Muse-alicious

First Time I Heard About Him

2010-03-25T13:19:00.000-07:00

The first time I heard about him, I had a feeling ... It was only his name, whispered in the next aisle, but I heard it with an electric charge that woke up something in me that had been sleeping. I knew him. I knew it.

I charged around the grocery aisle. Two women blocked the aisle, their carts pointed in the separate directions, talking over the piles of sugared, colored cereal and cheap hamburger. "This person ... Eric Thorson ... who is he?"

They glanced at each other, and must have made a tacit solemn pact to freeze me out because one said, "Well, I should be going," and the other agreed, and they parted like the red sea. I stood on dry land like an Egyptian saying, "Wait! Wait!" But it was no use. They hurried away, one to the far side of the store, and the other, the one I followed, straight to the cashier who took one look at my face, probably red and crazy-eyed, and asked, "Is this woman bothering you?"

I backed away and hurried home, where I googled his name. I got 576,361 hits. The first two pages were genealogy sites, about a man who'd lived in Marybrook, Massachusetts in the late 1600s and must have sired 25 children, all of whom studied family history.

There was a soccer player, somewhere in Europe, and a stockbroker in New York who looked very promising until I realized he was ten years younger than I. And gay.

I finally gave up and went to bed, but it was after two by then, and I slept fitfully though I had to get up for work at six. At some point, I must have fallen asleep because I dreamed of him -- Eric Thorson. He looked like Fabio, and he sounded like James Earl Jones and all he said was "I am Eric, the man for whom you search," and I started to weep. I woke to the alarm buzzing and realized my pillow was wet with tears.

Driving home from work several nights later, I was distracted, thinking about a client trying to win custody from her abusive ex-husband, when a car cut me off. I raised my hand to flip him off, but I stopped in mid-air when I saw his vanity plate: Thors. I sped up and followed him as he weaved through traffic, but just before seventh avenue, he darted straight across two lanes of traffic and exited before I could get over. I took the next exit and backtracked, but of course I couldn't find him amid the narrow streets.

The next morning, I called a private investigator the firm sometimes uses. "John. Got a case for you," I said.

"Sure thing. What's the name?"

I told him.

"What else ya know? Address?"

How could I admit I knew nothing else? "I think he drives silver Spider, convertible. License plate: Thors." I hesitated. "John, one more thing. Can you keep this on the QT? I don't want anyone to hear about it. I'll be paying you out of pocket."

I could hear his curiosity burble on the phone, but he only said, "You bet. I'm on it."

I waited two weeks for his call, sleepwalking my way through court filings and settlements, not to mention awkward meetings. I slept at night with help from a bottle of wine (and once, half a second bottle), but finally, the phone rang.

"John! What did you find?"

There was a half second pause. "Don't you want to say hello? Ask me how I'm doing? How are the kids?"

Rage flared through me, but I tamped it down. "Hello. How are you doing? How are the kids? Not that you have any."

"Fine thank you, and you?"

"Dying of curiosity! Just tell me what you found, damnit!"

I heard a low chuckle, and he started talking, but I hung up more dissatisfied and confused than ever. The silver spider belonged to a literature professor at Arizona State University who specialized in Norse mythology. His name was James McNulty.

Some People Just Know Things

2010-02-09T10:10:00.000-08:00

Some people just know things. I've never understood it. They just do. I think they were born knowing things.

Not me. I've had to learn every single thing I know. Like two plus two. I had to line up two jelly beans and then two more jelly beans and count them. Fifty times. I kept getting the wrong count.

I know what you're thinking -- that I was eating the jelly beans, and that's why the count was off, but it isn't true. I only used licorice jelly beans because I hate licorice, so it wouldn't mess up my count (and also because licorice was the only flavor left in the jelly bean bag).

But still, I'd count once and it was four, and count again and it was three, and then two, and eventually zero, which I was pretty sure wasn't the right answer to two plus two.

I never did learn the answer to two plus two, but I did learn something, and that's my point. I have to actually learn things, I don't just know anything.

Oh, what did I learn? I learned that my Great Dane loves licorice.

Other things I have learned:

You can flush an entire roll of toilet paper down a commercial toilet, but only if you unroll it first.
Cats are not interested in trick-or-treating in costume. Or even without costumes. Nor do they like licorice.
You can hard-boil an egg in the microwave.
Hard-boiled egg white is very difficult to clean off a popcorn ceiling.
Fortunately, hard-boiled egg white is hard to actually see against a popcorn ceiling.
You should unplug the waffle iron before you put it into a sink full of dishwater.
Having an rocket scientist for a brother is not as beneficial as being brothers with an electrician.

The point is, I can learn. I've learned all those things you can and cannot do, but people still call me stupid, and they won't let me live alone anymore, not even in an apartment like I had, where somebody checks on you several times a day, and you can eat in the cafeteria instead of cooking if you fry your waffle iron.

Another thing I've learned is how to get a job, and I don't understand why people talk about it being so hard. I mean, all you have to do is call Tanya at Job Source, and when she asks you if you'd rather clean at the local McDonalds or walk dogs at PetSmart, say walk dogs.

What I haven't learned yet is how to keep a job.

I was doing exactly what they told me to do -- just mopping the floor -- and it wasn't my fault the squeezy thing wasn't working. That old lady should have been more careful. And I don't know why her kids couldn't have sued the walker company instead -- aren't those cage things supposed to keep old people from falling?

Some People Just Know Things (Which Seems To Have Absolutely Nothing To Do With The Finished Prompt)

2010-02-07T22:10:00.000-08:00

When beetles overran the onion fields Clive knew it was time to move somewhere far away, maybe Bermuda or Des Moines. He didn't care where, just anywhere but here. It didn't matter. He didn't want to think about fields or onions or Monica anymore. Especially not about Monica and her long purple nails and black, black hair ~ blacker than the bottom of a grave.

Clive stood in the middle of the field, beetles running helter skelter all over his shoes, and stared straight into the sun. He could walk away. That was his greatest gift, his ability to throw his life into a duffel bag and start moving. He had no sentimental attachments, no favorite songs, and nothing and no one dependent upon him. He liked onions, that was about as much of a commitment you'd ever get from the man.

But beetles were sending the onions into rot and Clive was grateful. He trusted nature to let him know when it was time to move on. His mother used to tell him never to stand still long enough to let the dust settle on his boots. It was the only piece of advice Clive had ever taken to heart, and it served him well.

