bluffed

welcome readers & writers! thank you, readers; writing every day wouldn't be half as much fun without you. thanks also to Linda G., Chuck Galle, Kathryn Magendie and J2B for sharing more about yourselves in response to sunday's post. so fun to read more about you all. and thanks to FilmGuy (who wins the award for the shortest story ever posted on write away every day!) and krowles1981 for sharing your responses to yesterday's photo.  

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here, friends, is today's photo prompt, along with my (memoir) reflection on it. i'd love to read whatever tale you have to spin, be it story, poem or creative non-fiction. just click on comments below to send it in. 250(ish) words or less. as you can see below, word count is flexible.

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He called at seven on the dot every night, and we'd talk until eight. I'd sit on the floor in the hall outside the kitchen, twining the thick, springy phone cord around my fingers, marveling at its ability to carry the sound of his voice across the city to my house. We spoke about friends, school, where he might go to college next fall and my family's impending move out of state. Our favorite topic, though, was us. Each night we'd add to our common daydream about a sunlit someday when we could finally be together. Cue mixed tape: Air Supply, Chicago, Styx. The Rose.

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We teased about running away together, but we were both too good to be serious. He was busy being his high school's valedictorian, and I the well behaved preacher's daughter. But still he would ask me how much time it would take me to get ready if ever he rode in on Lancelot's white steed. Wanting it to be clear that I was effortlessly beautiful and a no-fuss, minimal baggage kind of princess, I boasted that I could be ready to go away forever in a mere seven minutes. On the morning of my fifteenth birthday he called my bluff. He'd asked my parents' permission to pick me up and take me out to breakfast before school. My mom woke me up with a whisper, "Kenneth is here. He says you have seven minutes to get ready." 

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Reality crashes in. My room is a mess. No clean laundry, though Mom comes to the rescue with a birthday present: turquoise pants and a neon yellow shirt*, both of which I hate but am too polite to say. I need to wash my hair, but our bathroom only has a tub and no shower. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. takes at least fifteen. I patch myself together as best I can, worrying. Is this it? Will he realize I'm not so very beautiful and that my life, in more ways than one, is a mess? 

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Remarkably, he didn't see it. At least not on that day. On that day the fairytale was still ours. 

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*this was the mid 80's, after all
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come write with me!  

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recycled

readers and writers, it's friday!  thanks to Pauline, FilmGuy and De Langer for yesterday's great writing.  one of my favorite days so far.

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today's photo prompt wasn't an easy "get," as king recycling doesn't stand still very long for commoners to take his photo.  here's what the photo calls up for me, a bit of memoir:

Of all my school years, third grade was sublime. My best friend lived just down the street. Together we were note-writing spys, galloping, carrot-eating horses, and (our favorite) good witch Barbies. Weekends were for sleepovers, gooey brownies from her Easy Bake Oven, and watery snow cones from her Snoopy Cone Machine. We'd stay up until three a.m., if need be, to catch Grease (again) on cable TV, watching with equal parts awe and confusion as Sandy wooed Danny with tight leather pants; we thought Sandy looked so much better before the big makeover. On summer nights we'd play until it was just a smidge lighter than too dark to see. We were even lucky enough to share the same sweet, diligent teacher.  Her name was Mrs. S. and she let us lay our heads on our desks while she read to us after recess; she cried through the sad parts of Where the Red Fern Grows and often turned the reading over to me while she dabbed at her eyes with a kleenex. But on Friday afternoons I didn't like Mrs. S. or my best friend so very much. I dreaded the Friday treasure sale, when kids could purchase chachkis (brought in from Mrs. S's own house) with good behavior tickets doled out to us through the week: a Precious Moments statue, a candle holder, a hand crocheted potholder. Lesser ticket items were available too - boring old pencils, erasers and, better than nothing, hard candy. My best friend always, always had more tickets. She just wasn't a talker and her desk was very tidy. She was a master at delay of gratification, saving up for weeks at a time to buy the biggest, most wonderful fifty ticket treasure. But my sadness faded with the ringing of the last bell. After all, the weekend was coming, and there was too much fun to be had to waste time on pouting.

I'd love to read your spin on the photo.  Publish it below by clicking on comments.  250(ish) words or less.  Happy Friday - and may the fifty ticket item be yours.