Writing Challenge ~ March 2014

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ MARCH 2014​

New month, new challenge! This challenge will run for the whole month and you have my sincere apologies that there wasn’t a February challange but…better late than never!

And so, here are your prompts.


You can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images, or use them in their entirety.

As there are several prompts you can of course chose to use all of them in one piece or write one for each…again, it’s your writing, your challenge. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for this challenge is 1, 750 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named – Comment and Review Thread

The deadline for this month’s challenge is Sunday 30th March 2014, with April’s challenge hopefully going live the following week!

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

Butterfly Effect

There is a shudder of wind, the scarcest of breezes billowing across the surface of a gossamer wing. Like a sail it bloats and bends and curves, pushing and propelling its gift forward into the future.

Elsewhere, a dandelion is wracked with the bittersweet departure of its progeny. Ripped away and drifting into both infinity and inevitability.

In yet another place the breeze is muted, softly curling steaming tendrils from a fresh-made mug of tea. The fragrance is carried along toward the maker, though whether it will reach far enough remains unseen.

A pair of wings, no more than a wisp, a whisper in the cosmos. And yet, from their unfurling a universe spins into existence. Full of potential, brimming with hope.

There is a shudder of wind, the scarcest of breezes. Its gift is whispered into the ears of infinity.

Tom held the fluff of dandelion in his hand delicately. He normally wasn't one to be superstitious. He didn't pray, he didn't own a rabbit's foot. But this was different. He couldn't watch Kara go through one more heartbreak.

He had watched her torment herself with the hormone shots and the procedures. Each time she hadn't gotten pregnant and then when she had miscarried again and again, Tom watched her torment herself. She blamed herself for each loss. She gave up coffee, the artificial sweetener she had used since childhood, she was eating all organic. Tom was tired of all of the heart ache.

He made his wish. He wished for happiness for Kara. He wished that this pregnancy would be strong and healthy. He wished that Kara would learn to trust herself again and that her heart would heal.

He blew and watched the seeds float into their backyard. The seeds with their parachutes of fluff looked as delicate as his wishes, but Tom knew some of them would take root.

He turned and went inside. Kara could sleep for a few more minutes before they went back to the clinic for an ultrasound. He knelt beside where she was curled on the couch. He planted a kiss on her forehead.

A late winter snow falls gently outside as you sit curled up on the couch in your favorite snuggly nightgown and the latest Laurell K. Hamilton book. Your hair is still damp from the shower and a cup of Chamomile tea steams invitingly on the table next to the couch. I look at you and smile. You look so soft and comfortable on this snowy evening sitting there warm and inviting. Suddenly, an idea enters my head that will not go away. You look good enough to eat.

I quietly get up from my chair and on my hands and knees, crawl to where you are sitting. Gently lifting the hem of your gown I place a kiss on your upper thigh and inhale your sent. You lift your head from the book and smile.

“What are you doing down there Mister?”

“Only good things, I promise.”

I slowly spread your thighs and begin kissing delicate trails along your inner thigh. You sigh and your legs begin to part of their own accord. My nose nuzzles your outer lips and I can smell the muskiness of your juices beginning to flow. A hint of moisture on the tip of my nose tempts me, but I move my lips to the soft patch of hair just above your sex and give you a long kiss there. You moan and shift your hips to open yourself more to me, but I continue teasing all around your lips with gentle kisses. I can see you beginning to open delicately as you heat up. It’s a sight I never get tired seeing.

I gently move my tongue to trace your outer lips and you moan in anticipation. Your heat rises and I begin to lick and suck the lips of your sex with a gentle rhythm. More hip squirming and your inner lips part to show that you are indeed now very wet. I run my tongue the full length of you and get my first full taste. It’s a taste I can never forget nor get enough of. Your sharp inhale tells me that I’m on the right path.

Long slow licks up and down your inner lips continue to escalate your emotions. I can sense that you are getting more heated and you start to rock your hips against my tongue, trying to position it higher towards your clit. I hold off and continue eating you for what seems like forever. Long firm strokes with my tongue followed by gentle sucking with my lips drives you even higher. I sense that you need more and so I quickly flick my tongue over your now exposed clit.

“Fuck!” is the only word to escape your mouth.

Music to my ears. More flicks across your clit as I insert two fingers into you and gently curl them up to caress your G Spot. Another groan and I can feel your muscles clenching around my fingers as I continue to torment you. Your breathing gets rougher and your hands grab at my hair as I take you close, but not quite there. I pause and wait while continuing to move my fingers in and out of you. “Please…..”

