Why Did You Follow Me?

It all started out as a joke – the mysterious guy at the bar, a side glance, a nod – as if to say follow me. So I did. I thought we would end up outside, I would bum a smoke from him and enjoy the refreshing outside air and the break from the constant drone of conversation inside the bar.

I don’t usually follow people down dark alleys. But about a half a block from the bar, the man in the long black coat gestured with his head again, this time in the direction of the alley on the right. He peeked over his shoulder once. I had only taken one step down the alley at this point. When I heard my heels hit gravel, the sound startled me. I realized I had been holding my breath for the last few steps. 

There was something reassuring in his face as he peeked over his shoulder. So I kept going. Every step crunched louder, and the light from the street faded away. I could barely see him ahead of me. But it looked like the alley ended. So I followed him. 

Curiosity killed the cat, I thought to myself. Always be aware of your surroundings, the words my mother had always spoken to me softly as I left their house echoed in my ears. Don’t be stupid. That last one was my Dad. I’m glad neither of them are around to see me now. 

I stumbled, just a bit, and reached out. My hand planted firmly against the brick of the building to the left of me. I sucked in the cold air and looked over my shoulder. The street light was barely visible. And it seemed so far away. But probably my best way out. I turned, as if to head back towards the safety of the night. Funny how the abandoned street seemed safe suddenly. 

I turned back around, realized that the alley ended in just a few steps and that the stranger was nowhere around me, and panicked. Now what?

It baffled me most that I felt less safe without a stranger and that I wasn’t questioning where he had gone. There wasn’t a way out. I had reached the end. There was a tall wooden fence, at least ten feet, if my guesstimate was correct, in front of me. And solid brick buildings on either side of me, assuring me that there was no other way that one could escape. I turned around, and noticed a piece of paper on the ground. 

I picked it up, marveling at how clean it looked for having just come off the ground and tried to hold it up to catch whatever bit of light I could from the other end of the alley to read it. It took a few steps towards the open end before I could see the neat black scrawling. 

“Why did you follow me?” 

That’s all the paper said. When would he had had the time to write anything like that down. Did he know before we left the bar I would follow him? Was he just waiting for anyone to make eye contact with. My heart started to race a bit, my mouth felt dry, and I tried to reason that it was perfectly logical I would want to have been the one signaled out for a reason.

A glance over my shoulder reaffirmed to me that he was not, in fact, at the of the alley and that I could head back towards the street. I shoved the paper into my red coat pocket as I took my first step back onto the sidewalk.

When my hand hit the door of the bar and pushed, I made eye contact with one of my friends, shrugging at her expression that seemed to ask a million questions at once. I walked past her, my hand against her back so I could lean in and be heard in the bar. “I just needed some fresh air. I’ll be back.”

She nodded as I headed to the restroom, which luckily was meant for just one. I locked the door, washing my hands quickly and splashed some water on my face, glancing in the mirror briefly. I looked the same, but I felt quite different, suddenly.

I was just about the leave the bathroom when I pulled the paper out, prepared to crumple it up and toss it in the trashcan. This time I pulled it out on the other side, realized there were more words and gasped slightly.

“If you’re looking for more answers about Bobby, call me.” 

I hadn’t thought about Bobby in ten years. And why would some stranger know about him. I shoved it into my pocket quickly, memorizing the telephone number that accompanied it, just in case and licked my lips, pushing thoughts of suicide and funerals to the back of my mind and walked quickly to my table of friends.

“I’m going to need a few shots.” I mumbled as I got there. Maybe more than a few. 

Prompt: 

 

Inside the Mind of a Pinata

They’ve told me that I should be excited. That I am to be used for someone else’s enjoyment. I can’t say I feel very thrilled about it, personally.

I realize we all have a greater good. They say this is my purpose - my destiny. What if I am meant for greater things? You can’t imagine what it must be like to know that your one mission in life is to be stuffed to the brim with candy and then beaten until you burst. How does that sound humane?

