writing

Fixer Upper

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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.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Coffee

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Photo on Visual Hunt

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.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Technological Advancements — Friday Fictioneers July 6

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Title: Technological Advancements
Source:  Friday Fictioneers sponsored by Rochelle Wisoff-Fields-Addicted to Purple
Word count: 100 words

PHOTO PROMPT © J Hardy Carroll

A single sentinel stood in the plaza, a prosthetic leg seemingly abandoned by its owner. The inquisitive approached, and that’s when the leg moved like a radio-controlled car taking a spin around the block. Or the leg would roll behind someone until they noticed. The women screamed, and the men jumped and laughed. Whether they laughed from embarrassment or amusement was difficult to tell.

The boys sat nearby with the controller.

“You sure your dad is ok with this,” Joey asked for the millionth time.

“Yeah, he thinks it’s funny, and he wants us to update his new one too.”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Peter’s Express – FFfPP #27

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Title: Peter’s Express
Source:  FLASH FICTION FOR THE PURPOSEFUL PRACTITIONER- 2018 WEEK #27
Word count:  156 words

black-and-white-person-train-motion-42153 Pixel photo

Lou hurried down the stairs, late his first day back since the incident. Turning the corner, he stopped face to face with Peter. Peter stood motionless, his back to the rails and the speeding express. He stared at Lou the question plastered on his face. Someone knocked into Lou and he looked away, off balance. When he turned, Peter had disappeared into a swirl of air left by the express. Lou tried to dismiss the image.

He never knew Peter; the cops introduced them last week. A college student going to class they said. They questioned him looking for a connection, a motive. A security camera analysis gave them an unsatisfactory answer. The crowd veered, like a school of fish, and Lou swayed with them, knocking into Peter. Off balance, Peter fell onto the rails in front of the oncoming express. A freak accident Lou would question every morning when he saw Peter and the express.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Barriers – 100WW 78

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Title: Barriers
Source: 100 Word Wednesday: Week 78
Word count: 100 words

Image by Bikurgurl

Her brothers were the focus of the family. Her father told her so. She had earned better grades and scored higher on the tests than any of them. But they were the ones rewarded with what she desperately desired. He sent her brothers to college.

She worked two jobs and took as many classes as she could afford, subsisting on Raman. The girls from her chem class sat talking. As she approached, they grew silent and stared are her, stared at her fish-belly white skin, slight form and her blond hair. She knew the stereotype they saw and kept walking.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Trust

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Adahy began his day long before sunrise. Accustomed to walking long distances without stopping, he left no evidence of his passing. The thick forest made the trail difficult to follow, but he was sure of his skills. As the day passed, Adahy worried if perhaps the directions were wrong.

He stopped and closed his eyes. Once again, he sat at the fire speaking with Hania. They spoke for only a short time, but Hania’s gave specific directions and Adahy focused on each word, committing the conversation to memory.  Adahy retraced his steps comparing them to Hania’s directions. He trusted his memory and his skills; so, he wondered if Hania lied to him.

The stakes were too high, so he kept walking as the sun slid towards the horizon. At last, he saw the trail tree, and it looked exactly as Hania had described.  Adahy sighted along the trunk of the tree as instructed. With the location fixed he broke into a run. The sun was setting, and his future depended on him reaching the camp before the ax fell.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Remembering Roses — FFfAW # 172

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Title:  Remembering Roses
Source: Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers
Word count:  150 words

This week’s photo prompt is provided by Michelle De Angelis. Thank you, Michelle!

I pulled the box out of the closet and brushed the dust from the top before opening it. This box was full of photos. I had never seen some of them, others showed images of friends and family, looking much younger than they did now. As I flipped through them, one old Polaroid caught my attention and transported me back in time.

It was a hot and humid day, so we drove to the botanical gardens. She loved to walk the paths through the fragrant roses. She pointed to different flowers and called them by their Latin names. Old friends, she said laughing. We talked about many things that day and our talk helped. It was one of the many things I loved about her.

I brushed the tears flowing down my cheeks, set the box in the pile of things to keep and slipped the photo into my pocket.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

Good Dog Gunner

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Photo on Visualhunt

Gunner’s nose twitched, pulling his head from his sleeping position. His eyes opened slowly and focused on my face. I smiled, and he got to his feet shaking his body from the nose to his tail, in the way dogs do. When he stopped, he was awake, his nose sniffed the air until he caught the scent. He was a smart dog. The nose told me he knew about the treats in my pocket.

I patted his head calling him a good dog, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Brown puppy dog eyes tried to melt me into submission. I was strong. He cocked his head and I could hear the voice in his head. I watched him and didn’t say a word. He pranced and wagged his tail and the nose wiggled, confirming there were yummy cookies he should be eating. Growing impatient he bayed.

“Shh,” I whispered, and he cocked his head again trying to understand.

“Sit,” the command was firm, and Gunner’s eyes shifted from my face to my pocket and back to my face.

“Sit,” I said again. I held my breath as he wavered, thinking, learning.

Then Gunner sat, tail thumping on the floor, nose twitching, waiting. He didn’t wait long, and the treat disappeared in an instant. Gunner got up, but the nose focused him on the scent – more treats in my pocket. He stared at me and sat once more.

Training had begun.

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer

My Favorite Frigate — 3 Line Tales # 126

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From Sonya’s 3LineTales at Only100Words.
You can find the original prompt here. Thank you, Sonya.

photo by Mark Dalton via Unsplash

I normally incorporate the two-and-a-half miles of the Freedom Trail into my early morning run.

My favorite part is running through Charlestown Navy Yard, past Pier 1 where Old Ironsides is berthed.

As I run, my heart swells with pride and I hum “O say can you see by the dawn’s early light…”

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Keep on writing.

Jo Hawk The Writer