The phone started ringing from inside the RV. It had to be Monica. Clive glanced around looking for signs of life. It was too soon after sunrise for there to be anyone about. The sky was the color of eggplant peel and old mushrooms. It'd be a bitch of a day. He could already feel the back of his neck prickling with sweat. No worries. He'd burn the RV and steal a motorcycle. Throw the phone into the reservoir. Monica was a witch, but she'd never be able to track him. He'd cleaned up her last mess. She could do it herself from now on.

As a parting gift he'd leave the hacksaw and the bolt cutter on her doorstep, cleaned of prints of course. Someday he'd leave evidence just for the hell of it. Just to make things more interesting. Clive was a ghost. His fingerprints changed every six months and his DNA morphed faster than that. He was perfect really. And now he was gone.

You Call a Wrong Number and Recognize the Voice

2010-01-11T10:00:00.000-08:00

The phone rang several times -- too many, really. Maeve's machine always picked up on the third ring. It was a standing rule that any time I got her machine, I was to call right back because she was probably running for the phone and didn't make it in time.

I was about to hang up, when I heard a click, and someone said in an urgent whisper, "She's here!"

"What? Who's there?"

After a long silence, someone said, "Lucy?" I recognized the voice. It was Hank, my husband. I heard a click, and he stepped into the room, his cell phone in hand. "What the hell was that all about?"

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I was trying to call Maeve, to tell her I wasn't going to make it. I must have fat-fingered it."

A sereis of emotions warred across his face, but I couldn't identify them. Then a bland mask dropped down. He reached out and stroked my forehead. "Poor Lucy. You should take some pain meds and just go to bed."

"But ..."

"No, you should." He smiled, a smile that should have made me feel loved and adored but didn't somehow. "I'll get the dishes, and put the kids to bed. You take care of yourself for once."

Going straight to bed, at 6:30 in the evening, did sound delicious. And if I took a couple of vicodin, maybe the pounding jackhammer in my skull would be silenced by morning. I took his hand and squeezed. "Thanks, honey. I think I will." I turned away, headed for the medicine cabinet."

"I'll bring you up a stiff drink." Hank's voice followed me up the stairs. "It'll help you sleep."

Do NOT Mention the Murder

2009-05-19T14:23:00.001-07:00

Prompt: Write for 15 minutes from the point of view of someone who committed a murder today. Do not mention the murder. (Tip of the hat to Kerrie Droban)

Justin washed his hands, singing the ABC song to make sure he spent the requisite time, but it wasn't enough, so he washed them again. He dug a pointed stick from his mother's nail care basket and cleaned under his fingernails, then washed his hands again.

He pulled his T-shirt over his head and stuffed it in the bottom of the laundry bag, then took a quick shower. He stepped naked from the shower and remembering the shirt, dug it out of the laundry and wrapped it in a dry cleaning bag. He'd drop it in a dumpster on his way to work.

He dressed and, grabbing his keys, headed out the door whistling. He should feel bad, he knew, but something about being with a woman made him feel cheerful. He tossed his keys in the air and caught them again, then slid behind the wheel. The rumble of the muscle car engine worked on his seat like a vibrator, but the snake had uncurled from the base of his spine, so the result was only a mild arousal.

He pulled behind the grocery store and parked by the dumpster. After a quick look around, he threw the shirt into the metal bin and doused it with lighter fluid. He lit a cigarette, smoke half of it, then tossed it into the trash bin as he climbed into his car and drove away.

"You're late," Bert growled when he walked in.

"Sorry." Justin dropped his head and rounded his shoulders, avoiding Bert's eyes. He clocked in, grabbed his apron from the rack and pulled it over his head. "Had to run an errand. I'll stay late."

"Make sure you do. I don't have to keep you on here, you know. Only did it as a favor to your mother."

"Yes, sir." Justin disappeared into the store before Bert could say anything more. "Stupid prick," he muttered. "Think you can treat me like shit? I'll show you." He opened the janitor's closet, slid the rolling bucket under the faucet and dripped liquid soap into it. But not today. Let it go. He ran his hands under the good, cleansing water, imagined it rinsing off his anger the way Lucy taught him. When he felt clean again, he thrust his mop into the sudsy bucket, swished it around and headed out into the store.

He'd mopped half the floor before he saw Bert again.

"Looking good!" Bert called, as if the earlier altercation never happened. "I can almost see my face in the shine."

"Thank you, sir," Justin mumbled. Bert could see his reflection if he tried, Justin knew. He was a master at cleaning up messes, knew exactly how to remove all sorts of stains, didn't mind cleaning up the most disgusting messes. Bert was lucky to have him.

A Real Dump

2009-04-19T15:21:00.000-07:00

Starting line: "The place was a real dump." Write for 15 minutes. Go!

The place was a real dump. I mean, really. It was a dump, the kind of place people threw garbage in the days before any of us had ever heard the word "landfill."

I turned to my date. "What the hell are we doing here?"

He blushed. Even the three inches of wrist that stuck out below his cuffs turned red. For a second I imagined his whole torso pinkening until it struck me .... Eeeeuuuuwww! This wasn't exactly Six-Pack Sam. I'd only agreed to the date because my brother -- who was trying to convince him to sell some uber rare drak-e-mon card -- threatened to tell mom Damon spent the night in my bedroom last week.

"So?" I demanded, but he didn't answer. I got off his scooter and ripped off the stupid half-helmet he'd given me, one I suspected he borrowed from his geeky little sister who was obsessed with horses.

"Wait," he said. "I brought a picnic."

I just stared at him. A picnic? He seriously expected me to eat here? No doubt the flies would add spice. "Fuck this. I'm going home." I turned around, but I slipped on a piece of rotting fruit and came down hard on my kneecap. "Ow! Ow, ow, ow."

He helped me up, but I couldn't walk, couldn't even stand on that foot. I leaned on his shoulder and hopped over to a boulder, where he lowered me down. "Wait here," he said, and he was gone.

"Where am I supposed to go? I'm hurt, remember?" I pulled up my jeans, grateful bell bottoms were back in style. My knee was swollen and stiff, and a trickle of blood slid down my calf.

He was back with a plastic Wal-mart sack and a dirty horse blanket. He spread the blanket on the ground beside the rock like it was a red carpet and pulled a root beer out of the sack with a ridiculous flourish.

"Oh, please!" I said. "Root beer?"

He blushed again. "It's not just root beer. It's Henry Weinhardts."

I squinted to see his face against the sun. "Yeah? You got anything to mix with it?"

Picture Prompt

2009-03-24T20:47:00.000-07:00

Write for 15 minutes based on this image (a soul collage card):

Eyes Like Mine

by Katrina Stonoff

The eyes stopped her. Elaine was thumbing through a pristine design magazine in the doctor's office, flipping the pages one after another without seeing them, when she noticed the ad.