I know the end is near. I am aware that they will soon start to bring in the goodies. That they will manhandle me and use me for their own will. Shoving and stuffing. But that won’t stop my mind from wandering. 

There has to be more to life. Than this. Than just being used for someone else’s happiness. What about my own happiness? When I was being built, they whispered these words to me. Told me that I was going to make a child very happy. That their friends would shriek and clap and delight. In what, I wanted to yell at them – at my torment? At my abuse? How is this meant to make me feel better? 

I didn’t sign up for this. I was just a bit of paper. Paper with words. Words about politicians and what they had done wrong. Obituaries – people’s last impact on the world. This is what I started out as. How did it get to this? I was supposed to remain on your coffee table, the half finished crossword – or the specials at the daily market.

You were meant to clip pieces from me and put me on the fridge. Inspirational bits – I mean I did have that story about the little girl who raised money for the neighborhood park she wanted to build. This. This is what my purpose was. Not to be cut, ripped, shredded and wetted down. Glued into whatever mold you meant for me. 

I was supposed to be the word of the people. By the people and for the people. I was meant to inform the masses. Tell them what was going on in the world. This is purpose. Being a little girl’s birthday present isn’t really all that grand, in the grand scheme of things.

Words bring knowledge. Knowledge brings power. But they’ve decided to ignore that. To go about and use me however they deem fit. Why couldn’t I have ended up in the mayor’s office – the story about the high school academic team qualifying for the national tournament – clipped and framed? Where people could gaze upon me for years and read my words? 

What did I do wrong, I want to scream. How could I have made you so upset that you want to defile me and everything that I stand for? Why don’t you want to devour my words? 

Ignorance is bliss. I heard this once. And you know what? They’re right – ignorance must be bliss. Because the people who have chosen to ignore all that I stand for aren’t full of knowledge, they aren’t full of all the information that I could bring them. Instead they are filled with glassy eyed hope that this piñata – I’m shaped like a freaking horse, for the love of God – will be the highlight of the party. 

I thought, until just now, that I couldn’t feel lower. But now they’re here. With their bowls of bubble gum, and tiny toys, mints, and chewy candies. They’ve come for me. I had hope, until this very moment, that they would change their mind. That they would see what words could stand for. That they would respect what I had done for them in the past. What I could do to brighten their future.

I was wrong. Instead they mean to just use me. And let children beat me about. Until my insides explode. They say the children are the future. Not one I mean to be a part of, that’s for sure. 

Promise me something – promise me that you – someone out there – anyone out there – will remember me. You’ll remember what it means to read words and gain power from them. You won’t forget. Promise me this.

Moments

Photo Prompt:

  

He watched the young man, oblivious to the look the attractive blonde had just given him over her shoulder, run towards the bus, barely making it on before the doors slammed shut behind him. 

With a shaky hand, he took another drag of his cigarette, holding it for as long as he could, his eyes scanning the hustle and bustle of the city day in front of him:  mothers dragging children along without a second thought to what they were saying about the display in the store window, a few owners with dogs – checking their watches or cell phones as they tried to urge the animal along quicker, a young lean girl running past his spot on the bench with a gym bag thrown over her shoulder. He shook his head.

His mind wandered to all the lost minutes he had had at their age. The time he was too busy with the guys to take Marlene to the movies. How many moments of holding her hand in his had he missed? The hurried phone calls home to say he would be late coming home for work because he just had a few more things to finish. Now he had to ask himself how many stories about Johnny’s science projects he would never be able to recount. When Charla had her baby, he had promised he would “try” to be there. Instead, he had arrived a few days after his grandson was born, telling her how he just had to finish that last part of the deck he had been building onto the house. The image of his only daughter, baby wrapped up in a blue blanket nestled into her arms, eyes adoringly looking down – that would stay with him forever. But he still, now, would long for a clue what it looked like to see his own child look at her son for the first time. The love that a father has for his daughter will never end, he knew that firsthand. But he would never know what it was like to watch his daughter fall in love with her son.

