Wordsmithes

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Adverse vs. Diverse

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Alter vs. Altar

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Adapt vs. Adopt

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Serendipity

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Tue, 19 Aug 2008 13:40:00 -0700

She awoke propped in the corner created by the rusty dumpster against the dingy brick wall of an old bank, a curled section of the newpaper in her hand. She squeezed it tighlty as she stretched her stiff body. No shower or brushing teeth or checking her hair in a mirror to prepare for the day ahead. Yes, the ease of being homeless.

She yawned, emerged from the alley, and meandered to her usual bench outside the capitol building. As she stumbled along, she held up a filthy hand--dirt heavily packed under each nail--to block the strong morning sunshine from her squniting green eyes. She plunked down and looked at what she had been holding in the other hand. Unrolling it revealed yesterday's obituaries. Why did she have it?

Think! she commaned herself. Of course when she tried to force it, she could only picture an empty wall. She would have to be careful. She sensed the real her was in command. Making too big of a deal would attract the others, and they would bicker and fight for dominance. She would have to take her time

It is... (deep breath) August...the eighteenth of August....year...(deep breath) 2008. So far so good. The others weren't even paying attention. I live...(deep breath) in Madison...Wisconsin. I was born...(deep breath)...I was born...in 1974. Although she tried to control it, her anxiety increased. Dare she hope for just one day of sanity? My name is... (deep breath) The others still seemed unaware. My name is...(deep breath)...I am...Karen....Karen Smithe.

It was a major achievement, but she remained nonchalant and casually scanned her surroundings. Men and women in suits began to populate the sidewalks. They walked by her as if she didn't exist, which was actually true some days, but not today. She finally returned to the obituaries, feeling safe the others were ignorant of what she was trying to do.

Her eyes scanned the photos, but nothing clicked. She examined the list of names, and there it was: "Smithe, Dean." She hesitated to think about the name. The others were still in their own worlds. Yes, she remembered a Dean from her childhood. A cousin? She read the entry, "Age 47...car accident...wife, Sarah." Sarah...yes, I remember her too. "Sons, Matthew, Marcus, Lucas, and Paul...parents, Clarence and Marrianne." My aunt and uncle! She tried to remain calm. Her mind was working on the information. My parents are...(deep breath)...(deep breath) Joe... and Jean. The others were still clueless. She couldn't believe her luck. I have brothers...(deep breath) Ben and Tom.

Karen needed to act quickly. The others could come back at any time. She needed a way to communicate with herself. She searched her pockets for a pen. Nothing. She stopped searching and took a deep breath, careful not to get too excited. Okay, no pen, no pencil...She stood up and thought she would scan the sidewalks when she spied a stray piece of red bark. She stooped and picked it up. The bark was soft and would do until she found something better.

Using her clumsy writing instrument, she circled Dean's obituary, but she wasn't sure what to write. She circled the obituary again and continued searching for a pen. While looking down she heard something.

"Can I help you?"

Karen continued her mission.

"Did you lose something? Can I help you?"

Karen glanced toward the voice and realized a woman was talking to her. She straitened up and looked at the woman.

"Hi...I'm sorry. I thought you might have lost something...?"

Yes, I do need help, Karen thought but couldn't find the words. Instead, she held out the obituaries. The movement of her arm seemed to signal them, and she could see them turn and rush toward her. Karen wasn't mush of a fighter, so the others easily took over.

*****

This had been the same woman Jennifer had seen the other day when on her date with What's-His-Face. She had been too afraid to talk to her, but she couldn't stop thinking about her and her green eyes. This morning she saw the woman talking to herself again, but she seemed different. She wore the same gray-brown rags, but today she was calmer, not ranting.

Once again, Jennifer watched her, hoping the woman would approach her. When she saw the woman walk away, she knew she had to say something. When the woman turned around, they locked eyes for only a few seconds. The woman looked at Jennifer, not through her, and the green eyes were soft and sad and scared. She was surprised when the woman handed her something. She looked at the paper briefly, but when she looked at the woman again, the green eyes were harsh, and the ranting returned.

Jennifer looked at what the woman had given her and saw the smeared circled around Dean Smithe's obituary.

"Do you know this man?" Jennifer asked as she pointed Dean's photo.

The woman had not moved, but she continued her nonsensical arguments with herself, seemingly unaware of Jennifer's presence.