A photograph of a woman's face, close up, the ad was a comical attempt to sell insurance with an exaggerated expression of fear, but she missed the humor and the exaggeration.

She saw fear, naked and staring. Eyes like her own, the woman on the page pleaded for release, for solace. Maybe even for life.

Slapping the magazine closed, Elaine tapped her manicured nails against the cover. The tip of her thumbnail was ragged, so she pulled an emery board from her Gucchi bag and filed it smooth.

She tucked the board back into her purse and sat quietly, but her right hand drifted across her sculpted thighs. Her fingers slid across the magazine's surface like a caress. Snatching her hand back, she held it in place with her will power and all 10 fingers.

Across the waiting room, a swinging door opened. "Mrs. Olson?" A 30-something woman with a distended belly pushed herself out of a chair across from Elaine and waddled through the door.

Elaine looked down, blinking away tears, and found herself clutching the magazine. She slipped it open, and without turning a page, found herself once again staring -- falling --into those eyes, dark and deep. The office dissolved as she was immersed in the blue.

Sometime later -- two minutes or an hour -- a one of the husbands coughed, and Elaine jerked. The magazine slid to the floor.

She stood and crossed the room, listening to the click of her heels on the marble floor. "Can you tell me how much longer it's going to be?"

The receptionist gave her a sympathetic look. "I'm really sorry about the wait. Dr. Janders was called out at noon with twins, so we're running a little late." She ran her finger down a row of names. "They're only two girls in front of you though, Ms. Armstrong. Shouldn't be too long."

Elaine swallowed. "Can you ... " Her voice sounded thick and muddled. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Did you get the results back?"

The nurse tipped her head and smiled again, but the smile looked stressed. "I'm sorry. I don't have any information."

Walking away from the desk, Elaine chose a seat six chairs down from the magazine, but she could feel the eyes burning across the space. She pulled out her Blackberry and scrolled through her mail. Mostly junk, though she made a mental note to call Jack about the meeting with the advertising people. Her thumbs flashing, she sent a quick note to her secretary, "Would you see if Abrams Plastics is still manufacturing? They're outside of Chicago."

After tucking the phone back into her bag, Elaine twitched her foot and checked her watch. Twenty minutes since she'd talked to the receptionist. How much longer would she have to wait?

She picked up another magazine, but found she had no interest in cupcakes that look like sunflowers. She threw the tattered pages aside, and with a decisive snort, crossed the room and picked up the design magazine.

"Ms. Armstrong? The doctor's ready for you."

"Just a moment." Turning to the ad, Elaine tore a strip from the page -- just the eyes. She left flapping in the magazine the woman's comical hair in rollers and the garish red mouth in a round "o".

"Ms. Armstrong?"

Tucking the strip into her purse, Elaine followed the nurse through the swinging door and past examining room after examining room.

They stopped at the end of the hall, and the nurse opened a door Elaine had never noticed before. "The doctor will be right in."

Elaine stepped into a paneled office with rich leather furniture. "Oh, no," she thought as she sank onto a chair. "This can't be good."

A Delivery that Goes Astray (a prompt from "The Pocket Muse" by Monica Wood)

2009-01-17T04:29:00.001-08:00

There were piles of boxes on the lawn of Our Lady of Perpetual Ecstasy. Sister Philomena was beside herself. Order was the mainstay of her life. Without it, she was anchorless, set adrift. A big pile of boxes blocking the sorrowful countenance of the Virgin Mary was more than she could take.

She fluttered her way to the Mother Superior's office, heart beating erratically like a seasick dodo bird's. She stumbled over the threshold and collasped onto the overly hard sofa within the inner sanctum. Sitting on the sofa was a penance all its own, no Hail Marys necessary.

"Reverend Mother, there is a mess on the front lawn. I am quite overcome." She sighed deeply, one of those sighs Victorian women had been so fond of before they succumbed to the vapors.

"Really, Sister Philomena, can I not depend upon you to deal with anything? You are overwhelmed by trifles."

"I know, Reverend Mother. I am a disgrace. I just want to spend the days in adoration of Our Lord. The outside world is more than I can take."

"Perhaps you should consider a cloistered order then, Sister. Yet please be aware that you would still be expected to work. It is work I think you're afraid of, more than you are fond of adoration." The Mother Superior looked sternly over the top of her glasses. Sister Philomena sat up straighter, disgruntlement written all over her features. But she knew better than to argue.

"I'll go deal with the boxes then." She said as she flounced out of the office, righteous indignation pouring from her in palpable waves.

Her attitude lasted approximately two minutes and fifty-three seconds.

She arrived at the boxes and began to open the first one she saw, not bothering to look at any of the information on it. Sister Philomena was not terribly naive. She knew enough about the world to recognize what the objects in the box represented. Gasping in horror, she slammed the lid shut and looked at the return address. "Roberto's House of Rapture", it read. Under contents: "25 Extra-Large Dildos."

"Oh, Dear Lord." Philomena said. She was out of her element here. One thing she knew: these boxes of sin must be removed from the lawn as soon as possible. The idea that this holy church should be besmirched by sex toys was unthinkable.

Taking the first real initiation she'd ever taken in her life, she carted them one by one to the dining hall. Other sisters gathered around and peeked into the boxes. Reactions were varied. Some were horrified and went immediately to the chapel to either confess or recite the rosary to cleanse themselves. Sister Mary Ellen was most irreverent and actually touched one. Obviously they must be removed immediately.

Philomenia strode purposefully back to the Mother Superior, who once informed, flew down the hall in a rage that would be discussed in awed whispers by novices for decades. Unfortunately once they arrived at the dining hall, half the boxes were empty and half the sisters were nowhere to be found.

Picture Prompt

2009-01-17T04:02:00.001-08:00

(This prompt is based on a picture from The Pocket Muse by Monica Wood).

Ruth stood every day in the same place looking stoically out the store window. No one could ever recall seeing her smile or laugh, yet she was gifted at bringing joy to others. She sold emotions in jelly jars, potions that looked like strange fruits preserved in amber. Rows and rows of jars filled with things like "Make him love me" or "Turn her away" when a woman wanted a rival removed from the sphere of her beloved.

Ruth sold things like "Bliss" which was the color of an azure sky on the first clear morning after a long, hard winter. It was thick like jelly but melted quickly on the tongue, sending fizzing tingles of the bliss it advertised down the spine and through the blood stream. She always warned people not to overindulge in the strong emotions, but they would often return with empty, licked clean jars within a matter of hours looking overly buzzed and tweaked out like drug addicts.

