Her head rang from jangles and sirens and the neighbor’s too loud tv. She couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t write. A nap, maybe all she needed was a nap. But that didn’t work either. She grabbed her keys and drove to the lake.  The din fell away as she walked the water’s edge and the wind tugged the tangles from her mind. Gulls squabbled, turning somersaults in the air before plunging into the waves to snag a silver treasure. Waves lapped at her feet, erased her footprints, denied her existence. With a deep breath, she smelled the sand, water, dead fish and life. Her heart cracked open expelling a tension she hadn’t recognized she held. Without thinking, she sank to her knees and wrote.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

I first saw her in the spring. Chance morning meetings turned into regular occurrences. She was cute, and I looked forward to seeing her, but I forgot her before I got to work. Her business did not concern me. One morning I realized she was hungry. It took several days before I got my act together and remembered to open a can of tuna on my way out the door. The days passed, and she greeted me as I left for work, winding around my legs, expecting me to stroke her head or perhaps waiting for me to feed her.

One rainy night, I pulled into the driveway, my headlights capturing glowing eyes on my doorstep. That night everything changed. She was soaking wet and looked pathetic. Her blues eyes looked at me, she opened her mouth and mewed. She had never spoken. My heart melted and when I opened the front door she dashed inside.

Her body was a dark cream but her face, tail and the tips of her ears were a warm chocolate brown. Her marking reminded me of a chocolate truffle and that became her name. She wakes me every morning and rushes to the door to welcome me home each night. Every evening she climbs into my lap.  I pet her while she purrs and then falls asleep. I can’t remember my life without Truffles.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

No sane person is out today. So here I am practicing my insanity. Why was it always me? Oh, I listened to their half-baked pseudo-logical arguments, concocted to serve the one telling the story. There is no point in arguing. I tried that before. The weather forecast calls for hazardous driving conditions, freezing rain, ice, and snow. The trip begins with all of it, including white-out conditions. I follow the taillights of the semi in front of me, trusting the driver will keep it between the ditches.

The truth revolves around money and betrayal. I risked everything, swallowed my fear and betrayed my family by leaving. Making my way alone had not been easy, but eventually, things fell my way. I traveled the world, negotiated deals, and they paid me well. The workday never ended, and priorities were squeezed but it was worth it.

The weather cleared as I drove past farmhouses and pastures. Lights in the houses painted an impression of cheery fires and happy families. As I drove, I wondered what it was like to never venture over fifty miles from the place you were born. The miles slipped away, and I felt my life slipping, fading into my rear-view mirror.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

I can’t put it off any longer. I waited all day, but inspiration never hit. Resigned, I sit at the desk flip open the laptop and open another Word document. I am at the point where I need to write something, anything to honor my commitment. I stare at the blank page and try to type. Words appear on the screen. Words I write and delete and re-write. Ten minutes later I have a whopping seventy words starting back at me.

I sigh. I will be here all night. Someone else sighs in the empty room. She is here, reading over my shoulder.

“Um, I’m writing here.”

“Ha! You call that writing? Oh, before you get all indignant with me.  Yes, you could call it writing, but it is far from good. I know, I know. You are trying. And you know how much I hate it when you beg. So, do you want my help?”

“Yes, please?”

“Great! Well! We are not writing that skatá. Open a new document. A new document. A new document. Please.”

I watch as she spins around the room, her robes billowing behind her as she sings the words at me. She drops into the wingback chair, drapes a naked leg over the arm and peers back at me.

“Well?” she asks.

“Word says ‘Not Responding’ and the little curser thingy is spinning.”

“Word is talking to you, darling, Not me,” she says as she waves a hand in my general direction and document number thirteen opens.

“Ready.”

“Fabulous, darling, now we begin.”

She dictates, and I type. I throw in an occasional suggestion and sometimes she smiles and tells me to write. Time does not exist but the words accumulate. I read it back and check for my “clumsy mistakes”.

“This is good,” I say when I finish reading.

“Yes, it is. You are not dealing with an amateur,”  she says and dramatically flips her scarf over her shoulder.