I wait a moment more, your hips working to take more of my fingers into you. Your breathing becomes more erratic and I gently blow on your exposed clit like blowing a dandelion to the wind.

Your body begins to shutter and shake. Your hands grip my head and grind my face into you roughly. My hand is griped in your contractions as your climax washes over you.

Slowly, your body relaxes and your thighs release me from their embrace. I get up and kiss you lovingly as your breath returns to normal.

“What was that for?” you ask.

Another kiss. “Well, as you were sitting there it dawned on me that you are my everything, you are my universe and that without you my life would be less. I just wanted to show you.”

A Cup of Tea

It was tradition. It was habit. It was the remedy to every problem and the source of comfort in even the hardest of times. It was what she and so many like her had grown up believing. When you didn’t know what to do, when you were lost or upset, troubled and burdened, there was one thing that you could make that would help.

A cup of tea.

Her grandmother had said that tea was a drink that relieved thirst and dissipated sorrow. The words ‘put the kettle on’ seemed able to calm even the worst of anxieties.
It was what you offered when you knew there was nothing you could say to help the situation.

In the last year, she’d heard that phrase far too much. Friends and family had hoped to ease her suffering with mugs of Earl Grey and cups of Darjeeling. Sometimes, for a while, it had worked. The warmth of the tea and the comfort of their company had helped her almost forget. The laughter and the biscuits helped dull the ache inside that had nothing to do with hunger.

But eventually, the time would come when she’d have to go home. There was only so much tea one could drink in a sitting, people had their own lives to go on living.

And then the truth would come crashing back down on top of her as she turned her key in the lock.

That he was gone. That he’d never be back. And that no amount of tea would ever change that fact.
That whenever she was there, all she wanted to do was cry.
She had thought about moving, many times, about leaving the past where it belonged and carrying on with her life. But aside from the obvious financial difficulty of such a thing…deep in her heart, she didn’t want to.
He wasn’t with her, but she could still feel him all around her and as much as that hurt, she couldn’t imagine a life without that feeling.

The memories that filled their little apartment were all that kept her going at first.
His clothes still hung in the wardrobe, washed and pressed and waiting for him to crease them once again. His aftershave still sat on the shelf in the bathroom. She’d opened it once in a panic, terrified she might not be able remember the scent. The rush of emotion she’d felt at smelling that familiar smell had almost made her drop the bottle onto the tiles beneath her feet.

The habits they’d formed were ingrained in her very soul and were the only things that dragged her out of her bed after the funeral. He had always walked the dog, she had made the tea. Every morning she still made a pot of tea for two, even though one half of it remained undrunk. Staining the inside of the teapot they’d bought at an agricultural fair the summer after they’d moved in a deeper shade of brown. Habits were hard to break.

Luckily she had her work to occupy her days and friends had helped to try and fill her evenings with distraction. Weekends were the worst. Forty-eight hours of alone time. People did invite her to things, there were shopping trips and meals out, theatre performances and the occasional road trip. But for the most part, she was alone. She started going for walks, although even that had been hard at first. She visited the local parks, of which there were several. Hours were wasted wandering along gently curving paths through ornamental gardens and sculpted topiaries, sitting on benches beside delicately scented rose gardens and carefully planted flowerbeds. Trying to lose herself in a book, trying to figure out what she was going to do.

She had to make a change. In what she did every day. In everything. It had been long enough now. She had been able to say his name without crying for the first a few months ago, now she found she could smile without feeling guilty for doing so. But what to do?
She needed a challenge that would help occupy her mind and help her ease herself away from the memories. Then one day while watching people in the park the idea had come to her. Instead of running from what had happened, why not use it. And so she’d started writing. Making sure she did a little every day, in a small moleskin covered notebook he’d bought her when she’d once mentioned keeping a journal, she wrote down her story.

Their story.

It was romantic, she figured, that they’d met unexpectedly in possibly the least romantic of ways and yet love had blossomed and bloomed between them. He’d turned out to complete the parts of her she never even realised were incomplete. They’d bought their flat, got a dog, and when they got married the sun even shone down on things. People liked reading love stories, someone might enjoy reading theirs.

And so, sat in a small tearoom in the middle of the city’s largest park, she had reached the point of their story that she knew she wouldn’t want to write. The rainy day, not particularly different from any other, when it all went wrong.

They’d made love as the rain coursed down the window in the early hours of the morning, falling asleep in each other’s arms. He’d woken when the whines of the dog could no longer be ignored and she’d followed. A kiss to her cheek and a promise to return with pain au chocolat from the local bakery and he’d gone, their bouncy spaniel bounding after him. She’d showered and made the tea.
And waited.

