Current word count: 6164
Current mood: Good with a side of badass and smirk.
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 ( Please ignore the typo and formatting mess. no editing til Dec)             
 


The kid was thin. Hatch hoisted him up and onto the porch, knocking over one of the milk cans his father kept on the steps. "Shit." He muttered under his breath. The kid opened his eyes. He was still pale as death. "You hungry?" Hatch asked him. The boy nodded.

"Whats your name?"
 The kid cleared his throat, straightened himself. " Troy."
"I'm Gus, but most people just call me Hatch. You like eggs?"
"Yeah"

Hatch opened the screen door to his fathers kitchen. He could see the old man in his chair in the next room, just as he had imagined. "Just me, Dad." His father barely stirred.  Hatch figured there was no need to wake the old man yet. "Where you from?" He looked at the kid.
"Florida."
"You skateboarded from Florida?"
"Hitched some, but yeah." Troy sat down at the table. Set the picture in front of him. Traced the edges. "He's really dead?"
"No one really knows, but yeah. I think so."

Hatch dug in his fathers fridge; found the eggs and bacon he had bought him that morning. He started some coffee. "You really think he was your father?" Hatch watched the kid bite his lip and nod his head. He looked like he might cry. "Your mother know you are here?"

Troy shook his head no, then. "She was away for the weekend."
"You can call her, you want. Phones on the wall."
"Maybe later."

 Hatch caught himself in a silence. He busied himself with scrambling eggs with a fork. Its possible the kid looked like Jimmy. But Jimmy didn't even have a girlfriend. It had to be a hoax somehow. He couldn't figure out what the kid could want. And the picture. It was dated. Not in pen, but by the developer. It was nearly too much to think about. Hatch rubbed at his eyes and checked the clock. He'd told Charlena he'd be there to go over plans by seven.

"Whats all this?"
Hatch looked to find his father in the doorway staring at the kid. "A little early for breakfast guests." 
"Dad, this is Troy." 
Troy held his hand in a partial wave.
"And you're all in my kitchen because?"
"Troy thinks Jimmy is his father, Dad."
"That's a load of shit."

Hatch watched his father walk to the nearest chair and sit down at the table. There was still some booze to his walk, but he seemed alright. Spooked, but who wouldn't be?
"Jimmy was a kid." he finally said.

"Yeah. Look at the picture." "
How do you have this?" the old man asked. 
"Liza gave it to me." Troy said quietly.
 "Whos liza?" The old man was staring at him. His voice was gruff, but his eyes, searching.
“My mother.”
“Never heard of her. A picture doesn't get a girl pregnant, you know.”
“Dad, look at the date.”Hatch muttered.
Hatch senior turned the picture in his hands. He was quiet for a moment. August had its moments around this town, but this took the cake.

"Whats with the date?" Troy finally asked.

Hatch sighed. “Because in that picture, on that date, he should have been dead, is what.”

The men were quiet as Hatched fried the eggs and sausage over the old gas burner. It was the first time he'd seen his father speechless in years.
Finally the old man  spoke up. “What do you suppose we do? “
“First, we eat.” said Hatch.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                            


                                                                                           
 
                                                                                           

    

                                                                                                                   

Much Love ( Oh, Oh, and Happy Nanowrimo too!)
 

( Element of Merk, Carolyn Coalson)

1992

 

Liza-Dee told Otis she enjoyed the birds. He’d brought her an old field guide from town. In the evenings she would tell him she had found Western meadowlarks, orchard sparrows. She felt guilty for these small lies. She prayed for her sins, the small ones, at least. But the truth was she found Martha in a tree. In the beginning she tried to tell Otis how her sister danced among the branches. Otis had made her very afraid then; his hands burned into her shoulders, left bruises. He filled with rage when he shook her. “Don’t you see the devil is trying to get to you? Demons!”