No one knew where Ruth got her gift; she came from a family of milliners, bakers, and horse thieves. Nothing outstanding. She had just started concocting potions at the age of four. No one knew what the ingredients were, but people suspected that she snuck out and dug up mushrooms in the woods during full moons. The potions tasted like nothing familiar.

Ruth never showed any emotion. It was almost as if any emotions she'd been allotted for her time on earth had been given to her concoctions. She rarely spoke except to make recommendations or issue warnings. She was such an inward person it was almost as if she existed as a shadow in the world of form. An impression made on a wall after a nuclear blast. She was more idea than human, and she held herself apart from the world like an unproven theory.

In her store, there was a back room where she stored the deadlier emotions. There was a killing sorrow that could be poured into a soothing cup of chamomile tea. The drinker would grow weak with an elusive sort of sadness whose only solution would appear to be found at the bottom of a tall bridge or the steaming end of a newly fired revolver. These things were costly.

The First Guy in Line

2008-03-31T15:36:00.000-07:00

He'd been there for 3 days, 23 hours, ten minutes, and 32 seconds. Yes, he'd been counting. He'd purchased a stopwatch precisely for this purpose. He'd even gently christened it with a dab of amber oil, the sacred oil of the Natcheetuwando Kingdom. For luck. Being first, he knew he was chosen for greatness.

The second guy in line had been there for 3 days, 23 hours, ten minutes, and 2 seconds; and he knew he'd regret those missing 31 seconds for the rest of his life. If only he hadn't paused at the 7-11 agonizing over which Slushee flavor to drink. Wild cherry, dude! Wild Cherry is always the right pick! He knew that first guy felt superior; he could feel it wafting off of him in big Natchee waves.

They didn't speak for a full 24 hours. After all, did King and subordinate converse like commoners? Never!

Day two, they were hungry at 3 AM, having run out of food. The first guy's mother refused to get out of bed for a Cheeto run. The second had a girlfriend. This fact was nothing short of miraculous to guy one. Despite his 30 seconds of superiority, he had to grant respect to a fellow basement dweller for having the wherewithal to find a girl who might actually want to...touch him. And bring him food at 3 in the morning.

By 3:30, they were sharing their last can of Jolt cola and discussing the relative benefits of broadswords versus rapiers. That rapiers were for wussies was the unanimous conclusion. They overlooked the fact that both of them had the upper body strength of malnourished three year olds and would likely rupture something important just trying to lift a broadsword off the ground. This was irrelevant. They were gods in their brains where all the truly important events of life occurred.

By 3:59, they had combined their identical IQ scores and found the total to be a whopping 350. Ye gods! That was impressive! By 4:05, Carla, the girlfriend, had arrived with nachos, Oreos, and more Jolt. A feast. The second guy, who had now tied for First in Line in both of their minds, called her "Milady" and bowed very solemnly to her as she tore open the bag of cookies, and placed them reverently on an old sheet featuring the face of Han Solo. Man, life was good.

The next afternoon, the line had filled out. They'd stopped counting at 235. They were the undisputed gods of this piece of sidewalk. Everyone was in awe of their fortitude and dedication to the Cause. Sitting on a sidewalk for almost four days, leaving only to hit the Honey Bucket port-a-potty across the parking lot was on a par with scaling Everest.

Their collective pride was dented at 4 PM when cretinous beings with sub-par intelligence threw stale twinkies and empty beer cans into their ranks, yelling tripe about "geeks" and "virgins". The people in line were too scared to respond, but after the threat drove away, they congratulated themselves on their calm inner strength and mental superiority. Peace was restored.

Finally, at 8 PM, the BIG moment. One guy towards the end of the line had a trumpet, and he made an attempt at fanfare. Everyone applauded. The doors opened....

Today's Horoscope

2008-03-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

Prompt: Your horoscope: Today, someone will tell your secret

Sure, I had a secret. Doesn't everybody? But I didn't want it out. That's why they call it a secret. Because ... duh! ... it's secret!

I didn't even think Kevin knew it. We weren't close, after all. He worked in IT, and I hardly ever saw him, though sometimes I'd catch a glimpse of him -- a rumpled cotton shirt disappearing around the corner.

But there we were -- all of us -- at the company Christmas party. I'd had too much champagne -- everybody had -- so when somebody suggested a game of grade school Truth or Dare, I was all over it. It was better than Spin the Bottle, after all. That's what Brad in marketing suggested, and he was leering at me when he said it. So when Kevin, the IT guy, said Truth or Dare, I jumped on it.

It was fun at first. Gail, the really fat girl who works in the cafeteria, took a dare to show us the moon rather than tell the truth about who she wanted to have sex with. That was pretty repulsive -- I didn't know lard came in five-gallon buckets!

But then it was Kevin's turn, and he chose me.

"Truth or Dare," he said.

"Truth." I wasn't about to flash my breasts or something, just so some computer jerk can get his jollies.

"OK." He smiled, with an odd glint in his eye, and I wondered if it wouldn't be better after all to flash my tits.

"Here's your question." He spoke really slowly, carefully enunciating each word like he was a fricking TV announcer. "Have you ever stolen anything from the company, and if so, what?"

I froze. What did know? He was an IT guy, after all. I'd hidden my tracks really well, I thought, but maybe I'd missed something. I could always cop to taking a stapler or a bunch of copies, but if he knew too much, that might be the wrong choice. To stall, I said, "What's the dare?"

He smiled, and his nicotine-stained teeth shone with saliva. "You have to let Brad feel you up."

The Key in My Drawer

2008-03-26T12:34:00.000-07:00

It was a tiny, tin key, bought for the price of three box tops from Captain Crunch cereal and $2.95 for postage and handling. But it unlocked a treasure box.

No, seriously. A treasure box. The picture on the back of the cereal showed a cartoon drawing of a pirate's chest: wooden slats bound together with black straps of iron. A rounded top you would throw back to reveal a mounded heap of sparkling gems, strings of pearls, gold doubloons winking in the lantern light.

I dutifully ate Captain Crunch every morning for months, even though I really preferred Apple Jacks. Ate little round crunchberries until I collected the box tops. I dug pennies, nickels and dimes from my piggy bank with a butter knife. I was about to seal the handful of coins in a regular business envelope when my mother intervened.

"Here, honey. You can't send that." She opened the envelope and poured the grubby coins into her hand. "I'll write you a check for it. And you'll need a stamp too."