And waited.

The tea was long since cold by the time the phone call came…

"There's always time for tea," An unexpected voice broke through her musing. "And there's always room for cake." Movement within the blur that had become the table top made her focus her eyes and lips curved into a smile to see a small plate with a floral pattern now sitting before her, on it rested a generous wedge of what looked like carrot cake with a small silver spoon.
She looked up into the smiling face above her own, a young man with sparkling eyes.

“I’m sorry?” She asked.
“Cake.” He repeated. “There’s always room for cake.”
“Yes, I suppose there is,” She dropped her gaze to slice decorated with chopped walnuts and carefully piped frosting. It did look delicious. “But I, well, I didn’t order any cake.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think I understand,” She tipped her head slightly in confusion.
“You’ve been coming in here for the last month,” He replied. “Every time the same. A pot of tea, no sugar and extra milk. And not once, not once, have you tried any of our cake.” His eyes twinkled down at her. “Today you looked sad. I thought some cake might help.”
“That’s a lovely thought, thank you,” She put down her pen and reached into her bag to retrieve her purse. “How much do I-?”
His hand landed gently on hers, stopping her fingers in the middle of unzipping it and making her eyes meet his.
“No, please. It’s on the house.” His smile became shy, his cheeks a little pink. “Or, rather, on me.”
“Oh, you don’t have to,” She insisted softly, her cheeks now a little warmer in their colouring.
“I’d like to. Please?”
She hesitated but his almost pleading expression made up her mind for her.
“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. And, perhaps, in return?”
“Yes?” Her eyebrows rose curiously.
“Perhaps you might tell me what you write about in that book of yours.”
“Perhaps.” She smiled, a little sadly.
“Is it a story?”
She nodded.
“I think it must be a love story.” The young man leant slightly against the chair beside her own.
“Oh? What makes you say that?”
“Sometimes your face has seemed so happy when you’ve been writing, love can bring that kind of joy. The kind that shines out of a person, in their eyes and in their smile.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice to stay level.
“And then other times, like now,” Tentatively, he reached out to touch her chin, without pressure making her face rise up to look more clearly into his. “You look so very sad. Lost, almost.”
She smiled, although her lips were trembling ever so slightly.
“Love can do that too.” His fingers were warm against her face. “When it goes away.”
“Or when it’s taken away.” Her voice was quiet and all at once the rest of the tea room, the rest of the park all seemed to slip away. Leaving just him and her, wisps of steam rising from her tea and one of her hands resting protectively over the open pages of her notebook.

“You don’t have to tell me,” His voice was gentle.
“I think I want to,” She surprised herself. “I think…I think it might help.”
“Have your cake first.” His thumb rose to brush her cheek lightly.
“Won’t you get into trouble? I mean, you’re at work.”
“My boss is very understanding.” He grinned, leaving the table long enough to flip the sign on the door from open to closed. “Besides, it looks like rain. We’re never busy when it rains and I’m due a break at any rate.”

He made himself a tea and brought it to the table, along with another spoon fetched upon her insistence, so he could help her eat the cake.
“It is yummy.” She mumbled, voice muffled with crumbs, before giggling. “Although, I think you could probably add a touch more cinnamon.”
“Would you like a job?” He laughed.
“Are you offering?” She replied before both seemed to be attacked with nerves and both looked down at the plate with the half eaten cake.

The rain he predicted began to fall outside, making things darker and providing a pattering soundtrack for the rest of their conversation.
“It was a rainy day when I lost my husband. He was walking the dog when a squirrel…or something…ran out. Charlie, our spaniel, ran after it. Stephen ran after him. The driver didn’t see them in time.”
“I’m sorry.” His hand lowered his spoon onto the plate with a soft tinkle and moved to rest on top of hers and squeezing before smiling softly. “But my friends call me Patrick.”
“I’m Amanda.” She smiled back.

With that, her new chapter began.

A Little Vast

It wasn't that much of an unusual sight, her arriving on her own. She hadn't been to the country in over a year. It would be good for them. Time alone together. Even living together these past few years, lately he had felt far away. It wasn't surprising.

'It's work,' he would insist. 'I have all these presentations to do, and there's more information coming in all the time...'

And she would smile, and not argue.

'I love you, you know,' he would say.

'I know you do,' she would smile. They'd talk a little while longer before he disappeared behind the blue screen of his laptop, or into the attic to spent time with his copious notes and the telescope. He needed the distraction.