More loudly, "Dean Smithe. Do you know Dean Smithe? This man here, Dean Smithe." Even though the woman did not acknowledge her, Jennifer's excitement grew. She held in her hand a more tangible way to help this woman. Jennifer fished her cell phone from her purse and called the funeral home listed for Dean.

Knell

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 07:06:00 -0700

Bells from a nearby church had set her off, and she cried in a dignified manner for only a moment. Gently dabbing her tears with a tissue (a hankershief would have seemed pretentious), she knew he was gone but kept balanced on the hope the bells were for someone else-for the tattooed teen with the bullet wound, for the elderly mother of the man who sat across from her in the waiting room, for anyone one else who had been recently rushed passed her in a stretcher...

But she couldn't play this game anymore; she couldn't deny what her heart already knew. No one else in the small, fakely decorated room seemed to notice the bells, but they evetually noticed Sarah. She had broken out of her composed sadness and cried violently. Her feelings for Dean had burst and spiraled off into different dirrections like snakes. A few curled around her lungs. Some tore at the back of her throat and bit at the inner ears. The worst encirled her stomach and squeezed.

The son of the elderly woman prentended to be interested in the news on tv. The parents of the wounded teen held hands. A small child asked her mother, "Why is that lady crying?" and the mother hushed her child. No one approached Sarah or said anything to her.

After a minute, she was able to pull herself back in. A doctor appeared in the doorway of the waiting room, and Sarah, eyes red and glossy, picked up her purse, approached him, and said, "He's gone, isn't he?"

"Um," is all she heard, but it was enough. All at once she took in the doc's nervous eyes, his gentle tone, and uneasy stance. She followed him through the sterille corridor, not knowing what her dead husband would look like.

Ineffable

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 11 Aug 2008 21:27:00 -0700

It was like staying at a fancy hotel. Everything was prefectly arranged and in its place. Ben briefly admired the orderliness of Dean and Sarah's house but was distracted by what he had been thinking about since the last night of the Vegas trip.

He had woken around 3 a.m. only to find Clarissa's side of the bed empty. As he had taken a quick look around their room, he heard the door open. It was Clarissa sneaking back into the room thinking Ben had been asleep all along.

Clarissa never said where she had been, and Ben never asked but wanted to. Deep down he knew he had complete faith in Clarissa, but she was obviously hiding something. He wanted to bring it up during the plane ride back home, but they had thoroughly enjoyed themselves for once. No petty fights, not even the slightest disagreement. He didn't want to spoil everything. He planned to ask once they had unpacked at home, but they had barely landed when his cell buzzed with Sarah's desperate call for help. Now was obviously not the time.

"What are you thinking?" Clarissa playfully nudged Ben.

"Oh nothing. I guess Dean. I hope he's okay."

"Yeah..."

Ben read her thoughts as her eyes traveled around the lavishly appointed kitchen. Something like Yeah... all this expensive stuff can't help him. He turned to her, and they embraced. They were not moved to tears, just happy to have one another.

"I'm going to check on the boys," Sarah said as they released each other. He nodded, although he knew the little ones would be perfectly alseep and quiet as they had been since they arrived.

He loved Clarissa completely, but for some reason a certain film of paranoia encased his feelings for those he truly loved, almost suggesting that they didn't truly love him back. Cognitively Ben knew this was ridiculous, but his brain often managed to hint otherwise. It was a recurring topic of conversation with Clarissa he could never properly explain. She seemed to understand that it was something different that doubting her love, but these conversations typically ended in frustration for both of them nonetheless.

And now Ben couldn't stop thinking about that night in Vegas. Where had she been? What did she do? Could there be a simple explanation? He couldn't stand not knowing. He would ask when she returned to the kitchen. No big deal, just ask casually.

"Okay, so I'm in little Johnny's room and see that Sarah had put out clothes for tomorrow," Sarah interrupted Ben's thoughts. "Nothing surprising. Then I notice that the hanger is labeled, 'Monday.' Because I'm nosy and can't resist, I look in the closet and see that she has three week's worth of coordinated outfits picked out for him, each one a day-of-the-week hanger AND she did the same for the other boys too!"

Ben shook his head and smiled, not forgetting his plan. Waiting a few seconds, he changed the subject. "Hey, I have a question for you..."