We sent the box tops off, and I began the waiting. Every day, after school, I ran to the end of the dirt driveway and threw open the metal mailbox. Every day, I pulled out a stack of white envelopes, a catalogue or two, maybe a magazine. But nothing for me.

The day came, though, the day when I opened the mailbox to find a small package with my name typed on the label: Katrina Stonoff. I pulled it out with breathless anticipation.

It was a little smaller than I'd expected. I'd pictured myself on my knees, throwing back the wooden top and plunging both hands into the sparkling loot. But this box was hardly bigger than both hands, certainly nothing I'd kneel in front of.

Still, it was addressed to me. Me! I'd never gotten my own mail before. I hurried in and dropped the mail on the table. Then I ran for my room and closed the door.

I took a pair of child safety scissors from my little desk and carefully sliced open the tape. Without breathing, I pulled back the box flaps.

There it was! My very own pirate's treasure chest! I pulled it out.

It was plastic. Thin plastic, at that, molded to look like wooden planks and iron bands. Sort of.

I opened and closed the chest several times with one hand. The hinges caught, and the lid failed to line up exactly with the base. A chunk of plastic jutted out of both the lid and top, with holes to thread a lock through, but the mold had been poured carelessly, and the holes were sealed with a thin film of plastic.

My daydreams of treasure, of something invaluable captured in my hand, leaked away, but I grasped at them.

OK, I didn't have a pirate's treasure chest, but I did have a tiny spot of privacy, a place to lock things away from my spying, tattling little sister, It was big enough -- though just -- for the diary I'd gotten for Christmas from my grandmother. Somewhere safe to keep my secret thoughts -- surely that was a treasure too.

Digging through the crumpled paper inside the plastic chest, I found the lock, metal and glorious, and ran my fingers across the brushed brass surface. A tiny key, punched from tin, was stuck in the lock, and a matching key hung from a wire ring. I turned the key, and the lock sprang open. I closed it, felt it grip, then popped it open again.

Picking up the safety scissors, I dug at the film of plastic in the latch, pushed and prodded until I'd forced a tiny hole. Closing the lid, I carefully lined up the uneven holes and worked the metal padlock through, then pushed it, feeling the tumblers click.

I pulled the diary from its hiding place between the mattress and the wall, opened the box, and locked my thoughts inside. For several minutes, I stood, holding the chest -- my privacy, infinitely valuable in a three-bedroom home with four children and three full-time, sort-of siblings my mother babysat. With the pad of my thumb, I rubbed the brushed metal, enjoying the slight rasp, the tactile reminder of an inviolable place that belonged only to me.

I must have pulled a little on the lock, because it sprang open. The little key still stuck from the base, and I thought I must have turned it by accident. So I removed the keys, tucked the wire ring in my pocket, and clicked the padlock closed again.

But when I tugged experimentally, the lock sprang open again. I tried several times, sure I was doing something wrong, but no. It was a child's plaything, no more a real padlock than the misaligned, plastic box was a real pirate's treasure chest.

I don't remember what happened to the box. At some point, I must have thrown it away. And yet, 40 years later, I find a little tin key still drifting in the flotsam of my desk drawer.

I smile to see it. I dreamed of a treasure chest with splintery wood and rusted iron hasps wet with condensation. I dreamed of opening it and breathing in the musty scent, sharp with creosote. I dreamed of fingering gold discs and running strands of gritty pearls through my hands. I dreamed of treasure for months as I ate the cereal.

Then I realized the dream, but I got the post-modern, American version instead: cheap, mass-produced, advertised as "free" though it wasn't. It didn't matter. It was my dream, and I achieved it. So it wasn't as great as I'd imagined. It was enough.

I tuck the key carefully into a cardboard earring box lined with cotton and put it in the dental cabinet where I keep the things I cherish.

A Stray Key Found in the Junk Drawer

2008-03-24T01:57:00.000-07:00

I was rooting through the kitchen junk drawer in search of a pen. The babysitter was on the phone, and I needed to write down her new number. Three pens found so far and all dead. Why can't I throw out dried-out pens? I just save them like talismans against pain. I don't even know what kind of pain. Just pain. Or even what the connection between pain and pens is...I guess I've always thought that if the situation were desperate enough, I could write myself out of anything. Except it's never quite desperate enough, so the pens dry out in the junk drawer.

"Hang on, Anne Marie. I can't seem to find a working pen."
"No problem, Mrs. H." The only word for her voice is "chipper"; it should drive me insane, but she's one of the most honestly likable people I've ever met. Here's a Sharpie. It will have to do.
"Shoot." I tell her as she rattles off a series of numbers--cell, home, work, pager. Geez. I just want to escape people; why would anyone want to be so damn available?

We arrange for her to babysit Miles on Friday. I hang up the phone, but I keep rummaging through the junk drawer -- bottle caps, toothpicks, post it notes with stray grocery lists, the backs covered in lint and dog hair. The whole mess is depressing and I begin to shut it. There's a glint in the corner, buried under old gas receipts.

I dig for it. A key. One of those beautiful, old-fashioned kinds you just never see anymore, certainly not in our very modern home. A red ribbon curls through it, soft and silky, and all I can think about are those cheerleaders in high school and college who wear ridiculous ribbons just like this in their hair. It feels like a bad omen to think of this right now. Why have I never seen this key before?

"Miles!" I call. He's around here somewhere.
"Mom!" He shouts back. Ah, I love 13. I hear 15 will be even more exciting.
"Can you come here?" I yell. Whatever happened to civilized conversation?
"No! You come here!" And what happened to the sweet pliability of age nine? My child has been replaced by a mutant, but I suppose every mother thinks that at some point.

It's pointless to argue. I find him in his room, which contrary to expectations is neater than the rest of the house, almost clinically so. He wants to be a physicist. I tell myself that this level of compulsive cleanliness is normal for a future physicist.
"Is this your key?" I dangle it in front of him.
"No." He returns his attention to his laptop.
"Have you seen it before?"
"Nope." I am dismissed.
"Are you sure?" There is no answer this time. He doesn't even look at me. Would I be a bad parent if I threw a Nerf ball at his head? Probably. "Well, that leaves Robert." I say aloud, but I'm talking to myself.

I call Robert. He's in class. I stare at the key. It's a door key. It doesn't belong to a box or anything small. I try to think of ever having seen a key like this before. I haven't. The red ribbon really bothers me. To the point that I feel like crying, and I don't know why. It smells faintly of lavender, which cheers me slightly. Old ladies smell of lavender, not cheerleaders. Yet, I have the undeniable, inexplicable sense that I will have need of all of my pens and an ocean of ink.