She closed the car door, slipping the strap from her bag across her body before moving around to the trunk. It popped open and she began struggling to pull out her case. It landed on the gravel with a crunch and she locked the car up, dragging her case up to the door. It was one of those ancient locks, with a big long key that clicked and clacked loudly as it unlocked. She had had to push back all the junk mail that had fallen behind the door. She waved as the taxi driver drove away.

"Jupiter, come."

The Airedale terrier trotted into the house, sniffing. She knew it smelled a little musty. It had been a long time, after all. The door pushed closed behind her and she immediately busied herself by opening the windows to air the house. She put fresh sheets on the bed, slipped a few coins into the electric and gas meters, and fed the dog. Her case sat at the top of the stairs as she tidied, finding the duster and making the place look less like a Dickensian hovel. She hoovered the sitting room, the bedroom and the bathroom, and then made her way downstairs to her favourite room, the kitchen. The cottage had been built on a steep slope, and when they had bought it, he had indulged her by turning the basement into this beautiful light kitchen, with a half door that opened out onto this long lawn that stretched down to a stream.

She threw open the door and washed down the table and surfaces, and mopped the floor. While she waited for it to dry, she took Jupiter outside and they played fetch in the overgrown grass. There was something wildly beautiful about watching the dog bound through the weeds, the little parachutes from the dandelions flying around him as he snatched at them and shook his head so his ears flapped. It made her smile, watching him with his tongue hanging out. She sat down on a garden bench to catch her breath.

'Why do you want to call him that?' He had asked her, when the terrier was just a puppy.

'Well, it's in keeping with Neptune, isn't it? I thought you'd like it.'

'Are you going to name all our dogs after planets?' He had laughed.

'They aren't just the names of planets. Neptune was god of the sea. Jupiter was god of the sky. I thought it was kind of romantic, in a roundabout way.'

She remembered he had rolled his eyes. 'My little historian,' he had said. 'I love it. I love you, and all the strange and wonderful little thoughts that dance around in that head of yours.' He had put his arms around her then, resting his chin on her head as they both looked down at the terrier pup in her arms. 'Jupiter it is, then.' She had set the pup into it's little bed and the bigger dog, the wolfhound Neptune sat next to it, as if on guard. A song had come on the radio then. Something old, something that made her heart a little sore. She had sighed. 'Come on, come outside,' he had said, and led her out into the night. The stars had been out, they could hear the brook bubbling, and the lights from the kitchen streamed out onto the then nicely maintained grass. He had pointed up, naming constellations, moving his open hand across her field of vision and talking to her, not like a student, but like the girl he had grown up with, the girl he had loved from that first day in school when she had seemed so fierce.

'It's just so vast,' she had commented.

'I know. The possibilities are endless.'

'It's scary.'

'I'm here.' He had held her in his arms, he had moved one hand to tilt her chin, and he had kissed her. 'I love you, you know.'

She had smiled, and kissed him back with passion and fervour. They had danced around the garden, under the stars. He had stared at her, the way he had so many times, that look in his eye, the look she hadn't seen in such a long time...

Jupiter barked, bringing her back to the present. The house phone was ringing.

"Hello?”

"It's me. I'm just stopping off to pick up something. Do you want anything?"

She thought for a moment. "Sugar?"

"Sure. I'll not be long. Maybe an hour?"

"Drive careful."

He chuckled. "I always do. I love you, you know..."

"I know," she said, smiling and hanging up. She dusted her hands off on her jeans and went out into the garden with a trowel and a little bowl. Jupiter was still racing around, wrestling with a toy she had given him. It gave her time to dig up a couple of the dandelion roots.

She watched him from the kitchen window as she washed them, ground the leaves and root together and boiled them up. She always enjoyed fresh dandelion tea, and savoured the smell. She let the tea stew before calling the dog back in and closing the windows so she could take a bath.

The water was a little warm, and reddened her skin as she sank beneath it, feeling the steam rising around her, crinkling her hair and smelling like eucalyptus. Jupiter lay by the side of the bath, raising his head every once in a while to lick her fingers, and just remind her that he was still there. It always made her smile.

-

It was her favourite. It was the one she had fawned over in the jewellers and yet every time he looked at it, it made his words evaporate, his eyes prickle with tears. It was beautiful in its simplicity, just like her. Everlasting, fierce, and yet so fragile at the same time. He slipped the little box into his pocket and stopped off to reserve a table in a local restaurant for dinner. It was where they'd had their first date. He would order the same for them both, even though he didn't like it, this week was about what she wanted.