 Liza-Dee tried very hard to stay away from the tree, as she had promised Otis. She did not want to be made crazy, though there were days she already felt that she was. She began to see Martha’s ghost in everything; kneeling at that old plastic candle; in the mirror behind her as she brushed her hair. Always on the bed, that earthquake always replaying in her chest. In the dim light of the house, Martha was gray. Her eyes were as pleading as they had been the day she died. In the sun, her limbs gave off their own light: sparks of indigo and peacock, close to the skin. She loved to dance among the tree-tops. It did not matter to Liza-Dee if she was crazy or not. She followed her sister as if by hunger or thirst. She was that lonely. In these years, Liza-Dee had become nearly a woman, but Martha was an eternal seven, perfect in her thin, tiny limbs. There was no demon lurking in her form. It was only as it had been that day when Otis came for them. For her. He had only come for Liza-Dee, she remembered now; but Martha had clung to her skirt, her legs in that knot only she could undo. It was simple; Martha would not leave her. And for this Liza-Dee was glad.

 It was not that Otis did not try to make her happy. In the evenings they would play Scrabble or Cribbage on the porch on the back of the house. He took her to town with him now, for supplies. She loved to see the new faces, the voices; though she herself was not to talk to anyone. There was just too much evil lurking in wait, Otis said. You could never be too careful. Always, careful. Sometimes it seems it would be so easy to make her way across the pond, through the fields. For years she had watched the house across the way; it seemed so full of motion and light, and they have never known she was there on the other side.

 She ached for more. She prayed for forgiveness, but it never eased. She tried to stop the little lies. She searched for birds in the air that drew her to the pond and wooded property edge. She lived for these dreams that took her across the smooth water, away. For glimpses of Martha in the light: the redemption of her dancing.  

  ( Revlon 1957, Carolyn Coalson)

The baby was smaller than a beetle, but Liza-Dee knew he was there, curled against the flat inside of her belly. Martha barely left her side now. Liza-Dee found herself more careful with her eyes, but here were times she was sure Otis could see Martha too. He was different now. Some nights she went to him on the porch to find he had been smoking tobacco and something with a sweeter edge. He said it was good for prayer, but the smell turned Liza-Dee’s stomach quickly. She vomited without warning. It was such an embarrassing thing. She apologized over and over, but Otis hushed her with a finger to his lips and took her hand in his. Then he laughed. It was if he could not stop. Liza-Dee could not remember him ever laughing. It was nice. Perhaps the baby had made him happy. She placed his hand on her belly, but then he stopped laughing.

 It wasn’t that he wasn’t happy he said. He just never imagined having a baby. He was nearly fifty. It was complicated. Everything was complicated. Otis said she would have to stay away from town, to keep the child safe. She mustn’t talk to anyone. But Liza-Dee was in love. Already she could feel the weight of her baby in her arms. She would be happy enough for them all. Martha was happy, too. Even inside, her skin sparked its sea-jewel light. Liza-Dee could sleep forever, now it seemed. She dreamed of little fish swimming in red water, or her own feet beneath water, wading among tadpoles and minnows.

 Her skin was heavenly warm to touch. It was as if she had always been cold without knowing, but now she stretched beneath her blankets and basked in the heat. Otis was getting restless about the chores undone, but they could wait. Martha, too, might have grown jealous of her time spent dreaming. Late in the afternoon, she pulled the covers from Liza-Dee and grinned. She motioned for Liza-Dee to follow her. Otis’ truck rumbled,  pulling out of the long gravel drive. She sighed and followed Martha out of the house, down to her tree near the property line. She could smell the choke-cherries ripening on the trees on the other side. She knew this is what Martha wanted to show her.  It was the most maddening scent; she wanted to collect just a few. The pond, she knew, was not deep. She had seen cattle cross and never have to swim. She removed the sandals Otis bought for her that last trip to town and hiked her skirt to her knees. Even the cool water felt warm on her skin. It was as if she was still dreaming, the water parting in waves at her feet. The scent of the cherries grew more intoxicating in their proximity. She was so taken by the time she reached the other side, she barely noticed the boy, nearly a man, really, resting in the sun at her feet.

( Nanowrimo Prehistory) Photo Credits J.E. Glaze

1987

1.

Near the bottom of the stairs, he made each of them a bed. He hung a cross on the wall, above them. Jesus wants you to be good girls, he said. And they were good girls. Martha was seven. She was quiet as she inched her small hand beneath her sisters. Liza-Dee was the oldest, but her fingers trembled. They had driven for days it seemed; they weren’t in Tuscaloosa anymore. The air stirring in from the door smelled sweeter like river water and tart cherry jam. Liza-Dee could not understand how her parents could no longer afford to keep them. Daddy had just got that new job at the lumber mill. Momma was almost set to get her nursing license. And why hadn’t they said goodbye?