Seven Days Ago

2008-03-09T12:36:00.000-07:00

Prompt: "Seven days ago, __________. Now no one will speak to me."

Seven days ago, I was the center of attention. I'd just won my first Oscar, everyone in my family called my cell phone to congratulate me -- even my second cousin Fred, who lives in Podunk, Florida. I didn't even know he had a phone! Though, come to think of it, he probably called from the phone booth in front of Bud's Beer & Bait Shop.

Then came the Today Show appearance. Now, nobody will talk to me.

It wasn't my fault though. I twisted my ankle on the red carpet -- I should have known not to wear the Versace gown that puddled at my feet. Though even I have to say I looked fabulous, and I made the "Best-Dressed" list on People magazine.

Of course, they used a photo where I was posed elegantly with one hand tipped lightly in the air -- seconds before my five-inch spike heel caught in the hem, and I went sprawling down on the red carpet, my skirt ballooning over my head, so that all the bystanders had a grandstand view of the granny Foundation garments that kept my postpartum belly at parade rest.

That was the picture that ran in local newspaper. And I'm sure (she said, her voice oozing with sarcasm) the choice had nothing to do with the fact that the new editor was the boy I stood up the day before the prom because I'd been asked out at the last minute by the basketball team center.

But it wasn't the picture, or the fall, or even the foundation garments that made my family stopped talking to me. It was Today show.

The fall did start it though. I had to jump up and pretend I wasn't wounded, when I really wanted to writhe in pain, rolling around on the red carpet, holding my ankle and screaming, "OWIE, OWIE, OWIE!" like I did when I was a child. But instead I jumped up and brushed myself off and said, "I'm OK, I'm OK!" And I walked down the length of that red runway, forcing myself not to limp even though every step sent pain stabbing into my feet.

Then, when I won the Oscar, I had negotiate -- again without limping -- seventeen thousand stairs in the bubble hem and the five-inch heels, and I couldn't lift the hem very high or the cameras would have caught that my ankle had swollen to four times its size and turned purple. But I managed the stairs and the speech, and after the win, I could hardly feel the pain.

My agent dragged me to one Post-Oscar party after another, and of course there was booze at all of them. About 3 a.m., the pain broke through the euphoria, and even the booze though. Somebody at the party -- somebody famous, I think she was in the one movie, with Tom Hanks, the one where he ... no, maybe it wasn't that one. Anyway, if I could remember her name, you'd know her. She's that famous. She gave me something for the pain. I thought it was extra-strength Tylenol, or maybe Percocet, but now I think it might have been something else altogether.

I don't remember too much of the rest of the night, but we had to be on the Today Show set at 7 a.m. for makeup, so I couldn't have slept much. Lars, my agent, poured a lot of black coffee into me, but it just made me puke. I tried to tell him to cancel, that I just couldn't do it, and he should have listened to me!

Instead, he threw me in the shower and turned it on cold, and made me eat some dry toast. Even so, I looked like a mess -- like poor Britney on a bad day, only with granny panties instead of none at all.

But the makeup artists at CBS are absolute wizards! They must have a lot of experience making ghouls look human again after a night of indulgence.

(At this point, our timed writing ended, but my character was about to go on the show and blab all the family secrets, both real and rumored, on national television.)

Death is a Black Dog

2008-01-20T22:56:00.002-08:00

I cannot see him, but I feel him circling, sniffing the air. He knows I am here, but he stays out of sight, waiting, waiting patiently, until I am too old and too weak to fight him.

Around me, people move in clouds like gnats. Flirting and telling jokes until I want to shout, "What about the dog? The black dog? Don't you know he is there? Waiting to tear you apart?"

I say nothing. If I spoke, they would only look at me strangely, wait for the 47 seconds that politeness requisites, and then move their silly party to the next block.

I try to catch him off guard. I whistle, or pretend to doze, or act engrossed in a fascinating conversation. But all the while, my hairs are at attention, sensing the air for his proximity, and when my inner radar screams, "NOW!", I spin around.

He is gone. He is too fast for me, and though sometimes I think I see the tip of a black tail disappearing into the alley, I am never certain.

But someday I will catch him. I'll turn too fast, when he's distracted by something -- a kitten, a discarded hot dog -- and I'll catch him full on. He'll stop, frozen in the light of my stare. I'll run at him, waving my arms and shrieking until my voice is hoarse.

And he will turn, tuck his tail between his legs, and run.

Or perhaps I will catch him. While he stands paralyzed by my gaze, I will leap upon him and wrestle him to the ground. I will pin him on his shoulder, raise his back leg in the "dominant down" position until he concedes Alpha status.

Then I will stand, and he will stand obediently with me. "Heel!" I will say, and he will stand obediently just behind my left foot. We will walk away together to join the party on the next block, me and the black dog that I have tamed.

Prompt: The Black Dog

2008-01-20T22:56:00.001-08:00

Death is a black dog that stalks me in the middle of the day.

"Somewhere Down the Road"

2008-01-14T17:10:00.000-08:00

Somewhere down the road, I know I'm going to need that map. But for the moment, it feels good to be driving down a nameless stretch of highway going ... that way. Whatever that way is.

I threw the map out the window, and it unfolded in the wind and flapped away like a bird that only brings bad luck.

It really wasn't helping me anyway. I mean, sure, it helped me know where I am, but what good is that when I don't know where I am going? Most people use maps to get to their destination, but I don't have a destination. Other than not-here, and nobody needs a map to go away from "here." You just point the car -- or the horse's nose or the tips of your worn out cowboy boots -- and follow. The map only reminded me of where I was coming from, and what I was leaving.

When the World Ended

2008-01-14T17:04:00.000-08:00

When the world ended, I was sitting on the great white throne. Just like Elvis. Except I don't have a pompadour and a rhinestone suit.

No, my hair was in a messy ponytail and hadn't even been combed, and I wore nothing but a T-shirt stained with breast milk (and no bra). I don't think you can count the baggy gray sweatpants that were pooled around my ankles.

If I'd known the world was going to end, I would have dressed for it. A crisp gray business suit with a pencil skirt, maybe Donna Koran. Or a taupe linen pantsuit with a silk blouse and a tennis bracelet.

Not that I actually own any clothes like that. I used to, of course. Like any self-respecting professional woman, I had a closet full of neutral suits and pumps with medium heels. Exactly the sort of clothing a woman needs to blend into the masculine business world.

But when the baby was born, I couldn't button the waistband of my skirt. And linen is impossible to keep ironed, especially when you're functioning on six hours of sleep snatched two hours at a time.

So I fell into the pattern of wearing any old T-shirt, extra large for easy access, and my husband's sweats.