As he pulled up to the house, he sat for a moment. His knuckles were white on the steering wheel. He was wearing his best suit. He grabbed the case, opened the door and let himself and Neptune out. The old wolfhound moved slowly, his hair was more grey now than ever. He plodded to the front door, and his master opened it, letting them both in. He unpacked in silence. His side had a copy of 'New Scientist' on the bedside, hers had been cleaned, and moved back to accommodate the IV drip.

"I'm ready," she said. His eyes closed momentarily, savouring the sound of her voice. His lips trembled. He turned to look at her, standing there in a long, ivory dress. Her hair was almost white, too short, and too thin, just as she had gotten. Her makeup was simple, flawless, and he held her hand as he moved to her. His thumb stroked the diamond on her ring finger. A tear rolled down his cheek.

"I... I..."

She raised her hand, sweeping the tear away with her forefinger. "I know."

He drove them to the church and they were married. The ring was still too big for her finger, even though it had been resized. They had dinner together and drove home.

That night they danced under the stars, sat in front of the fire together in their wedding clothes. He held her tight... A little too tight, but she didn't complain. She knew he didn't want to let her go. She hadn't wanted to get married, to leave him this way, but he had wanted it. Theirs was everlasting, he always said. He was right. He carried her to bed that night, and they made love. It was slow and tender, and they laughed at parts, about how she wished she could do better for him. She sobbed after, and he bit his tongue to stop from crying, just holding her to him, willing his warmth and strength to her.

-

"Can we go outside?”

Her words woke him, and he sat up. It was six am. It had been a month since they had married, and a week since she had had a good day. She wore his wedding shirt. She liked it. He liked that she liked it. He carried her outside and they sat side by side on the bench. She shivered a little. "Are you cold? Do you want some tea?"

"I'd love some."

He made her a cup of the dandelion tea she loved so. He glanced outside, and she was standing, walking, her fingers stirring the long grass he had promised to cut, but couldn't bear missing a moment with her. He left the cup steaming on the kitchen table, he lifted the phone, dialled, then dropped it. He went back outside, wrapping her in a blanket. Her eyes were soft, tired. She looked up at their sky. He knelt there, gathering her into his arms wordlessly. She brushed a tear away from his cheek. He held her.

"I love you, you know..." Her words were quiet, and for a second he thought he had imagined them. The wind stirred, lifting the little dandelion parachutes around them.

The front door opened, her sister and her husband hurried down the stairs. They saw the cup of steaming tea on the table and her sister started to weep as she looked outside, where the couple sat in the grass. She could have been sleeping.

They stood in the doorway for the longest moment.

"I know," he said.

Last Round

Isn't it funny, the little things that comfort us?

For me, the clink of a spoon in a coffee mug is such a familiar sound from my childhood that I feel safe, when I hear it. Content, carefree. Feels like home.

To hear it now, under these circumstances, is a strange sensation - clash of emotions - and I pause in the stairwell and hold my breath, wanting to preserve the moment and cling to the feeling of comfort.

Then I ruin it, putting my foot down onto the squeaky step and abruptly announcing my presence.

That damn step, exactly halfway down. I always swore he did it on purpose.

He doesn't turn from the counter immediately, and his new look is still somehow shocking to me. Kojak, he said with a bashful grin when I first saw him. I had to Google it.

"Morning," he smiles over his shoulder. "Can I get you a cup of tea?"

I frown, smiling too. "Tea, Dad - really? Since when?"

It's a wheezing laugh that never sounds right anymore. "A lot's changed since the last time you were home."

I keep my smile tight on my lips. He shows me the box.

"Green tea. Your mother makes me drink it. For the antioxidants."

"Antioxidants, huh?" We all know it's a little late. "Sure, I'll have a cup."

I watch him pour, like I'm making a home movie.

"Want to take it out on the deck?"

"Sure."

I take the mugs. He stops to grab a toque - it's getting chilly in the mornings. I've sent him four knitted toques in six months: navy blue, hunter green, gun metal grey, chest hair brown.

He pulls the blue one on and joins me at the rickety little table my mother put out here - bistro table, she calls it. He likes this deck. He built this deck. Every summer vacation, he'd have some project: build a deck, fix the roof, add on to the house. I used to joke that he'd return to work just to get some rest. I used to joke that he never spent time on this beautiful deck.

Upstairs - in the bathroom, on coffee tables, on shelves, there are travel guides. Belize. Ecuador - did you know you can live in Ecuador on $300 a week? Sailing in the British Virgin Islands.

We sit in silence, sipping our tea. It's late in the season. He didn't even put his boat in, this year. There are multiple mug rings on the table. He's got so much time, he tells me. He doesn't know what to do with himself.