He stood up slowly, his hands shaking as he reached for his walker, thinking to himself that’s what it was all about. Moments. Life was made of moments. And he was intent on never missing another one.

 

It Would Never Be A Lie

Photo Prompt (Credit here):

“It was only once,” she was lying.

He knew better, but wanted to believe her. He sighed. “Fine.”

“Seriously. I promise.” She could taste the lie, it lingered in her mouth. She was fighting the urge to race to the bathroom and brush her teeth. Like that would help.

“I said okay, Katrina. Fine. Only once. Let’s not argue about it.” He wanted to fight about it, wanted to let the rage boil over, but also knew he then risked losing her forever.

“I won’t ever talk to him again. Okay?” She curled up against him, her arm reaching over his body, her face nuzzling into the back of his neck. She knew she was lying about that, too. But she couldn’t stop herself.

“I know.” He closed his eyes tight, enjoying feeling her wrapped around him, trying to remember every second of it, burning it into his mind so when she was gone he could at least still have the moment.

“I love you.” It felt good to say it aloud, because she knew that was at least the truth. But there was something about the new guy at work, something that pulled her back in, killing her and soothing every ache all at once.

“I love you too.” He knew that would never be a lie.

Flag

Text Prompt: Flag

There was something about a flag blowing in the breeze that always brought her back to that cold December day, years ago. The air was frigid enough that it felt like needles of ice through your nose and throat when you inhaled, which didn’t do a thing to warm her already frosty heart.

She caught herself attempting to check her watch at least three times, during the short service, finally relenting when they draped the flag across his casket. She heaved a giant sigh, shivering to herself as the family started to file past the casket for the last time. Could this take any longer?

She had forced a smile as his wife walked in front of her. Enough already.Then his children, wiping their tears. Oh please, you ignored him when he was alive.

She jumped, noticeably as her boyfriend had placed his arm around her. “Don’t you want to pay your respects?”

“Isn’t that what I’m doing?” She shifted nervously on her heels.

“He was your best friend, you know.”

Show’s what you know.

She cleared her mind as best she could, bringing herself to the present day quickly. She watched the dark-haired little boy running through the park, bundled up in his hat and scarf, without a care and felt herself smile a half-hearted smile. It had been years since she’d lost everything and gained it all back in a matter of months.  She averted her eyes from the flag blowing in the breeze, but couldn’t completely block out the clank of metal with each swoosh of the material. Cling. Clank. She found herself shivering, again, despite the warmth of her jacket.

Old-Fashioned

Text Prompt: Old-Fashioned

He had decided on giving her five more minutes. If she wasn’t by then, he thought, he would leave. He would never look back. He would erase everything about her from his mind.

Twenty minutes later, he was running his finger around the rim of his old-fashioned, recalling the time she’d surprised him with the handwritten poster of The Tell-Tale Heart accompanied by her artwork scattered about the vintage tinted paper. He’d have to get rid of that, he realized. He couldn’t leave it hanging in his bedroom, not now.  But her ability to use a picture to tell a story had been one of the things that had captured his own heart. 

It had been an hour since he had mentally given her five more minutes when he ordered another drink, and began to reminisce about that trip they had taken up the coast. She had been so carefree – their life had been carefree at that point.  They had gotten caught in a storm, after a walk from their bed and breakfast there had led them to a pond. They had been talking for a good portion of the afternoon when the skies opened up without warning. She had only laughed, her dress clinging to all the important parts of her body. He couldn’t remember the last time he heard a laugh like that, from her. Months? Maybe years? 