Sub Rosa

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Fri, 8 Aug 2008 10:15:00 -0700

The tinkling chimes at the front door announced Jack's entrance. He stepped into the rich aroma of Grandma's cooking. By now, however, Jack knew the delicious scents were deceptive. Grandma wasn't much of a cook.

"Jack!" Little Joe dived into him.

"Hey little dude. You been keeping Grandpa and Grandma busy?"

"And how," Grandma Jean asnwered. "Comeer you--too big to stay with your ol' grandparents." She hugged Jack. "So what kinda trouble you get yourself into this past week?"

"Oh nothing much. Just sorta hung out."

"Yeah right," Grandma Jean countered with a knowing laugh. "Well, don't just stand there, dinner's waitin'." She headed toward the kitchen.

"Jack," Little Joe tugged at his shirt. "I need ta show ya somethin'."

"Maybe later, Joe. It's dinner time."

"But I reeeeally want ta show ya now!"

"Hurry up, Big Joe," the boys heard Grandma call down to the basement. "My pot roast'll get cold."

"Okay," Jack appeased. "What's the big deal?"

Little Joe led him into the living room, pulled out the old, red photo album, and sat on the sofa. Little Joe motioned him over. He opened to one of the pages with the mystery girl. His pundgy little finger pointing to the suspect, he asked, "Who's that?"

Jack briefly examined the photo and shrugged his shoulders. "Don't know."

Joe looked down, defeated.

Jack suddently realized he was looking at pictures of his dad and Uncle Tom. "Hey, but do you know who these guys are?"

With attitude only a 7-year-old could exude, "I know."

Jack continued to page through the album trying to find pictures of his Uncle Dean. He was upset by the news of Dean's car accident. Dean filled the position of cool uncle perfectly, and Jack idolized him. No luck finding Uncle Dean, but he did see more photos of the girl Joe had asked about. The girl with the green eyes. She was almost always with his dad and Uncle Tom except for a few solo portraits. As he continued to dwell on the girl's identity, Jack heard Big Joe climbing the stairs to dinner.

"Grandpa," he called as he approached with the photo album opened to a picture of her. "Who is this?"

Big Joe flashed an agry look at Little Joe. He redirected himself toward Jack. "Not you too. Why's it so damn important? Just leave me alone about it." He never once looked at her picture.

Undetered, "Come on, Grandpa, she IS in a ton of photos. You don't know who she is?"

"That's enough!" Thundered Big Joe. "Your parents may let you talk outta turn, but not in this house. Now, 'less you want to go without supper, you put that thing down and find yerself a seat at the table."

Unsure why Grandpa Joe was so upset by the picture, Jack complied. The four of them ate dinner in near silence, silverware againt plates making the only sounds. Jack and Joe even omitted the usual exchange of faces to indicate their dislike of Grandma's cooking. Perhaps emboldened by his newfound independence during his parents' weeklong Las Vegas vacation (It had been the first time his parents let him stay home alone), Jack spoke. "I don't get what the big deal is about the picture. I--"

"Out!" Big Joe stood up from his chair and pointed to the door. "You're such a big man to stay by yerself, you just go back home."

"Joe! What's the matter with you?"

"I won't have it, Jean!"

"Won't have what? That they're curious about Karen? Why shouldn't they be? I'm tired of ignoring it. It's only a matter of time before they find out anyway."

"Jean!"

"Oh, settle down old man." Times like these revealed who the real head of household was. Jean took a breath and faced Jack and Little Joe. "That girl you're askin about...that's your Aunt Karen, your dad's sister."

Jack and Little Joe stared at Grandma Jean as if the words she had just spoken would reform around her head to make sense. Big Joe shook his head, left the kitchen, and gallumped down the steps to his basement retreat. Grandma Jean returned to her food. Although they did not speak to each other at the table, Jack and Little Joe knew they would skip dessert (not a big sacrifice) and take out the red photo album to examine more closely.

Husband

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 4 Aug 2008 10:31:00 -0700

Sarah paced the front porch of their home, waiting for Ben and Clarissa to arrive. When the phone had rung only a few minutes after talking to Dean, she knew. Dean was hurt or worse, and even though she may have doubted their devotion to one another, it was clear at this moment their bond was unbreakable. She did something she rarely allowed herself to do. She cried.