"So, when's your next round?" I ask him quietly.

He swallows his tea. Sets his mug down carefully, fitting it precisely into one of the rings.

"There's no next round," he says.

I look up at him, not sure of the expression on my face. It must be bad. I can't speak.

"There's nothing more they can do," he says. "They won't do any more."

I lower my head, so as not to point this face at him. He doesn't reach across the table. I must do him the courtesy of not crying.

"We knew this," he reminds me gently. His voice tightens at the end of the word on emotion or the cough that billows up from his chest like a toneless bark.

I pretend not to notice.

I turn my gaze out onto the yard as he fights to get it under control. One tree has already begun to turn - in one spot, in that way they do. The leaves that hang down over the corner of the lot are a brilliant red, almost fuchsia in the morning light, and the color has spread, tinging the adjacent leaves halfway up - so quickly, in just a day or two. Spread like...like wildfire. Of course. It's going to be an early fall.

He clears his throat hard on the last of it. He drinks his tea.

"How's the little guy?" He is an expert subject-changer.

I can hardly bear it.

Buck up.

"Oh, he's - "

Buck up, I tell myself - but it's no good. I lower my head again in a hurry, and he does me the courtesy of pretending not to notice. A tear drips straight out of my eye and into my cup.

We wait.

When I can, I mumble, "What are you going to do?"

I lift my cup and swallow and meet his eyes. I can't even taste it.

He blinks at me. "We're going to pray," he says.

"Pray?" It's amazing, the contempt I can manage to infuse into a single syllable. "Since when?"

He smirks. Shrugs. "A lot's changed, since the last time you were home."

I put my cup down with a clatter, shaking my head irritably, feeling the ache in my chest.

"I can't pray. Dad. I wish I could."

He smirks again on an exhale. I'm the stubborn one. Too much like him.

He leans down, reaching for something under the table, and I duck my head to look. A dandelion has grown up tall to peek over the edge of the deck, and then gone to seed. Its fluffy, duck-down, Bob Ross afro head pokes between the spindles of the railing, and as I watch, Dad breaks the long stalk and plucks it up.

"You can wish," he says, regarding it thoughtfully before passing the dying flower across the table to me. "No harm in wishing."

It hurts to smile. "You hated when we did this. Spreads the seeds everywhere. Just get more dandelions."

He shrugs again, and I nod. I know. A lot's changed.

I hesitate as I bring it to my lips. There can be only one wish, and I wish it until my throat closes with dangerous emotion. As he watches, I take the deepest breath I can and blow hard and the round head explodes like a firework, sending seeds on their tiny parachutes scattering in all directions.

All but one. It clings to the stem like a single grey hair on a bald head, and I consider it with a momentary pang of guilt. My Dad read me Horton Hears a Who! when I was small, and I remember I wouldn't wish on dandelions for the rest of that summer - afraid I might accidentally destroy whole tiny, unseen populations. It occurs to me now, for the first time, that he might have done it on purpose.

But this wish is so important. I blow again, but the seed clings stubbornly. Finally, I pinch it between my fingers and pull it off. It counts.

"Finished?" he asks.

He means the tea, but I feel slightly silly now, and I toss the naked stem with another nod. We stand, and I follow him down into the yard. He's a few steps ahead of me, and just around the corner when I hear him gasp:

"Oh, no - what've you done?"

I hurry to catch up, but stop short when I round the corner and see the entire backyard blanketed with dandelions, like a layer of fresh snow across the grass. Prolific - they've spread like - like -

I choke on my laughter as he puts his hands on his hips and shakes his head in mock dismay. "Good one."

"You know what I see?" I turn to him with a grin. "A fuckton of wishes."

He sighs resignedly, but he can't keep the amused twinkle out of his eyes as he shakes his head at me. "Get going, then."

"You help."

Like a couple of fools, we march out into the yard and begin pulling up dandelions - puffing on them, crumpling them, shaking them - I yank up two big fistfuls and spin in circles with my head thrown back, waving them around until the air is flying with seeds like a mini blizzard. I am shrieking and laughing at the decadence, the juvenile delinquency of this act, at the seeds in my hair and in my mouth - and Dad is laughing, too - at me, at himself - and there is one wish, only ever one wish, and we have nothing but time, and wishes.

Then he is out of breath and doubled over with his hands on his knees, and coughing, and I can't pretend to ignore it. I cry out, but he raises a hand before he can even raise his head, to stop me. But he can't stop, and he won't have me see him like this. He waves at me that it's all right as he walks quickly, wheezing, back to the house. The sound of him is cut off abruptly with the slam of the door.

