by

feud

Rudy’s angry.

At Brad.

Because his room is a mess.

Again.

As usual.

Rudy’s shoulders are hunched.

His chest puffed with air.

Arms lifted off the sides of his body.

His face scowling.

His feet stomping.

He stands tall, threatening, intimidating.

Brad lifts himself off his bed.

Plants his feet firmly on his bedroom floor.

Stands toe-to-toe with Rudy.

And looks his dad in the eyes.

Surprised, Rudy has nothing to say.

Doesn’t respond.

Is taken aback by the fact that his son is no longer a little boy.

A boy that needs to be told what to do.

No.

No more.

Rudy stomps his heavy feet out of the room.

Brad feels validated.

In control.

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elizabeth

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The neighbors had been diligently preening, pruning, and pampering their small rose garden, which lay along side our driveway.

Elizabeth was 4 years old. She was out front, enjoying the sunshine and twirling around. She was amazed with how the hem of her skirt would fly out, away from her legs. She’d laugh and twirl some more, oblivious to her surroundings. Until, suddenly she noticed, for the first time, the white roses that were blooming just a few feet from her. She stopped. Stared. And walked toward them. She sniffed. She touched. Then she picked one of those prize winning flowers.

Mommy, here, this is for you, she squealed as she ran onto the front porch.

Where did you get such a lovely flower? I asked her.

Over there, she pointed towards the edge of our drive.

Yikes! I screamed inside my head.

Elizabeth held my hand, happily walking me over to her find. And there stood our neighbor; a tall, burly man, scratching his head, looking at the roses with a scowl on his face. Without much thought I squeezed Elizabeth’s hand a bit too tight. Ouch! she growled.

After many apologizes from me, and a confused look on Elizabeth’s face, we slowly walked back into the house. I explained to her, as best as I could explain to a four year old, that what she did was inappropriate, that she can’t just take things that didn’t belong to her. She seemed to understand, and confirmed as much when she returned a short time later with a beautiful picture she had drawn of the rose garden, emphasizing the white rose she had plucked. I walked with her to the neighbor’s front door. She knocked hard, barely making a sound, but enough that the door opened wide.

Sorry, she told the man.

All I could do was smile politely, hoping the colorful picture would mean as much to him as his fragrant rose.

by

daphne

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Me. A young girl. In third or fourth grade. A girl scout. Loyal. True Blue. Until the day I did the unspeakable. I used my collected girl scout cookie money to purchase a pair of Vans tennis shoes.

My co-conspirator and I were walking, going door to door, dropping off pre-ordered cookies, collecting $1.oo dollar a box? money, and stuffing it into an over-sized protective envelope. The money was safe there. Until we thought we could use some. Spend it. On ourselves. Without anyone knowing. Just one pair of gotta have shoes, for each of us.

We browsed. Looked at the various colors. Simple colors. Original colors. Like black, grey, dark blue, light blue, and white. I chose not dark, but light blue. We walked out. Big smiles on our faces. New shoes on our feet.

The plan. I would tell my mom that her mom bought them for me. And she would tell her mom that my mom bought them for her. Seemed simple. Logical. No big deal.

How nice! My mom stated. I really must call. To say thank you.

Oh, no, don’t worry, I responded. I already told her.

I watched my mom count the cookie money. And then. That’s when. I knew. I had made a big mistake. Just as I was coming up with a new plan. A new explanation. My mom looked up at me. Just looked. She didn’t say a word. But I knew she knew. And boy did I feel guilty. And bad.

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computer

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Carlos was told that his school’s annual test was going to be fun. Rewarding. Personal. A test that will help him, as an individual, grow to his highest potential. Carlos began to imagine it.

His teacher, Mr. Comp told him he’d be taking his state-mandated test on the computer, instead of bubbling in multiple-choice answers. “Carlos, imagine sitting in front of the computer and being presented with open-ended question after open-ended question, in all subjects.”

Carlos tweaked his head to the side, trying to picture it.

“And, rather than feeling pressured to perform, you are given time to think about, and plan your answers,” his teacher continued.