It certainly was her daily mission to portray that Dean and Sarah Smithe were not the sterotypical, cold rich couple. Their friends dubbed them the super couple. They were wealthy yet down to earth, successful yet loving, high-society yet laid back. She was a master at hiding all the little imperfections and anything contrary to their image. But the effort this took. Thank God Clarissa had answered her call. Had she not, the next on the list would have been Sempie, Sarah's true foil. Hiding her faults and keeping everything together would be too difficult with Sempie around, and Sarah was distressed enough already.

With this lingering thought, Sarah checked on the boys. Perfectly asleep. The house was spotless in a carefully casual way, and her list of childcare instructions sat neatly on the mohagany kitchen table. Sarah straitened the list so it was square to the edge and placed the pen parallel to its top.

She was about to resume her pacing when headlight beams bounced through the elms. Sarah grabbed her coat and purse, took one last look around, and met Ben and Clarissa at the sidewalk.

"Oh, Sarah, how are you?" Clarissa asked as she emergeg from their rental car, fresh from the airport. They hugged, but Sarah pulled away after a few seconds, eager to get to Dean's side.

"Thanks so much. The boys should sleep through the night, and in case I can't be home before they wake up, I left information on the kitchen table, but no big deal," she lied. "You've raised boys..." Sarah trailed off and headed to the garage.

"Everything will be okay," Ben offered. "Don't worry about the kids. We can stay as long as you need."

Sarah responded with a quiet, "Thanks," climbed into her black Escalade, backed out of her spot, and drove off.

Anathema

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 4 Aug 2008 04:27:00 -0700

Little Joe was elated to have another night at his grandparents. Apparently something sad had happened to his father's cousin, and he and Mom needed to help out. Plus, his brother would be coming over too. He had missed Jack during the past week.

For the moment, however, Little Joe was left to entertain himself in Grandma's livingroom. (All rooms upstairs and on the main floor were Grandma's, and the entire basement was Grandpa's.) He noticed a cabinet he hadn't explored and opened it. There he found several photo albums. He paged through, searching the yellowed poloroids for familiar faces. Nothing.

"Watcha got there?" thundered Grandpa Joe's voice.

Thinking he might be in trouble, Little Joe shrank against the sofa and looked up tentatively.

"Oh, pictures I see. Recognoze anyone?"

"No," Little Joe answered, relieved.

"Here, this is the one you should look at." Grandpa Joe selected a dingy red cloth-covered book from the shelf, plopped down next to Little Joe, and opened it. Pointing to a large wedding photo, he asked, "Do you know these people?"

Little Joe hesitated. "No," he replied.

"Look carefully," Big Joe advised as he raised the book so his face was next to the picture.

The facial features clicked in Little Joe's mind. "Is that you?"

"Yep. So who's this?" pointing to the bride.

"Grandma Jean."

"And," Grandpa Joe paged further into the album, "Who's this?"

"Dad!" Little Joe recognized the person in this picture much more easily. His father looked about ten years old. He was wearing a red and white baseball uniform and hugging a large St. Bernard. Little Joe continued examining the pictures as Grandpa clicked on the television.

Little Joe saw several more pictures of his father along with uncle Tom. He knew his uncle to be fun and entertaining, and the pictures of his youth proved he had always been that way. In a Halloween photo, his father was dressed like a hobo while Uncle Tom was decked out as Gene Simons, make-up and all. Little Joe also came upon a few pictures with his father, Uncle Tom, and some girl. "Who's this?" Little Joe inquired.

"Huh? What?" Big Joe was more interested in the baseball game on tv.

"This one, Grandpa. Who's this?" Little Joe persited, pointing his finger at the young girl.

Big Joe broke from the game and looked at the picture. He paused and looked a bit irritated. "No one important...just some girl...I don't know." Big Joe tried to dismiss Little Joe and directed his eyes back to the tube.

Little Joe looked for other pictures of this unimportant girl. She was easy to spot with her distictive green eyes. There were several more picture of her throughout the years.

"Grandpa, who is this?" Little Joe asked, poiting to a different picture, the girl a few years older.

Big Joe barely glanced at it. "I already tell ya, she ain't important. Why dontcha put that thing away and go bug your grandmother."

"But Grandpa, there are lots of pictures of her."

"Jean!" Big Joe hollared. Jean! Get in her please."

Grandma Jean appeared in the doorway, dishrag in hand. "What you shoutin' at me for, old man?"

"Get that damn photo book away from him. He's gonna wreck it."