He took a deep breath, exhaled and checked his watch, noting it had then been almost two full hours. He motioned to the bartender, who poured him the latest drink with a sad look on his face. One sip in he was thinking about the time they moved into the apartment he was still staying in. The boxes were heavy, the day was hot, and he was exhausted. But she still managed a huge grin and a flourish of her arms as she stood outside the open front door of their new home, having just laid the “welcome” mat down. Before her, he would have thought it to be the most ridiculous action. But seeing her standing there, arms still wide out, hair mussed, tired but ecstatic – he felt a tug at his heart strings. 

“Hey,” the bartender’s gentle voice permeated the thick haze of thought he had entered. He nodded towards the clock on the tavern wall. 

Where had the last five hours gone?

He tossed his payment down on the bar and hefted himself from the stool. Maybe next week.

The bartender watched him leave, heaving a sigh of relief and turned towards the bar back. “You about ready to call it a night?” 

The bar back nodded, a quizzical look still forming his face into a squint.

“Every Saturday.” He shrugged, turning off one of the lights and talking over his shoulder to the younger man.

“He’s here every Saturday. He used to come with his fiancée.” He flipped the other set of breakers.

“Did they break up?” The small Hispanic man shimmied into his coat and followed the larger, well-built bartender into the crisp air, jamming his hands into his pockets and sucking in the cold air quickly.

“No. She’s in the hospital.”

“And he goes to the bar? What’s wrong with her? What’s wrong with HIM?”

“She’s been in a coma for a year or something. I don’t know all the particulars. Car accident, it was in the paper. He spends every other night reading to her, from what I hear.”

“And then he comes here to drink away his sorrows?” It sounded sad to the bar back.

“I think he is expecting her to show up? Who the hell knows. People are bizarre.”

“I think it’s kind of romantic.”

“I think it’s delusional. See you tomorrow.” They exited the back alley from behind the tavern and went their opposite ways. The bartender passed his patron on the street, leaving him on the side of the road, talking into the payphone. I just wanted to let you know I waited for you, again. I will wait again next week. One day. We loved with a love that was more than love.

The Pay Phone

Photo Prompt:

It had been almost 20 years since the death of her sister. The day she called to check in and tell her parents they were headed to Bobby’s house to watch a movie. She knew - from the moment her mother answered the phone - that something was wrong.

“Your sister.”

“What about her?”

“An accident on campus.” It was becoming harder for Clara to hear what her mother had to say. To this day she couldn’t figure out why. It could have been the blood rushing through her ears, her mother’s choked words, or simply the fact her heart was beating so loudly she was certain the entire block could hear her. All she knew was that crawling out of her own skin wasn’t an option. She wasn’t able to forget it had happened. She couldn’t go on with the rest of her evening. She had to use her legs. Tell them to walk. Explain what her mother had said to Bobby. Get into the car. Drive home in silence. All these things seemed impossible. But she had to do them. There wasn’t a moment to think. Her brain was cloaked in silence. The only thing that reminded her, on that sad ride home, she was alive was the sound of her own heart. She could hear it in her ears, feel it in her throat. It was there. Her heart was pumping. That was the only thing she could be absolutely positive about.

The next few weeks were a daze. She could remember coming to the pay phone often. Putting her left hand on the receiver. Feeling the cold handle against her skin. She often wished she hadn’t made the phone call. That she hadn’t checked in. As if that would change things.

She was positive that returning to the pay phone wasn’t the way to change things either. But it didn’t stop her from coming back frequently. Always reliving the phone call. Wishing it would end differently.

As the years passed, she started to think of her life before the phone call and after the phone call. A disjointed life that held such happiness before the phone call. And darkness afterwards.

It had been almost 20 years. And the payphone was the only thing that hadn’t changed. She was in town for her high school reunion, and wound up in that spot after a few drinks. She picked up the handle, marveling at how much it cost to actually make a phone call now. She wasn’t sure who she should call. Her parents had retired to Florida years ago. She’d made a life for herself in New York.

Without thinking about it further, she dialed the telephone number she had grown up with, her parents’ old house number.

“You have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service.” The message rang through her ears before she set the handle down softly.

At least her last phone call wasn’t 20 years old now.