Carlos was seeing it. Liking the idea.

The questions would be scaffolded.”

Carlos needed the word defined.

“Meaning, questions would be based on your skill level; each question, after the first one, would be based on how you answered the previous question, layering it to your personal level of learning.”

“Nice,” Carlos gave a thumbs-up.

“Also, rather than lumping all of the kids in the class, or the state for that matter, into one category, giving everyone the same level of assessment, regardless of where they are on the learning curve, each would be able to show how they’ve progress over the year. Your scores would be based on you, and compared to your assessment from the previous year, showing your own personal growth. Imagine that, Carlos.”

“I think I would feel great! I think that kind of testing would really change the way I think about our annual assessment; and, also, really show my parents that I am learning. And not compare me with all the other kids in school. Plus, sometimes when questions are multiple choice, I just guess because I’m tired, don’t have a clue what the answer is, or I’m just not into it. So, this new kind of state test would be awesome!”

They were both silent for a moment, reflecting.

“Mr. Comp. Are you just wishing, or is this something you have been told about?”

“It’s on its way, Carlos, it’s on its way.”

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bradford

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Well rested, freshly showered, and clothed, Bradford looks at himself in the mirror as he expertly coifs his hair, making sure each strand layers just right, complementing his handsome face. A little gel swiped from root to tip, just above his forehead, completes his stylish do.

He walks from bathroom to bedroom; Brad scans himself, looks at his full body image, making sure his T-shirt, color and length, work well with his just right fitting, side-pocket khakis. Too cool shoes and a swag pullover hoodie are the final details. And just to make sure his assessment of perfection is correct, Bradford heads to the garage, to another full-length mirror, rotating oh so carefully, content with what he sees.

Then, its out the door, onto his bike, heading to school, for another ordinary day in the 8th grade.

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apple

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Every morning one of Mrs. Berry’s students placed an apple on her desk, and every afternoon she threw it away because she wasn’t sure where the hands had been that held the apple.

By the end of his first trimester, Chad decided his 5th grade teacher needed help giving him straight A’s.

She was always telling him If you’d just focus more during lessons, you’d improve your scores. Blah. Blah. Blah. It was then, as he was walking home from school, holding his tattered bad-news report card in his tightly squeezed hand, that Chad would do just that. He’d focus more. Sure. Focus on some cool magical elixir that would entice Mrs. Berry to improve his grades, whether he earned them or not.

That’s when the apples began appearing on Mrs. Berry’s desk each morning. Chad never told her, or anyone for that matter, that it was he who gently placed the fruit upon her desk. No one needed to know that he had doctored the shiny apples, filling them with give this kid an A+ juice. He knew she was taking the apples with her to lunch, yet his grades didn’t change and neither did her teacher voice when reminding him to pay attention!

Oh, my. Who gave me this delicious chocolate-and-caramel-covered apple? she asked the class after a week of tossing the fruit. No one admitted anything. Especially not Chad.

During lunch break, while sitting with the other 5th grade teachers, Mrs Berry selfishly downed the dessert before anyone would ask her for a slice.

Hey, Chad! Great improvement on your math test today. See, staying on task will grant you rewards, she happily announced.

Ain’t that the truth, Chad smirked. He looked over his test and could see that most of his answers were incorrect, yet Mrs. Berry had written a bright red A+ across the top of the paper.

by

detox

Rather than sitting in the provided teacher’s chair, I was standing in front of a hip-high table, teaching a math lesson to my students. The overhead projector shot the equation onto the front board, making it easier for every student to see what I was doing. As I took a step back, allowing them time to work the problem, a slight headache began to form. I reached up and gently rubbed both temples before bending over the table once again, writing numbers and symbols as students called out the steps to solving the displayed math expression. I could feel the headache gaining strength as I continued working with the kids; yet, I masked my pain. Unfortunately, as the school day progressed, so did my aching head, regardless of trying to tame it with a piece of fruit and a handful of almonds.