Irritated at Big Joe's orders, Jean stomped over and looked over Little Joe's shoulder. She saw Little Joe's finger tapping a picture of a girl and immediately understood why Big Joe was so flustered.

"This is not for you," Grandma admonished Little Joe. "Come help me in the kitchen." Jean casually took the photo album, put it back into the cabinet, and returned to the kitchen.

Little Joe was frustrated about the picture, but knew he had done something wrong and didn't want his grandparents to be angry with him. He followed Grandma Jean into the kitchen, and she gave him the job of drying and putting away the silerware. He wanted to ask her about the picture but would settle for asking Jack later that night.

A word from the author

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 4 Aug 2008 04:09:00 -0700

Breaking from the story, I thought I'd give a bit of background about this story I've begun. To begin, I have no idea where this story will go. BUT I do have a couple pegs in the ground to help guide this wandering into fiction.

1. Each "chapter" or blog entry uses an SAT-type word as its title. I get up early (earlier than my two boys), visit dictionary.com for a word of the day, and look for inspiration. If the word of the day doesn't do it for me, I check the word-of-the-day archives for ideas. So far, I have applied a word to each character. I will probably now move to connecting the word to an event.

2. Before I started blogging, I created a simple family tree I thought could lend itself to a few possibilities. I have included it below. The number in ( ) indicates the character's current age. At this point I doubt I will use all characters listed, and I may decide to change names and/or ages.

The Smithe Family:

Arthur + Adelle = Big Joe (67), Clarence (Clancy) (63), Emily (60), Walter (55), Ruth (50)

Big Joe (67)+ Jean (66) = Ben (45), Karen (34), Tom (43)
Ben (45)+ Clarissa (39) = Little Joe (5), Jack (17)
Tom (43) + Lynnette (43) = no kids

Clarence (63) + Marrianne (60) = Kevin (45), Dean (47)
Kevin (45) + Sempie (46) = Tenon (18), Tara (18), Lander (12)
Dean (47) + Sarah (45) = Matt (5), Mark (5), Luke (5), John (5)

Emily (60) Not Married

Walter (55) + Cindy (35) = no kids

Ruth (50) Deceased

Panoply

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Fri, 1 Aug 2008 10:19:00 -0700

"Let me guess: you're running late," Sarah dead panned without waiting to hear who was on the other end of the phonecall.

"Look, I know you're upset but Jack's retirement party-"

"You missed hearing about their first day," Sarah interrupted, cutting off Dean's excuse. The empty space in their dialogue meant Dean was lost, didn't understand what she was talking about because he forgot. "Their first day...?" she repeated. "The boys had their first day of kindergarten...?"

"Oh, yeah...well, put me on speaker and let me talk to them a minute," was his sorry attempt at making up for his blunder.

"They're in bed, Dean. It's already nine."

"Dammit. Okay, I'll take them into school tomorrow and go to work late. They'll like that."

No response.

"I'm sorry, Sarah. I just get so wrapped up in things here and-"

She let him off the hook as usual. "It's okay. I know you work hard. I just don't want you to miss everything. When do you think you'll be home?" Sarah hated caving. She was furious, but she wasn't interested in wasting time on a phone argument that would go nowhere.

"Um, I'm not sure...definitely before midnight."

They finished their conversation with the usual love-yous and good-byes. Dean put down his cell and shifted into fourth, picking up speed for the on ramp. It would be another fifteen minutes to Jack's party at the country bar, so Dean let his mind wander.

Despite the minor tiff on the phone, life was good. He had a prized wife, a prized home, a prized car, a prized family, and a prized salary. So what if he had to put in late nights; it was worth it, and Sarah seemed to enjoy running their home. In fact, if he were home more, he'd just be in the way.

He enjoyed the envy of his colleagues and knew that even his brother, Kevin, was jealous. He would always say, "I don't envy you, Dean," but Dean knew he did; Kevin was just too blinded by his tree-hugger, make-love-not-war ways to realize it. Kevin never knew how to tap his potential. Even now, since the lucky bastard's EnviroSpeak was catching the wave of the earth conscious, he seemed to back off. Dean wouldn't be surprised if Kevin's "trusted" underlings organized a corporate take over and Kevin lost everything. Although, he'd still have Sempie...

As Dean sped down the interstate, the image of Sempie's face suddenly coverted into that of the deer that had sprung in front of his Mercedes. His foot jamming the break to the floor, Dean could only stare into the bright, frozen eyes of the doe and wait for the collision.