Otis said it was because they were too sorry. That it would have broken their hearts into ten million pieces to see the girls go. Liza-Dee did not want her parents’ hearts to break into pieces. It was just temporary anyway. They would come back for her when they could, Otis had assured her. He had even said a little prayer for them to get back on their feet fast as west rain. He was nice like that. He had bought them Juicy Fruit and Candy Buttons at all the truck stops along the way. Liza-Dee didn’t know why her daddy never told her he had a brother. Otis said he’d been away a long while. Last time he’d seen the girls they were just little snap peas; that’s why they didn’t remember. Still, Liza-Dee wanted nothing more than to call her folks. They’ll want to know we made it safe, she pleaded. But Otis said it would break their hearts right up, calling like that. Besides there was no phone. Otis was kind, but he was as religious as a person could get. No phone, no television, no radio, even. They can put the devil right between your ears, he said.

Liza-Dee could tell Martha was on the verge of tears. She was too young to understand. Even at eleven, there were things, Liza-Dee still did not understand. She felt Martha tugging on her skirt and wanted to cry as well, but she could not do so in front of Otis.

“My sister and I need the wash-room please.” Liza-Dee’s own voice surprised her.

Otis watched her for a moment. “Together?”

Liza-Dee felt Martha grasp her hand even tighter and nodded her head. Otis gestured for the two girls to head up the rickety basement stairs. The light streaming in the windows was muted by grime but still stung their eyes. The girls had been asleep when they arrived in the night. Liza vaguely remembered the drowsiness, how it tasted like orange syrup thick in her throat. Her head had a dull ache pressing the undersides of her temples. Otis smiled. “Welcome home girls!”

It appeared to Liza-Dee, that no one had lived in this house for a very long time. The plaster of the walls was cracked and crumbling, leaving white powder and debris across the floor. There was little furniture: a few olive green and mustard folding chairs and a Formica table. In the corner a mouse perched upon a pile of old magazines, still and alert. Otis led them through the rooms. In one of the bedrooms hung the most beautiful white dress, Liza-Dee had ever seen, but the rest of the room was in the same state as the main-house. At the end of the hall, the wash-room was painted pale blue. Liza-Dee closed the door behind them and perched on the tub’s edge. She could tell Otis was still standing on the other side of the door. She watched as her sister tugged at her jeans and flushed. Martha’s eyes were dark circles. She held the heels of her palms to them briefly, and Liza-Dee pulled her down next to her, wrapping her arms tight on her small shoulders. Liza-Dee meant to, but she could not cry. Stones were catching in her throat, her chest. She pressed her lips to her sister’s forehead. She could see herself, the two of them in the long mirror, but it was as if they were not there; they were beyond reach, like ghosts.

2.

Martha called the room off of the dining area the Christmas room, though Liza-Dee could not imagine anyone ever celebrating a holiday there. There were Christmas decorations left in the open, year round at Otis’ house. Martha’s favorite was the big plastic candle, meant for front yards and Nativity scenes. When Otis ran to town for supplies or went to work in the barns, Martha would plug that candle into the socket, and hum softly about angels.

Liza-Dee had been working hard to make the house nicer for Otis. He praised her for it. As he did, the way she made her letters in cursive swirls and read scripture or kept her sister tidy and quiet. He said she would make a very fine wife someday. She would have liked to have put the decorations away, but she couldn’t take them from Martha too. She had been having such trouble. Liza-Dee could tell Martha upset Otis. She just missed her parents is all. It had been months and they still hadn’t come for them. Every day Martha asked for Momma, for Daddy. Liza-Dee’s heart ached for them too, though she would never bother Otis with her crying. He was so good to take them in. When he knew she was sad, though, he would stroke her hair and sing. She did her best to keep her sister happy. Otis did too. Martha was the only one he let drink Orange Tang from the jar of powder in the kitchen. Liza-Dee tried not to be jealous when Martha would lick that orange-sugar ring from her lips. Otis was right; she had her grown up teeth to consider, and gluttony. And Jesus on the cross, above the sink, above her bed; Jesus, Jesus, everywhere. You could never be too careful.