“Would you mind helping me with the other piece?” I asked without looking at her. I am too busy hitting the save button.

“What? That wretched thing you were mangling?”

“Well, yes. If you could just give me a few pointers?”

She puffs her cheeks and lets the air out with a pop.

“I am too good to you.”

“I know.”

“What are you trying to say?” she asks.

With that bit of urging it spews, and I discover, to my horror, that I have a bad case of verbal diarrhea.

“Cut it out, cut it out,” she says bouncing up and down behind my chair and pointing at my screen.

“Sorry, is it that bad?”

“No, no, no.  Cut out the part there and write what you said.”

And we are off again. And once again I re-read and hit save. It is amazing what I accomplish when she is present.

“Are we finished?” she asks as she places both hands in the small of her back and leans backward.

“For tonight.”

“Oh, wonderful. Any peeled grapes for me darling?”

“Ah, no?”

“Pity. The day job is such a grind,” she says and walks over to the couch.

“You realize it is midnight?”

“So, I do a little moonlighting,” she says as she snuggles into the cushions and pulls the throw over her, “but only for the brightest and most promising.”

“I bet you say that to all your devotees.”

She gives me half a smile and taps her right index finger twice on her temple.

“Same time tomorrow?”

There is no response. The couch is empty, and I smile at the crumpled throw.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

The Air BNB listing said it was close to the city center, clean, one bedroom, a kitchenette, a bath and a lounge. And it was cheap. I submitted the deposit confirming the three-month booking. On the flight, I slept, it kept me from thinking. From the airport, I boarded a train that whisked me to the small mountain town. My bag bumped across the cobbles as I followed the directions on my phone.

He met me with the keys and walked me up to the second floor. He gave me the Wi-Fi password and said I should call him if I needed anything. The rental was exactly as advertised. He was nice, but I couldn’t wait for him to leave. The door shut behind him and I listened to his footsteps carry him downstairs and onto the street. The breath I had been holding since before I boarded the plane escaped and I collapsed on the left side of the couch. I ran my fingers through my hair and wondered if I would really do this.

I had come this far. Reaching under the couch, I felt along the frame until I found the gun.

__________________________________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

I wanted to punch Alastor and make him shut up. But, I had almost wrestled my prized possession from the garbage bin. One more good yank should do it. With both hands, I grabbed the red metal, braced my feet against the bin and pulled. The garbage bags tore, spewing their contents everywhere as I felt myself flying backward, holding tight to my prize.

I hit the ground, hard, knocking the air from my lungs, before my tricycle landed on me. I heard Alastor laughing, heckling me, calling me a “dumb ass”. He stood, pointing, slapping his leg as he doubled over, braying at me. My lungs filled with air, I gasped and struggled to sit.

Embedded in my palms were pebbles from the gravel alley. I tried to brush them away and realized I had tears in my eyes. Alastor wasn’t going to see me cry. Determined to complete my task, I brushed at the remaining pebbles and wiped my eyes. Standing wasn’t easy, it required kicking and pushing my bike with all the force I could muster.

I looked at my bike. It had been shiny and new when Santa brought it and I couldn’t wait to ride it. Christmas morning, I had stroked the sparkly red streamers attached to the handlebar, letting them slide through my fingers. Now one was missing. My bike looked like it belonged in the garbage. Alastor had broken one back wheel, bent the front rim and scratched the red paint. I wanted to beat Alastor until his face looked like my bike.

Instead, I grabbed the detached wheel and pushed and rolled and dragged my bike to the porch. The gear I needed was already there, waiting. Tank who lived two doors away rode a really big bike, a motorcycle that thundered and shook the pictures on the walls when he went by. Every night when he got home he chained his bike to his front porch, and that is what I planned to do. I threaded the chain through the front tire spokes and around the post, locked the padlock and put the key in my pocket.