Schadenfreude

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 05:40:00 -0700

It was the first gift on her way back to a semi-normal life, courtesy of the the dirty-faced, willfull twins who had stretched their mother's patience too thinly.

The poor woman stood desperate in the supermarket isle of disaster as her boys, probably age four, continued to pull boxes of cereal from the shelves, ignoring all civil requests to stop. The store manager even tried to step in. How embarrasing. Finally a loud, angry yet helpless "STOP!" pierced the air, and the action did stop if only for a moment. Shoppers turned to look at the young mother who had just broken, shook their heads, and wheeled their carts away from the mess. The twins looked at each other, laughed, and continued their rein of terror over Kellogs and General Mills.

The mother, with a sad, empty look, calmly grabbed her children by the hand, walked like a zombie toward the exit (despite the resistant pulling and biting), and left the chaos for someone else to clear away.

Sarah was gleeful at the scene and tried hard to hide it, but she was sure the mother saw the slight smile on her face as she passed with her struggling children. Sarah didn't care. Why should she? Her own five-year-old quadruplets were in their first day of school, and Sarah was enjoying her first day of freedom in five years.

Alone she managed to raise four obedient girls, and doing so in her early forties made the task doubly difficult. Twin trouble was nothing. It only seemed fair that Sarah take in scenes like this as payback. Besides, she would need to pick up the girls from kindergarten in a couple hours and would need something to sustain her spirits.

Laconic

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 05:07:00 -0700

Unlike most hippies, Kevin felt no need to expound on progressive ideals; he simply lived them, and this is what attracted Sempie the most.

Instead of working against big business, he tried to work with it, another seemingling anti-hippie quality. For twenty years he had owned EnviroSpeak, an ad agency dedicted to educating the public about the environement and supporting other companies that do the same.

In a time when every corporation was riding the "green" bandwagon and leveraging consumers' environmental guilt, Kevin spent much of his time researching which companies were sincere in their quest to befriend the earth. Those who passed the test made the list of potential clients.

Kevin was also not the stereotypical businessman. So dedicated was he in using corporate power to stop environmentally hazordous activity that even in the early lean years--when going green wasn't fashionable, when he had to beg to do PSAs gratis, when Sempie and the toddler twins depended on Saint Vincent DePaul's and double-coupon Wednesdays--Kevin never faltered from his mission. Of course, Sempie's faith and support were key.

Through his casual, softspoken, yet descriminating approach, he had quietly become the lead advertising agency in Madison, promoting only those companies and products truly committed to the cause. True to his hippie soul, however, Kevin's lifestyle hadn't changed much in the face of such financial success. More money meant, a) more money to donate and, b) more time with family since he could hire more employees.

The best change was Kevin could now join Sempie and the kids for double-coupon Wednesdays and St. Vinny trips.

Ebullient

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Wed, 23 Jul 2008 19:51:00 -0700

As her twelve year old blended into the blur of soccer commotion, Sempie lay stomach down on her quilt, reading her latest library find, basking in the summer freshness. She looked up from the book to see Lander trip and fall as an oponent stole the ball. He got to his feet easily, flashed a good natured smile, and hustled back into play. A familiar happiness swirled within Sempie, and she savored the moment.

Most of the other soccer mom's simply dropped their children off at the camp and picked them up three hours later when it was finished. With her twin girls all but out of the house, however, Sempie indulged her need to be near her baby Landon. So on the sidelines she remained, with her supply of reading materials, water, and sun block.

Unable to focus on her book, Sempie set it aside and shifted her position. She tried to follow the game but lost herself in memories of her son.

Onlookers would see Sempie's smile, her long blonde hair, and never suspect that she was ten years older than the 35 years she appeared to be. Those who spent any amount of time with Sempie were only briefly jealous. Although she seemed to lead a charmed life, her kindness and generosity never tired, and her love of life was impressive and contagious.

Sempie lauged as the stray ball knocked from her mind the image of a three-year old Landon trying to tie his shoes. She quickly got to her feet, retrieved the soccer ball, and tossed it to the closest player. Once again, she and Landon caught eyes and smiled. Sempie returned to her quilt and continued to delight in her perfect life.