When Otis came home that day, Liza-Dee had taken Martha in her lap and they watched their electric candle glow. Liza-Dee did her best to remember Silent Night, sang it softly. Martha’s limbs were so limp; she had been complaining of stomach-ache.

Otis looked very serious. “Girls, I am afraid I have some news about your folks.” he said.

Martha opened her eyes. ‘They’re coming to get us?”

“No sugar. I’m afraid your parents had a bad accident with their car. They’ve gone on to heaven.” Otis bowed his head then. Liza-Dee watch the quiet murmuring of his lips.

“You don’t know that,” Martha glared at him. “You don’t even have a phone.”

“They take important messages for me in town.” Otis said, meeting his eyes to hers, briefly.

Martha stood up then, though her little limbs were shaking so. “Well, I don’t believe you!” She let her fists fly against his ribs.

“Dear Lord,” Otis prayed, raising one hand and taking Liza-Dee's hand in his other, “Forgive our little one, for she is so aggrieved, she knows not what she does.”

Liza-Dee closed her eyes. She could still see the candle glow in front of her. The room was growing dim. She could hear her sister wail. Martha wailed until she could not breath; until she was red in the face. She vomited with a force Liza-Dee had never seen. Puddles of her sick crept near Otis' boots. “Dear Lord, forgive that too.” Liza-Dee muttered, but Otis gave her a gentle, encouraging smile.

“Just get her on to bed.” He said.

3.

It was nearly real Christmas, Thanksgiving, at least; mornings brought light dustings of snow.  Martha had not gotten better. Otis said the poor girl had lost her will. Liza-Dee begged him to take Martha to a doctor.

Liza-Dee did her best to keep up on her housework and her studies. Otis brought her work books for math and spelling. But she spent much of her time at her sister’s bed or looking out the window. The fields were brown now and stretched for miles. There was one lone house in their sight. She wondered who lived there. Did they know she was there? Did anyone, but Otis or Martha?

In the moments her sister was awake, they held each other. Martha had taken to calling her Dee-Dee, like their daddy always had. “Dee-Dee,” she’d whisper, “I know they’re not dead.”

Otis would bring her more Orange Tang, heated on the stove. “If they’re dead, why can’t we visit them in the cemetery like we did Grandma Nanny?” Martha would ask.

Otis would breath in, close his eyes. “Because they are buried far, far away, sugar. You are too sick to make that kind of trip.”

Liza-Dee knew Martha would fall when she rose from the bed. “I am not!” Martha cried. She slid from the bed; Otis caught her and placed her back on her pillow. She had become light as feather or milkweed. Her bones were sharp to touch. She slept for a while then. Liza-Dee tried to imagine her parents beneath the ground. She tried to imagine their headstones, but couldn’t see them in her mind.

Liza-Dee, heard Martha calling her. “Dee-Dee.” It was barely a whisper. When she returned to the room Martha began to shake. It was like an earthquake was stuck in her ribs, her heart. She began to scream. Otis appeared by her side. “She, she needs a doctor.” Liza-Dee pleaded.

Otis nodded his head, and scooped Martha into his arms. She had gone still again. It seemed Otis was gone for days. Liza-Dee watched as the sun went down: felt the darkness press into her skin. When Otis turned on the lights, his arms were empty. He drew Liza-Dee into them and stroked her hair.

“I’m sorry, sweet-heart; she’s gone.” he said. Liza- Dee wanted to cry, but like all the other times before, the tears caught dry in her throat like little bits of plaster. She swayed, instead to the song Otis was humming softly.

“Will we have a funeral?” she asked.

Otis looked into her eyes. “No, no, sweetheart. That would be too sad. The Lord only wants us to be happy here.” This he said, closing his eyes, before he placed his lips to hers.