I didn't know at first that the world had ended. I heard a WHUMP! and felt a slight vibration, but that could have been the Rastafarian drummer next door, or the old man with the bulbous nose upstairs, finally passing out after a long night of drinking.

So instead of running around waving my arms in the air and shrieking, I just wiped, pulled up my sweats, and shuffled into the bedroom to see if the noise had wakened the baby.

Leaning over the crib, I saw her, sleeping like ... well, like a baby. Her eyelids, so thin they looked blue, were stretched without fold over her eyes, and her little pink flower of a mouth quietly sucked away at the air. Tired as I was, and knowing it was all her fault, still I fell in love with her all over again.

I leaned against the wall and just stared at her until I realized some quality of the light had changed. It was darker than it should have been, and there was an odd flickering. I became aware of a noise in the distance, filtered by sound-proof walls to a distant hum.

I stepped to the window and saw it: the skyscraper, one of the two tallest buildings in the world, torn open. Black smoke poured from the tear, licked from below by orange flame.

Prompt: End of the World

2008-01-13T22:49:00.000-08:00

When the world ended...

Prompt: On the road

2008-01-06T22:51:00.000-08:00

"Somewhere Down the Road"

If your muse was to take you out on a date...

2007-11-18T22:45:00.001-08:00

If my muse was to take me out on a date, we would go to someplace simple. Simple and beautiful. Some place that makes sense. Someplace that shut out all the complexities of making decisions, and relationships, and stupid people. Someplace far away from myself and all my own stupidities…

And after all that is gone…

We are alone in a forest, by a sparkling stream. Yes, it’s trite, I know. But my muse is trite, stereotypical… The smell of leaves, sun filtering through the leaves, and sparkling on the dew drops on the leaves. The only sound is the stream.

Dead quiet. No phone, no blackberry, no internet. No people, no problems. Isn’t it interesting that most of this description is about what is not there…

A blanket to lay on, a tree to lean against. And silence. Comfort, acceptance.

Acceptance…

It’s OK…

And after a long time… I can relax and be my true self.

That is the gift of my muse.

Prompt: Dating a Muse

2007-11-18T22:44:00.000-08:00

If your muse was to take you out on a date...

Musings Upon Waking in a Room Disoriented, Unsure Where You Are...

2007-10-13T00:45:00.001-07:00

"What was that?" Jim woke with a start. His eyes wouldn't open. He couldn't move. His heart pounded, he could feel the blood pounding in his ears. That was all he could hear. He concentrated all his effort on o, pening his eyes. They seemed stuck shut, and it hurt when he tried to open them. Gradually his left eye opened just a crack. It was dark, except for a couple of faint light rays that could barely be seen as they streamed across the ceiling. And even though they could barely be seen, they were painfully bright.

Jim listened. At first he heard nothing. Then a faint drip, drip... a long ways away. And he heard a siren, blocks away.

He concentrated on opening the other eye, and gradually it also opened. Looking to the left he maybe saw a wall. It was hard to be sure. His head pounded. And that aching, all over. He was on a hard floor, and he really needed to move to a more comfortable position. His left hip was burning with pain as he came awake. His left arm appeared to be numb. And he still couldn't move...

There's Something Weird about This...

2007-10-13T00:34:00.000-07:00

"There's something weird about this." said Joe.

"What's weird?" said Cindy.

"This yogurt. Look at it. It's cultured."

"Uh, yeah. Isn't yogurt always cultured?"

"Not like this, look at it!"

Cindy looked into the yogurt cup. Her eyes opened wide in surprise.

"I can't believe it. I have never seen anything like that. Wow, that's totally amazing."

Ben pulled the cup back so he could peer inside also. He pulled a pen from his pocket and pointed into the cup. "Look right there. Can you see that?"

Cindy leaned across the table and looked where he was pointing. "Wow." she exclaimed. "I have never seen anything like that. Just look at the colors, they are electric, unreal."

"And look over here" Ben pointed to another area. "Awesome, such unbelievable passion. I had no idea yogurt could be so expressive..."

Minerva is Lost

2007-10-13T00:21:00.000-07:00

"Where is Minerva?" Amy asked Katrina.

"Who is Minerva?" Katrina answered.

"You don't remember Minerva?" Amy was shocked.

"Actually, I don't remember you either. Do I know you?"

There was a long silence then. They were sitting at a table for two in Starbucks. Like old friends. And Katrina didn't know Amy? How weird was that? The silence ran on. Actually the entire coffee shop was quieting down. All over the shop people were quieting down, and staring at each other.

"I'm your friend, Amy. You don't remember me?" Amy whispered to, well, to whoever that was sitting across the table from her. It was her friend, oh, what was her name?

Amy put her chin in her hand and thought. They seemed to be here for some reason, but...

Katrina stared back.

And throughout the shop, people sat in silence and stared at each other. Confusion, shock, disbelief...

And the words in everyone's mind as they stared was "Who are you?"

Minerva is lost.

Minerva is Lost

2007-10-12T01:16:00.000-07:00

Minerva is lost. Minerva is lost. And there's a hole in her stocking. A hole. There's a hole in the church steeple on West 53rd Street and all the rain flows in, dampening the altar and front pews, watering the flowers brought in every week by a Mrs. Walter McCloskey. Well, at least the water is good for something.

Minerva is lost and there's a hole in her stocking -- in the right heel. It's creeping and laddering up her ankle. Soon it will be unhideable, unfixable, broken irreparably.

Lost. What does that mean? She doesn't know where she is. But that's not true. She's here. On this street corner with a bratwurst salesman shouting to someone named Frannie and spilling mustard down the front of his button-down shirt. Who wears a button-down shirt while selling bratwurst? This man, in this place where Minerva is lost. There's a sign advertising theater tickets for traveling Broadway shows. Fragments of songs run through her mind, but they don't seem familiar. It's more like a radio playing in her head--one she hadn't turned on. Where is the off button? The songs continue to play--plaintive songs about rain and loss. Minerva looks up at the sky, which is clear. And blue. Not a hint of rain. It's a Tuesday. And she doesn't know where she is. Again. This has happened before, but it involved a Greek ferryman who never smiled. Ancient memories of places too far from here to recall.

There's a woman walking a dog and talking into a telephone. She's angry and she's raising her voice to someone named, "Goddamn It Harry!" She says the same thing every thirty seconds, after impatient huffs of silence. None of this tells Minerva where she is.

There is a gutter below her feet ---it is dry, but clogged with soggy leaves becoming brittle in the pale sun. There is a piece of twine with a fish hook nested in the leaves.