At home, Rudy’s homemade chili enticed me as it bubbled in a pot on the stove. I figured my aching head was simply calling out for some substantial nourishment. Wrong. The aching continued to antagonize me. Advil also failed to rescue me, I noted, as I buried myself under a heavy pile of blankets.

Suddenly, it dawned on me. I was experiencing coffee detox.

For the past several months I had been indulging in six cream-and-raw sugar-filled cups a day of hot coffee, without the side effects of wide-eyed wakefulness. I knew I was overindulging, not caring about the consequences of the caffeine’s non-health benefits; I was addicted. I was enjoying two cups here, two cups there, two cups everywhere. Daily. Two plus two plus two equals six. Six cups of coffee on a typical day.

The night before I had felt sluggish, tired, and wasn’t sure why. But, when I awoke the following morning I decided to curb the overindulgence of sweets, and to completely rid coffee from my routine, figuring they were the culprits of my afternoon fatigue.

Caffeine withdrawals hadn’t been considered. The consequences foreign to my radar. It wasn’t until that moment, when I was curled under the covers, hidden in the darkened room, experiencing a kind of detox first hand, that I understood coffee will get the best of you if you take it too far.

I spent the entire evening and early, early morning hours in bed, holding my head, caressing my temples, dealing with an excruciating headache; until, finally, it simply disappeared.

I returned to the classroom, to continue with more math equations to stimulate the students’ sponge-like minds. With a clear, headache-free head.

by

consulting

Rudy is back.

From his two year stint.

Of working and living in Arkansas.

And, boy, are we happy.

We have enjoyed talking.

Face-to-face.

A lot.

About life.

 

And.

About a job.

For him.

As a consultant.

To help companies.

Working with dyes.

Coloring cloth.

Wanting to improve.

The production.

And quality.

Of the dyeing process.

 

He would work.

As needed.

 

So.

Now.

Instead of living somewhere else.

Rudy will live here.

In California.

With us.

Daily.

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the wedding cake

Contribution for GBE2: Blog On prompt: in the freezer

Long ago.

After our vows had been read, the food eaten, and the party died down, Rudy and I carefully placed the top tier of our wedding cake in the freezer.

The idea was to save it, keep it frozen-fresh, for the first year of our marriage.

Then on December 28th, on our one year anniversary, we’d remove the vanilla-frosted spice cake from its frozen world, thaw it, and devour a year’s worth of memories.

We’d celebrate our ups, reflect on the downs.

Happy Anniversary we told each other as we dug our forks into the should-be moist cake.

Blech we both announced, tossing the rock-hard, lost its flavor, small, circular dessert in the trash.

wedding cake

by

another woman

I heard he was interested in a girl, a younger woman. Someone he met, somewhere. She had dark hair and dark eyes. And was supposedly nice. A nice, simple girl.

He didn’t talk about her, and she didn’t talk about him, but somehow I knew this woman was someone who may, or may not, intrude on our life.

The day we went to the local fair, he and I, with our kids, I saw her. Just talking. I didn’t know her. Yet, I knew she was the one. Somehow I just knew.

He had wandered off, taking our youngest on a ride. I stayed behind, just hanging out with my daughter.

I walked over to the girl, said hello, and asked her if she was indeed interested in him.

The strange thing is, the fact is, that even though we didn’t know one another, at all, she knew who I was talking about and answered as if we were best friends. I think so, yes, she said. He’s nice. Very nice. She went on to say other things, nothing big deal, but things that confirmed her interest in him.

When she was all done talking I stated, He’s my husband, the guy you are considering a relationship with. The girl didn’t seem surprised by my admission. And neither did she seem pissed, as if she’d been duped. She simply stared at me with her big brown eyes, saying nothing.

Later, at home, I said to him, I know about her, and if you have plans to pursue something, anything, count me out. He looked at me, didn’t respond. Not five minutes passed when I restated my thoughts. No. Never mind. Just the fact you are interested has uninterested me in you. I’m done.

Suddenly I awoke, from the dream I was having about my husband considering an affair with a another woman.

I rolled over in our California King bed and found him there, lying on his side, turned toward me, looking at me. Good morning, we whispered, simultaneously.