And I'm left with handfuls of weeds, and my eyes fill and run with tears, now that he can't see me, and I kick at the flowers at my feet - hard, to send them flying. There are too many, I'll never get them all.

I fall to my knees, and then onto my back, tears blurring my vision as I stare up into the cheery blue sky, sweeping my arms and legs to scatter as many of them as I can.

"Do something," I whisper as the breeze picks up and the leaves whisper around me, and I stare hard into the endless sky.

"I'll believe." It strangles me. My eyes fill and fill again, and the wind breathes around me, making more wishes on my behalf.

"Just do something. Please."

My cheeks are wet and seeds stick to them in places as I toss my head in agony, making angels in the grass. It doesn't matter. There's no one to see.


And on another plane, a little girl watches the pretty marbles spin in their orbits for another moment, before growing bored and moving on to play with her other, more interesting toys.

(I also used this song if anyone's curious to try it out with the piece. I find it adds a little something.)

She heard the car pull up behind her while she was outside in the garden. She had on some old sweatpants and a stupid old floppy hat that her grandmother had worn in the garden. There was dirt on her knees and on her gardening gloves, which were worn and a 1950s olive green. She looked unkempt and dusty, weeding the lavender bed. She was happy. Forgetting about the dirt for a moment she hastily swiped a hand at the clean sweat on her forehead and looked over her shoulder. A car door slammed. She turned back to the task at hand, her mouth set in a rigid line. She gripped her trowel and dug at a particularly stubborn wild horseradish.

The footsteps behind her scuffed through the grass. She heard a pause, and the small sound of plant matter breaking. She guessed he had picked a dandelion and hoped it was one in bloom. The last thing she needed was scattered seeds in her ground. He came to a stop behind her, and eventually there was a shift in fabric as he leaned against the shed.

They breathed together in a not very companionable silence.

“I never took you for a gardener,” was the first from him.

She snorted, yanking out roots and tossing them into the wheelbarrow. The next was acerbic, “Like you ever asked me a thing about myself.”

He exhaled and his car keys jangled.

“Okay. That's fair.”

“I don't think you're some kind of goddamn arbiter in this. You don't get to decide what is or isn't, here. This is my fucking house and I don't know what you're doing leaning against my shed.”

“Look, it's just been three years. I've had a lot of time to think things through and I heard that you were still living in town, so I just - “

The trowel struck down into the earth with vicious precision and she used its balance to struggle to her feet, dirt crumbling from her knees. She was already talking before the spade hit the ground.

“Stop it. You ever heard of a phone? You ever heard of a-a fucking email, for Christ's sake? I've left you alone. I don't go looking for you.”

She was facing him by now, her cheeks flushed and angry. His eyes were dark and full of self-righteous accusation. She stopped to check and see if he still was beautiful.

It was always yes. Yes. It hurt.

She pointed at his car with the trowel, “You come sailing up my damn driveway and all you give me is some kind of regret?”

He had been trying to talk since she began, in fits and starts. It was no good. She wanted to barrel over him, crash over him like a wave, carry him out of her yard and out of her life. If she stopped talking, he would start, and then she'd listen. Then they'd fight, hands and fists, mouths and mouths. It would be tongues speaking but then it would be tongues touching, teeth biting, fury ripping.

“Okay. You're still angry. Clearly. Do you want to talk about it? I'm here, to listen, I'll listen. I won't say a word,” His hands were placating, the dandelion somehow still intact in his right. It wasn't in bloom.

She groaned in absolute frustration, dropping the trowel and yanking off her gloves. One hand raked off her hat and the other brushed her bangs from her face. Already she had traded a weapon for an accessory and it thrust her next sentence out, “You still don't get it, do you? You're so cocksure all the time. You wouldn't listen, you'd go to that place in your head that lets you bow out mentally - “

Laughing in exasperation and denial, “I don't go - “

“No, no, no, no. You're doing it right now. You have never once been real with me, really present and engaged.”

“That's not fair, I let my guard down to you. I opened up to you about my dad and my history - “

“Okay, so one fucking time. One time. And that was after we had come off of a freaking - “ Throwing the hat at him, “ - daylong sex binge, that was the only time you let me in - ”

At that he was up, pointing at her, “That's a fucking lie. You were the exact same thing and you know it. You're all fuck and no talk. Don't pretend like you weren't fucking it out every time you reached for my belt buckle - “

“ - that's right, play the 'poor me with my sex fiend girlfriend' problem even though you asked me to suck your dick on the way to Thanksgiving at your mom's - “

“ - you wanted to have sex on the pitcher's mound at the baseball field! Who's really the - “

They were circling each other, fingers jabbing and hands gesturing in expansive movements that sketched the broadness of the conflict. Her hair was bright in the sun and his hair was dark in the shade. They both fed on it, bolstered themselves up with it.