My bike wasn’t going anywhere. And it wasn’t because of the chain and padlock. Tears gathered again, but I fought them back. Tank was always working on his bike. Maybe he would help me with mine. I checked the padlock one last time and headed to Tank’s house.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

My mother started my addiction. I woke to each morning as a child to the aroma of coffee. Coffee my mother made. It seeped into my bedroom tickled my nose and insisted I get up. It was more persuasive than any alarm clock could be. Coffee wiggled into my brain, pulled my lethargic body from the bed and reeled me into the kitchen. The food on the table was inconsequential, rendered unpalatable by the intoxicating allure of coffee. Mornings and coffee are so entwined in my conscience there is no way to separate them.

It wasn’t until I entered high school that my total indoctrination began. A full schedule of social engagements, extracurricular activities, and work meant I started homework late in the evening. Coffee came to my rescue, allowing me to compete with my peers and excel. The trend continued into college.

Then the doctors published articles stating coffee was bad for you. The cited increased blood pressure, insomnia, incontinence, indigestion, and headaches.  How appalling. They couldn’t be speaking about my beloved coffee.  So, I turned my back on it, cold turkey.

The biggest surprise was that I didn’t suffer from the withdrawal systems they warned me about. Zip, zilch, nada. But I listened to the reports, denying my desire until it faded into nothingness. Years passed, and my life remained free of coffee; a life that was a little less full, a little less aromatic, devoid of a morning ritual. The pendulum swung, they conducted new studies and published new reports. Now they extolled the beneficial properties of coffee. I was flabbergasted; I was duped, bamboozled, hoodwinked into a course of action based on what amounted to a defamation of the good character of my beloved coffee.

We have reunited me and my morning cup of Joe. A ritual I will never again break.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

In Season

Elenore raced downstairs to the kitchen. The aroma of morning coffee told her she had overslept, and she’d better hurry, or there wouldn’t be any food left. She slid onto the bench next to her eldest brother and he passed a platter of scrambled eggs.

“Joshua! You can put that last slice of bacon on Elenore’s plate,” he said.

Joshua froze, the bacon suspended inches from his open mouth and shot David a dirty look.

“But I’m still hungry.”

David picked up Elenore’s plate and held it in front of Joshua. He didn’t say a word. Joshua sighed dropping the bacon on the plate next to the last of the scrambled eggs.

“Thank you, Joshua,” Elenore smiled as David deposited the plate in front of her.

“There’s oatmeal if you’re still hungry,” Gram called from the sink, her back to the table.

Grampa slid a buttered toast triangle from his plate to Elenore’s.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, Grampa and I had the best dream.”

“Did you now?” Grampa’s silver eyebrow arched, wrinkles spreading across his forehead.

“Mm, I dreamed Gram, and I were making my favorite jam.”

“Elenore, how many times have I told you not to speak with your mouth full?”

Elenore’s eyes bugged out, and she swallowed before answering, “Sorry Gram.”

“Were there pork chops as well?” Grampa winked and smiled at her before he pushed his chair back from the table.

“Yes.”

“What do you think Babe?” Grampa asked making his way to the sink to give Gram a peck on the check.

“I think you’re dreaming too.”

Grampa chuckled and pushed open the screen door. The boys got up without him asking and followed him to the barn.

Elenore finished her breakfast then stacked the plates and flatware and carried them to the counter beside the sink. Gram handed her a damp rag, so she could wipe the table and chairs. They continued their morning work until the kitchen was spotless.

“May I see if they are ready?” Elenore’s voice broke the silence.

“Take a basket with you.”

Elenore picked up the basket and slipped out the door. She squinted as she looked at the kitchen garden. A warm breeze tickled the plants, bending them back and forth in an elaborate dance. Elenore danced too, her basket spinning she skipped past the garden towards her destination. It wasn’t far. Approaching the thicket, she flushed blackbirds from the bushes.

“Go away birds!” she shouted, “You can’t have my gooseberries.” She waved her arms and ran the last few yards. The birds squawked in protest as they flapped into the blue sky.

She eyed the purple and green translucent gems. She pulled a deep purple berry from its stem and popped it in her mouth.  It made her pucker and then smile with delight. They were ready. With her full basket, her dream would soon come true.

______________________

Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer