai but… once you pass the words to the reader it’s theirs to make of it what they want. Next time I read this I’m going to think of Scarborough Fair 👏
And I will see the young lady in a skin-colour other than white.
An intriguing piece - I read it twice, the story encapsulates a sense of tenderness.
A chest for scraps and keepsakes.
The form of the story matches the metaphor. Nicely done!
That child tugs at me, her paragraph, and how you turn it back to the vendor, so naturally. And the ending is so simple, and beautifully done.
Thanks, Kevin.
Scarborough Fair? Goblin Market? Quite some magic there.
Thanks, Angela, for reading so closely and for your kind comments.
"Did she have an inkling?" That line really caught my attention. And the gift of the box...just lovely!
Since it's Substack time here, and I haven't got one...
I've been threatening myself for weeks with starting one up, and it's now time I got on with it. I'll serialize my long-revised novel, a chapter a week, along with other posts on another day. At least, I can make a start with the novel, and see how it goes for the rest.
Watch this space, and/or Notes.
Yes! Looking forward!!!
I’ve subscribed - bring it on!
Why, thank you!
I think you must be the first, since I haven't created anything yet. Substack always seems to be in a hurry...
I'm looking forward to it! Broadcast loud and wide when ready.
Yay. I look forward to it.
For Stuart
You were already sober two years by the time
I came into AA
I had expectations. That you would support me, emotionally
You had expectations, that supporting me emotionally was all I’d ever ask of you
I drank you, snorted you, shot you into my veins
We fought about everything you weren’t doing
You wanted to leave
No!
I’d scream apologies until you forgave me
clutched at your jacket
bought you a cashmere sweater,
I bought you a guitar
You had once mentioned wanting to learn to play
You looked at it like it was Office furniture
You proffered sex so I would feel loved
I stayed sober I went to therapy
I stopped paying for your car
I stopped apologizing
I stopped buying you sweaters when I felt your attraction waning
You became quiet
I found you sitting in the guest room weeping
What is it? What is it?
You waited until we were in my therapist’s office to tell me
Wait
You waited until we had already gone two rounds of IVF before explaining to me in a very calm tone that you were not interested in having children nor in continuing our relationship
And somehow you made it seem Like you were the Victim in All This!
I cried my guts out. You left the office. The therapist didn’t know what to do with me
She had someone waiting in the other room. The room with the white noise machine which wasn’t loud enough to drown out my keening.
You wanted to stay in our home until you found another place
I threw you out
Threw out your clothes
Your guitar
Your meditation pillow
I hated you. I had to. It was the only way I could be free
You had gotten sober before me
We met in AA
But you started drinking again because what was a little red wine to a Heroin user?
By the time I had forgiven you
You were gone
oh my god this is intense, i read it holding my breath all the way through. "I hated you. I had to. It was the only way I could be free." Oh, man, do I get that one.
Ouch. This one really hurts.
Boy, is this deep and cutting.
I could tell the house was haunted. Just from the drawing in your sketchbook. The sketchbook I found at my feet after you scrambled out the door to meet your friends on the patio. I was sitting at a long table in the brewpub with two of my team members. Partners in crime, we called ourselves. I was perusing the menu under the glaring neon red “Old Stove” sign, with one eye on the leggy blonde at the end of our table when you arrested my attention by pitching yourself into my lap. A wave of beer sloshed onto the table. “Oh my God! Oh, fuck!” Your first words to me. Cheers and wolf whistles from the guys at the next table. A pair of emerald green eyes, a tumble of auburn curls and a sprinkling of freckles across a nose nearly squashing my own as you disentangled yourself and stood up. The culprit in this crime–the strap of your bag–hung on a nearby chair, the bag’s contents scattered across the room. Some guy at the next table held up a book. “The Once and Future Witches?” he called out. “You a witch?” he asked. Your eyes narrowed and your face flamed as you reached for it. A fistful of cosmetics appeared at my elbow. Someone called “Here’s your eyeliner!” You smiled your thanks them both. I spied pencils, pens, and a toothbrush scattered under my table. We dove under the table, you in pursuit of a package of tampons, and banged heads. Stood up laughing. Who knew a night at the pub could be a contact sport?
I watched you escape and begin telling your friends about our encounter until my buddies asked me if I planned to sit down again. That’s when I found the sketchbook and opened it. Shamelessly. Your name on the first page. And on the second page: A Vintage, three-story house, surrounded by trees, a pathway leading from a wooden garden gate to the front steps. A face–pale, with overlarge dark eyes–peering from a third story window. The caption: “Paulina watches me sketch the house.”
I placed the sketchbook beside me on the table. Waited until your friends and mine were gone.
You were sipping the last of your beer when I stepped outside with your sketchbook.
“Tell me about the haunted house,” I said.
“We can walk there.” You said. “It’s my house.”
love this!
Mary, I love the readings! My Substack is a collection of stuff I have written in response to your stellar and engaging prompts and a few are pieces I've submitted to the London Writers Magazine contest that is just finishing up. If you click on my little photo, you can check them out. I've been challenged and I keep on learning about writing from both experiences. The piece I have submitted today is going to be in third person close POV --one small scene from my current WIP.
I didn't realize you have a substack--I will subscribe!
Thank you!
I wonder what Paulina will think. Maybe hook in the leggy blonde for her?
One possible avenue to follow.
Should he go back to checking out the leggy blonde? Or should he go ahead and get bewitched?
As dilemmas go, it's a nice one.
I am so glad you think so!
I hated my childhood pony, his mean streak and smelly coat. You posed on a pony on a New York City sidewalk with your official cowboy hat, looking as if you were on patrol.
I like cups and glasses, pretend my kitchen table is a café when I drink my morning coffee, alone. You drink milk from the carton, standing at the open refrigerator door bathed in its yellow frigid light.
You are compelled to listen to the long-haired women with their toned arms and jewel bright outfits repeat the same old story at half hour intervals. I hate their makeup and their smiles, as if the truth comes packaged pretty.
I’m afraid to eat out at restaurants, afraid the diners will think I’m a loser who can’t get someone to eat with her. You love to eat alone and stare at all the other diners as if you were a drug enforcement officer and they were hiding contraband beneath their napkins.
I am not as self-sufficient as you thought. You are not as self-sufficient as you pretend to be.
I told you my worst secret and you forgot it. You told me your worst secret, then tucked it in my breast pocket like a receipt for something you would never return.
I never lock the door. You like knowing you have a gun in the drawer.
Fantastic, Christine.
The way this develops is perfectly paced!
Wow, Christine. I love these two characters! Especially the contrasting styles of eating out alone in a restaurant. But then the realization that one is not as they pretend to be. So well done! about eating out alone in a res
NSFW Dialogue Not To Be Read In Libraries etc
With you, I always faked my orgasms. Every single time.
It was like a worn-out wank for me. Every time.
It was always over before it had even started.
That was how soon I wanted to get out of there.
You tried so hard to get in my pants, it was pathetic.
Your pants fell to the ground with a sound like the crack of doom.
Yours were off even faster. Not much in the way.
You sucked on the not much like it was your mother's teat.
It was no bigger.
You never introduced to your mother, so I've never seen how far her tits hung down..
*
(They pause for breath, and above all a drink.)
*
You loved me though.
The hell I did.
You always get angry when I tell you the truth.
I didn't love you. You were just convenient.
Convenience women come at a price. You never gave me anything but a headache.
That's typical. Always expecting something from me.
Ha! As if you ever had anything I would want!
Remember when you texted me you would go down on your knees and pray to me to come back to you?
I never did. That's your fertile imagination. Or another one of your floozies texting you.
Meanwhile how many guys were running after you? None.
Why are you such a liar?
I could ask you the same question.
Oh, I'm a liar. I do nothing but lie with every word.
Me too, but I lie better than you.
If only you knew...
(Long pause. Curtain. Applause)
Standing ovation.
I’m envisaging this as a modern opera - the ghosts of Shane McGowan and Kirsty McColl in the roles.
"I took your dreams and put them with my own!"
"Liar!"
Love the pause for a drink.
Thirsty work, making up outrageous lies calculated to tear another person apart. Evidently they've both been imbibing liberally for some time.
Yay
the crack of doom indeed. how often I've heard that!
I'm waiting for the beat to kick in (aka inspiration for today's prompt; and what's with the musical sub-prompts, third week in a row!), but in the meantime:
Thinking I might need something to do on Mondays soon, I've started a stack of my own: *Stories I Tell Myself.* We'll have games, puzzles, goofy lyric competitions, recipes, tidbits and flimflams, deep discussions of important topics, and stories. Probably just stories and story adjacents, to be honest. The first couple started life here on What Now, so, thanks, Mary!
https://caldevere.substack.com
Barely populated so far, but it's there.
\ \ \ / / / \ \ \
And here's something I just read yesterday, somewhat along the lines of today's prompt. It's an old story, almost 100 years old, in fact. Here We Are, by Dorothy Parker.
https://xpressenglish.com/our-stories/here-we-are/
You've got a new Substack! Yay! I hope you have a lot of fun with it. And thanks for the Dorothy Parker story, which i'm saving for later.
Love the idea of your Substack. I subscribed. Looking forward to it.
Thanks!!!
My Substack has a lot to do with book bans. I was a high school teacher librarian for decades. I bought, book-talked, and encouraged teens to read so many of the books on ban lists right now. So—I write about why those books belong, from the POV of a foot soldier. Anyone interested or worried about the censorship might enjoy “Be a Cactus.” Https://VictoriaWaddle.substack.com
Mary, I am writing a post about my mom because the anniversary of her death is this coming Sunday. So—more creative nonfiction than fiction. I’ve tried three drabbles and changed one of them into a poem that is more than 100 words. Figuring out if the ‘you-I’ format is the best. Your prompt last week also made me think of the last time I saw my mother (again, nonfiction). So thanks for these prompts. Here’s one go at ‘you-I’ with my mom:
Where did your consciousness go? I call you
from every corner of the room. Some days
you identify me. My daughter.
I can see this is a win for you, but the home
care nurse presses. What’s her name?
You pull many from memory, none of them mine.
Rosemary is a favorite. Finally it is simply
you watching me watching you, suspicious
of my presence. Where
did your consciousness go? I imagine it
hanging out at a single’s bar, bourbon and cigarette, waiting
still, for the right man to deliver you
from the reality of five children
in seven years. But you receive
a more practical Eucharist, your own body
placed on your tongue, swallowed.
So beautiful and moving, Victoria. Note to everyone: Victoria's substack is incredibly written and researched, week after week. She is providing an amazing service to anyone who cares about the recent and horrifying book bans occurring in this country. Go take a look!
Thanks!
Banned books?
Banned?
In 2024? Banned?
Sorry, it's so hard to understand how this can be done so openly.
Here in the UK, I am not aware of this being a thing any more at all. Of course, there are other ways to silence voices, some outright, some historical, some subtle, all insidious.
But to have books banned so openly. That must feel terrifying?
It does—in the U.S., particular states are really going at it. Utah is banning books statewide from public school. (Usually book selection is a local, school district issue.) Other states going wild with banning are Florida, Texas and Iowa.
Does the Brooklyn Library still have its offer open--anyone can borrow books from their library--as a move to resist this crazy ignorance?
Victoria, thanks for doing this on your Substack! And this piece is beautiful!
Proud of myself for publishing every week for over a year an essay about reading, writing and real life. This week I took on Sally Rooney‘s latest novel called Intermezzo. It’s at christinebeck.substack.com.
I love Christine's Substack! She's a deep reader, insightful in her analyses, and seems to read everything as soon it comes out! Take a look!
I just subscribed. Looking forward to reading your piece on Intermezzo.
It's very good, Angela. (Though disclaimer: I haven't read Intermezzo).
I snuck in to read it without subscribing, but I'll go back and do that.
I haven't read Intermezzo. It is in my ever growing TBR pile.
I had been taught never to touch.
We met at a gate. You were going one way, I was going the other.
I tried to untie the knot in the rope that fastened the gate closed. You waited patiently. My fingers started to shake with embarrassment. You thought it was frustration, I felt, which made my fingers even worse.
You touched my hand.
“It’s ok,” you said, “thanks though.”
You climbed the gate, swung your leg easily, and dropped onto my side.
“See you!” You shrugged and walked down the lane.
I watched you go. You picked something from the hedgerow and popped it in your mouth. You crouched to examine something in the long grass. You ran your hands through your hair, and tied it expertly without even looking.
I climbed the gate myself and continued on my way. I could still feel your touch on my fingers.
You were with me for the rest of my journey. You were with me as I drummed my fingers on the armrest of my chair at home. You were with me when I turned out the light.
You were with me when I woke. You were with me as I tied my boots. You were with me all the way to the gate. I crouched to examine something in the long grass. I reached up and plucked a berry from the hedgerow.
You did not come to the gate that day. You did not come to the gate the next day. I picked berries until the berries were gone. The longer grasses browned.
One day the gate was open, the rope hung loose, the ends were still knotted but the rope was roughly cut.
“Did you do this?”
The farmer grabbed at the frayed rope ends.
“You shouldn’t touch things that don’t belong to you,” he said, just like my grandmother used to say. I understood now, why she said it.
I reached down into the longer grass, cupped my hand and came away with a small, green frog. Its underbelly pushed in and out, but he seemed happy to be held.
I understood my grandmother’s instruction, now, for what it had really been. I took off my hat, turned it upside down, placed the frog in there with some grasses and took it home to over-winter.
No substack or anything, and no publications, but I would like to say that this has been the most wonderful year. Thank you all of you, I have loved reading the stories, reading the comments, thinking anew, and being part of something. And thank you Mary for giving us all this wonderful gift.
It's been a wonderful year. Thank you so much for being an integral part of it, Niall.
Niall, I hope these weeks stay posted so I can come back and read yours. Always a pleasure and an inspiration.
This one is a beauty.
What a lovely piece - with a heartwarming ending.
Thanks for sharing this, Niall. I love how your "I" voice becomes more and more aware as the story progresses.
The frog is a delightful surprise. Thanks Niall.
This is such a nice warm story. Thank you!
You thought my shirt was lavender and I thought it was blue. Twenty years later we both came to understand I'm color blind. I remember you said what a nice lavender shirt and I thought, no its blue and I have a closet full of them. I got them on sale for my new job. And so it went, you thinking lavender and me thinking blue for I don't know how long, but you do. Because it's not just that I'm color blind, I'm also self absorbed and forgetful and full of big ideas about myself. And you think its too late and I never do. I believe there are some things you can change and some things you can't. You think none of it can be changed. And we will just have to wait another twenty years to find out.
Here's my substack:
https://ckyle.substack.com/
Here's my story that was recently selected for the Elder Voices Anthology to be published in early 2025 by the Palliative Care Institute at Western Washington University.
https://ckyle.substack.com/p/moose
Love the color-blind story. And yes, everyone--go check out Charlie's substack where he posts pieces from his memoir-in-progress. He's had a super interesting life and done all kinds of things I've never done! Also, congrats Charlie on the story publication!
Congrats Charlie! I look forward to reading more on your Substack.
Being colour-blind myself, I can't tell if there's a joke here or not. Is lavender not a blue colour? Or is that the point?
I think of them as different colors, though they probably fall in the same color family. But definitely different shades and people who are not color blind can see the difference without a problem.
Thanks for your reply, Niall. I think I was trying to say that people see things differently and that there is no way to tell if the color I’m seeing is exactly like the the color you’re seeing, which is interesting to me, if not a bit perplexing.
Well, blue is a much more general term than lavender (the flowers of which are lavender blue). A matter of nuance.
(Someone will now tell me I'm colour blind).