“ - and then you got pissed at me because Chelsea wanted to go home with me, and not you, even though the week before you spent the night at Jack's and didn't even fucking call - “

“ - I texted you! I texted you three times, but you were too busy grabbing Chelsea's boobs to listen - “

“ - oh, fuck you. You going to police my dates now? 'Text three times' – am I your fucking mom? We were supposed to talk about our jealousy, and you never wanted to. You wanted to-to keep it inside like a seed, like some kind of secret resentment - “

“ - I did talk about it! I talked about consecutive dates and all that shit, I dug deep - “

She pointed to the dandelion, furious, “And speaking of seeds, you bring that fucking thing over to my garden. Don't you know what happens when you blow those out? Seeds, David. Fucking seeds, that will land in my plants, and add tons of work for me.”

His mouth tightened and he glowered for a minute. The air between them vibrated and her vision was fuzzy at the edges.

He tilted his head then slightly, “Seeds, huh?”

“Yeah, seeds, did I make that unclear for you?”

He ran his tongue over his teeth and clicked his tongue. He looked up at a passing airplane, and she felt a nudge of unease.

“Wait - “

He raised the dandelion, put it to lips -

“ - DON'T YOU DARE, YOU JACKASS - “

She ran at him, her auburn hair coming lose from its knot, but he held her at bay with one arm -

- and blew the seeds at her garden.

“You fucker, why the hell did you do - “

She crashed into him then and slapped his face. His arms went around her and, “David, you are so fucking - “ crushed her to stop her assault.

Muffled against his chest, she squirmed and bit, while he kept his chin tucked resolutely over her head. His muscles worked precisely as they should have.

“Ow, fuck!” Her nails had made contact with his neck. “Are you going to keep biting me? I'll fucking bite back. Fuck – stop it you, you fucking cannibal - “

He craned his neck down as they staggered around the lawn, and he caught a glimpse of red on his white t-shirt.

“You fucking made me bleed! You're supposed to check in with me first, you little - “

He started to loosen his arms to push her away, but as soon as he had she darted up in a flash. Her teeth found his lower lip and tugged it into the warmth of her mouth before kissing him properly, hard and bruising.

“Oh, Jesus, still?” He groaned into her lips, the warmth and wet of her, as inevitable as his fingers finding the backs of her thighs to grip and scratch as he lifted her around him.

“Yes. Always. Goddammit.”

Against the shed they pushed, mean and rough and yes, in there somewhere with tenderness. Their own brand of it, they never could tell, but it fit and felt like the most natural way possible. She ran her fingertips across his scratches and bites, the blood minor but slick on her skin. Her fingernail bit into his flesh and he hissed before grabbing her throat with snakelike quickness. The kiss could have gone on, and on, but there were always inexplicable moments that called for better appreciation. It could call for how alike they were.

His mouth pulled away, and their eyes met.

It could call for how different, in the end, their lives were.

Ruefully, she laid a hand on his jaw and felt the stubble prickling softer than she could remember.

But mostly, it called for a moment's examination as a seed in time. Standing in one place, against a shed, in a garden. Riding a wave around the world, salt in mouths and bred to skin, coconut oil slick. Coffee in a diner, country bible radio, truckstop noises. Childbirth, death, heartbreak, love, beginning, conclusion. All of it at once and none of it without.

Sam knew she'd always love him and that a little part of her heart would probably break every time. At the moment, it was worth it just to feel the warmth of his skin.

A car honked and they both jumped.

“Fucking hell, does it always have to be this way with you? I mean there was the time in the concession stand, the time in the auditorium - “

“Oh, like you're so much better? Every long roadtrip, 'come on, no one can see you -'”

(The last was delivered in sing-song mock, as by then they were making their way across the garden adjusting shirts and pants. There was also much dirt to be brushed away.)

“ - I'd just settle for not having to clean mud off of myself every time, would that be so much to ask? I'm drinking your beer, too.”

“Who said I had any beer? Who said you could even open my front door?”

“Are you coming? I'm gonna hold that cold can on your thighs until you tell me why you felt the need to hold onto my Mean Girls DVD.”

“ What makes you think I have it?! And so what, I just don't see the point - “

The front door slammed, and the lock turned. And it started all over again.