Malinger

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Sat, 19 Jul 2008 05:54:00 -0700

This time Lynnette actually searched through the yellow pages for a divorce lawyer, but she didn't know what to look for. Her fantasies of divorce had begun shortly after her marriage. She knew Tom was not perfect--not her soul mate, but she had been so tired of holding out for Mr. Right. Tom was sweet, had treated Lynnette like a queen, but the typical priorities of an adult--working a steady job, paying bills, wanting to start a family--eluded him. Lynnette had hoped that marriage would bring out a more responsible Tom, but her hopes did not pan out.

Begrudgingly, Lynnette left the phonebook to check on him. This morning's malady was a mysterious backache.

"How are you doing, honey?"

"I gotta stay home again. It's just not going away even after the Alleve."

"You know they're going to fire you. You've been officially at Dunby's for two weeks, and you've missed more days than worked."

"Whaddaya want me to do? I can't help it."

He was probably right about that, Lynnette thought, frustrated. She felt the fight rise inside her, but it was not worth getting into it just before she had to go to work. Lynnette signed, muttered a "just get some rest," and left the bedroom with no further eye contact.

Tom had the strange ability to think himself into an illness. Although his back had been fine, he could now feel a dull ache. Besides, staying home in bed, nursing an imaginary migrain, pretend flu, or impending backache was much more tolerable than working in some dirty, demeaning factory. Fired? Who cared? Tom did not plan to return to that place anyway.

Tom had no other calling in life than to simply exist. He thought inspiration might strike once he was married, but it didn't. Lazy? Yes. Dumb? No. He had always known that he was not the man Lynnette needed or wanted and was always a bit surprised to find her in bed every morning, that she hadn't finally left him. He wished he could be more for her. Why couldn't he have inherited millions from some long lost wealthy aunt? His days of trying to get out of work would be over, and Lynnette could retire early. She could finally understand the appeal of his lifestyle.

Hungry, Tom eased himself out of bed. Lynnette had stopped making breakfast for him on his "sick" days years ago. As he shuffled into the kitchen, Tom noticed the prominent divorce lawyer ads. Although he was not surprised, it touched off a sadness deep inside. She would never go through with it, but maybe he should, to set her free.

Tatterdemalion

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Fri, 18 Jul 2008 04:51:00 -0700

"Keep walking, Jen. Just loook staight ahead. Make no eye contact," Kurt advised.

"That's rude. She's a person just like everyone else on the city sidewalks."

"Come on. She's dressed in rags and talking to herself. That's not just like everyone else."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I didn't realize I was with such an elitist, judgemental jerk." Jenny released Kurt's hand and trained her gaze on the homeless woman. At first she thought she was old, probably unable to support herself after retirement or after the death of her longtime spouse. But as she neared, Jen could see the youthfulness that had been covered by layers of filth. The woman had to be in her mid thirties.

Jenny left Kurt's side and veered toward the woman.

"Christ, Jen. What the hell are you doing?" Jenny didn't respond and spotted a park bench about five feet away from the woman. Kurt's remarks more than illustrated a first date gone wrong, but also touched a guilt of her own. Had Kurt said nothing, she probably would have kept walking and ignored this woman. Jenny didn't plan on confronting her, but she was close enough that the woman may confront Jenny, and perhaps, Jenny could confront her guilt.

Kurt wanted to asked Jenny if she was trying to make a new friend but realized that her physical distance from him would require a loud enough yell as to make a scene, so he swallowed his sarcasm and hovered by the newspaper stand.

It was easy for Jenny to stare at the homeless woman without being detected. The woman was so engrossed in conversation with herself, although Jenny could not decipher; it sounded like a foreign language. A gaunt woman, she didn't have as many wrinkles as Jenny had originally thought. Instead, her thin face was streaked with dirt, and her long, slightly frizzy hair seemed to be encased by a film of dust. She wore a few thin, dingy layers, too large for her small frame. As she gestured with her right hand while making a point, her clothes drooped to reveal a grayish-brown shoulder.

In his attempt to ignore Jenny, Kurt snuck a look at her, saw she was still by the homeless woman, rolled his eyes, and returned to his paper. He was on page five but had no idea what he had supposedly read.