 

11. Write something set in a laundromat.

    

At the sink, Mrs. Bonfig is brushing a tomato stain from the lapel of some synthetic blend jacket, humming the way she does. “Out! Out damn spot!” she mutters and chuckles to herself. She looks at Louisa with a hint of smile, but Louisa looks away. She gets the reference. It’s just that she knows Mrs. Bonfig has a full scale washer and dryer in the basement of her Rambler over in the Oaks. Mrs. Bonfig doesn’t like that Louisa spends her days in the Laundromat. Just because she knew her mother way back when, she has ideas for Louisa. Today she pulls a book from her pocket, “ Little Women- Louisa May Alcott- You were named for her, you know.”

Louisa knows. She keeps the tattered copy her mother gave her safe between her mattress and box-spring. It’s her amulet.  Sometimes she contemplates the clean alabaster lines of her name, how it burns clean her skin, like detergent flakes. Her mother is dead. And her skin is rubbed red and raw in the places she has covered. She does not have sisters. Though on Tuesdays, if she can get away, Tiffy joins her. Sprawled on the old orange folding tables, they paint their nails, long tanned legs in front of them. Tiffy is as sister as anyone. They laugh with the men who come in; especially the out-of-towners, who can be easily talked out of their last few cigarettes or quarters to buy the girls grape sodas from the machine. Louisa likes the way the men look at her. She can feel her flesh becoming visible around her ghost-soft bones. She is pretty, long-legged and curved.  She likes Ralph from South Dakota best. He’s in town visiting his mother, but when he pops the tab of her grape soda, he tells her how she can ride with him through the Badlands where the sun goes down red as blood.

Mrs. Bonfig means well. But when she nudges the book toward Louisa, Louisa shrugs. “Not really my kind of story, thanks.” Louisa can barely hear her voice above the washers. While Mrs. Bonfig purses her lips, Louisa stirs spirals into some detergent spilled on the tables. She hates the way Mrs. Bonfig looks at her. Outside the Laundromat, where Mrs. Bonfig steps out for some air, Louisa hears her talking to Hank. Hank is not Louisa’s father, though no one remembers the difference anymore. She likes the air-con, she hears him say. We don’t keep it on in the apartment. And the customers like her. Good for business. Truth is, as long as he can’t see her in the afternoon light, when her hair, the storms that shadow across her eyes are most like her mother’s, he is not concerned with what she does with her time. They better tread the space between them out of the light. She likes that Hank leaves her be. While Mrs. Bonfig stands looking in, Louisa turns the radio loud, then turns it down, dials Tiffy’s number on the phone. Tiffy’s voice is soft. Her mother won’t let her go to the Laundromat again, It’s not a good idea, she says. She’ll see her when school starts next week. And then she is gone, and the line is muted tone. It plays like a symphony against the spin-cycle percussion, the tumble-dry bass.  

Louisa will be damned if she cries. Mrs. Bonfig comes in to retrieve her clothes from the dryer. That little bell above the door dings. She puts her arm around Louisa’s shoulders, but Louisa shrugs her off. The soft weight of Mrs. Bonfigs arm makes her dizzy. The look in her eyes is all soft and searching.  She hates the way she looks at her. Louisa feels the flesh returning to her ghost bones, but her skin is gray and heavy like draining wash water. Mrs. Bonfig smells of White Linen perfume, the same her mother wore. Louisa’s stomach turns at the scent of her own skin- summer sweat, detergent flakes, something dark and off. “Come, dear.” Mrs Bonfig says, “Let’s get you something to eat.”  But Louisa can’t bear the way she reappears under Mrs. Bonfig’s gaze. She is growing scales, it seems, cold and sharp.

“Don’t think I need anything,” she says.

            Louisa will not admit she is drowning. The water is rushing in from the top. She will not admit she is lost, spinning and spinning. She is none of those things. Or she is all of them. She hears a rusty old F150 pull up out front, with South Dakota plates. She knows he was never serious, but when Ralph walks in, Louisa looks Mrs. Bonfig in the eye and says, “You come to take me to the Badlands, sport?”  Her mother is dead. She wants to go where the sun bleeds. She gives Ralph a smile, she knows he won’t refuse. What does it matter if she drowns? All around her the murky water spins. Her eyes are burning. Ralph watches her as she climbs into the passenger side of his truck, a blush creeps up his neck. She is spinning faster, then faster still. She knows this is how to save herself. The only way to come clean.