This is here. Where Minerva is. Where she is lost. Everyone else knows where they are. How can I be lost? She asks. I was going to buy groceries, specifically milk and cheese. French cheese, I think. I like that. And perhaps an extravagance -- a Russian novel with thousands of pages to get lost in. Lost. There's that word again.

I'm on a street named Mulberry crossing with Broad. I know exactly where I am. But I'm still lost.

Prompt: Minerva

2007-10-07T22:32:00.000-07:00

Minerva is lost.

You wake up in a room, disoriented, unsure where you are

2007-10-01T23:57:00.000-07:00

Lucy felt like she was suffocating. She had no idea where she was, but she was sinking into something very soft. And there was a horribly cloying smell stinking up her nostrils. It was pitch black in the room except for a small pinprick of light about ten feet? Twenty feet? away. She had no idea of distance, she was so disoriented. It wasn't a room she was familiar with---her bed was hard; she needed firmness to support her back. And whatever that godawful smell was--it was nothing found in nature, nor in the sanctity of her home. She was more confused than panicked. Panic was riding the heels of confusion--she could feel its sharp, acrid breath beginning to creep up her spine. She wasn't sure she wanted to speak. She didn't know if she wanted a reply from the darkness.

"Hello, my dear," came a voice--not close--not far either. "I sense you stirring." It was an odd voice, sort of squeaky, with a lisp. It was a strange voice; maybe she was dreaming. "I know you're awake. You can speak. I won't harm you."

"Can you turn on a light, please?" her voice sounded far more rational than she actually felt.

"Certainly, my dear!" And with that, a large, rotating disco ball sprang to life, illuminating a room that could only be described as something along the lines of Madame Woo's Pussycat Parlor.

"Oh my God." Lucy said, glad to note that she was still fully clothed.

"You love it, don't you?" A small figure pranced into view--a man, she thought, wearing pink spandex shorts, a bolo tie, platform shoes with goldfish swimming in the heels. And nothing else. He looked like a cross between Richard Simmons and Dudley Moore.

"Music, maestro!" He yelled to no one and pushed a button on the wall. Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" came blaring out of the speakers. The man began to boogie around the room, shaking his tush for all he was worth.

Lucy climbed off the bed, a bed that was heart-shaped and rotating under a mirrored ceiling, she noted. She probably should have been frightened, but she found she was laughing hysterically instead.

"Crying with desire, aren't you, pussycat?" called the little man. "I'm blowing your mind, aren't I?"

"Uh, something like that." She said, and began to laugh so hard her entire body shook.

"Shaking with desire; I love that in a woman." The man pushed another button and a fireman's pole descended from the ceiling.

"Uh, little man," Lucy said, "I need to leave."

Katrina: Prompt #3

2007-10-01T10:21:00.000-07:00

Prompt: Someone wakes, disoriented, with no idea where they are.

It was dark. That Clara knew for sure. It was the only thing she knew for sure.

She held her hand in front of her face and wiggled her fingers. Nothing. She couldn't see them, wasn't even sure they were there (though she was almost certain she was moving them).

Reaching out, she felt something soft. Warm. She ran her fingers along the surface, looking for an edge, something to define it, but it seemed to go on without end.

She sat up. The darkness spun around her, colored lights sparkling like stars, but after a moment it settled, and the lights blinked out, one by one. She stretched out each arm, each finger, both legs. Everything appeared to be intact, undamaged.

Scooting to one side, she found the surface beneath her (the bed, it had to be a bed) ended. She dangled both feet on the ground until they touched the floor, slick and cold. She stood. Arms in front of her, she took a cautious step, then another, until her palms splayed against a wooden surface. She ran her hands along it, found a doorknob, which she turned.

The door opened, and a rush of cold air flew into the room, smelling of burnt wiring.

"Hello?" No one answered, so Clara took a cautious step out. She walked down the hall, as hall it was, one hand outstretched on either side, fingertips brushing the walls. As she brushed past doorframes, she stopped to check each door, but the knobs turned without unlatching, so she continued down the dark hallway.

After an undetermined time, a lifetime, the fingers slid across a steel surface, two metal doors with a thin slit between them. Running her hands across the wall beside them, she found a panel with two buttons. An elevator, Clara thought with relief. I must be in a hotel, or an office. But why?

She pushed the lower button and waited. Pushed the second button, but no welcome whirr of machinery responded, no welcome twinkle of lights across the top, though she craned her neck up and strained to see through the blackness.

Finally, she continued her blind, 10-fingered way down the hall until finally she found a door that responded to her push. A chill ran through her, damp cold sinking from above. She stepped through, holding the door open, and heard her footsteps echo. She slid one foot forward.

Prompt: Someone wakes

2007-10-01T10:19:00.000-07:00

Someone wakes, disoriented, with no idea where they are.

Writing Prompt #2

2007-09-23T22:40:00.000-07:00

"Can you sweep around those trashcans?" asked Alana, the head barista.

Susie's only response was to grab the big push broom from its resting place next to the back door of Starbuck's. She took the broom and waddled toward the trashcans and she began to sweep.

Alana never failed to be creeped out by Susie's attitude. Susie was so quiet, never voicing a response -- at least, not to Alana.

"If she would just say something, " Alana thought. "If she would just say anything: 'No, I won't sweep,' 'Okay, I will,' 'Sweep around the trashcans yourself.'" Susie was friendly enough with the customers, but just not to Alana.

Yet, even with the customers, there was a creepy quality in Susie's interactions that put Alana on edge. Invariably, with each customer, at the end of each transaction, Susie would say, "You have a great day." It wasn't her words that were creepy -- it was her tone of voice and her manner that accompanied the words. Unnecessary emphasis was given to the first word, so that "You" came out as an exclamation. At the same time, Susie would slap her hand down heavy on the counter top while leaning across the counter toward the customer and peering intently into their eyes. It was unnerving. Absolutely and totally unnerving.

Alana tried to complain to her manager, because, frankly, Susie was driving away customers, but the only response from the manager was that Susie would stay; Susie was a family friend.

Now, as Alana locked the door behind the last customers that night at 10 p.m. sharp, she could hear Susie, from the area of the trash cans, began to sing. She was singing 'The Star Spangled Banner.'

Prompt: Sweeping Around Trashcans

2007-09-23T22:11:00.000-07:00

"Can you sweep around those trashcans?" asked Alana, the head barista.

Prompt: Something Weird

2007-09-02T22:43:00.000-07:00

Write for 15 minutes, nonstop, about the following sentence:

"There's Something Weird About This."