The woman's quick turn toward Jenny startled her. Jenny did not look away, but it was clear that the woman was not looking at Jenny. Her eyes faced Jenny but were focussed on some nonexistent entity. She continued her rant, which was still unstranslatable. Jenny continued to stare. She couldn't help it. The woman's eyes drew her in. Everything else about the woman was dull, gray, brown. Easy to blend and ignore. Even her odd monlogue became particles of whitenoise. But her green eyes denied anything about homelessness, almost made Jenny feel as if the woman was completely sane to argue with herself in public. Almost.

By the time Jenny decided that the homeless woman would not approach her, she got up from the bench, rejoined the still bustling sidewalk traffic, and headed toward her apartment. She never once thought about Kurt. Instead her thoughts fixated on the woman and her green eyes. She hoped to see her again.

Mephitic

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Wed, 16 Jul 2008 04:55:00 -0700

To be safe, Jack had only four hours to clean the puke out of the bathrooms, remove the stains of unknown substances that peppered carpets around the house, and plain sterilize every room his party guests inhabited the night before. Not only must the place visually satisfy his parents, they must also not smell anything suspicious, and this is where Jack's greatest concern lie.

Jack hadn't really noticed when he awoke, facedown on the floor next to his bed. But when he reentered the house after his first garbage run, the stench overpowered--a mephitic coctail of beer, smoke, vomit, sweat, and old pizza. He collapsed into a kitchen chair and took a few minutes to feel sorry for himself.

Why couldn't his parents stay in Las Vegas another day? Maybe they would actually gamble, but probably not. How pointless. They would return exactly when they said they would: 3pm. They would be excited and gushing about the trip while scanning the place for signs of his disobedience.

Jack snapped out of his self-comiserating haze. He had to focus on the mountainous tasks that lay ahead. There might be something rotten at the Smithe house, but Jack hoped he could hide that from his folks.

Reconteur

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 04:01:00 -0700

Little Joe snuck glances at his gradfather while picking at his macaroni and cheese. He was "Little" Joe during his stay with his grandparents for ease of distguishing him from his namesake. Little Joe loved this connection to his grandfather and hoped to be as good a storyteller as him some day.

He had been secretly watching him during lunch for this very reason. That and the fact that Grandpa couldn't cook. Little Joe's plate of lumpy, pale orange paste could not hold his attention as much as the wrinkles around Big Joe's eyes.

During the bedtime rituals as set forth by his grandparents, Little Joe would take his shower, as surpervised by Grandma Jean, slip on his jammies, and fall asleep to one of Big Joe's stories. It was the only time Big and Little Joe connected, as if Big Joe could only communicate through story-telling, and he didn't want to run out of stories to tell. Even though Big Joe didn't say much outside of the bedtime stories, the stories were more than enough to impress Little Joe.

The previous night's story had been especially engaging, and actually scary at times. Big Joe talked about the Yukon gold rush and its arduous and dangerous journey. He even talked about how the harsh condtions affected sledgogs, especially one named Buck. As always, Big Joe talked like he was there.

Little Joe had never paid much attention to the time frame of the stories. At most, some comment like, "when I was a boy" or "many summers ago" was included. Last night, however, Big Joe had specially mentioned the year, 1897, so Little Joe furtively examined his grandfather for evidence of his age. Could Big Joe be that old? If not, how did he know the story so well? He hoped his parents would stay on their Las Vegas vacation long enough to find out.

Cupidity

noreply@blogger.com (Lisa Carothers) — Mon, 14 Jul 2008 06:05:00 -0700

She had that feeling she was doing wrong, or was it just nerves? Clarissa Smithe perferred to think the latter. After all, people gambled at casinos all the time, and they were in Las Vegas. "They" included her husband who was currently sleeping safely in their budget hotel room.

Ben's perpetual paranoia at times overshadowed his loving manner. The trip to Vegas exemplified this, even though Clarissa had originally agreed that they would not gamble--just go to see the gaudy sights of the strip. A fun, quick get away that the two of them desperately needed. But when Clarissa mentioned during their flight the idea of gambling just a small amount, Tom responed with a road block of disagreement.

If Clarissa were honest with herself, she would admit that gambling had been her plan all along. She had smuggled her own one hundred dollars for that very purpose. It wasn't as if they were poor, but financial restraint constantly peppered Ben's comments. Her parents had been the same, but they really had been poor. She shouldn't have to worry so much now, but Ben did.

Clarissa had privately worked herself into a defiant justification, and so there she stood with the dice in her hands, ready to roll. If she lost, she would say nothing. If she won...she would say nothing.