Why Sculptures are Frightening

                I slowed and peeked up the hill.  No cars.  I whipped from the private country road onto the public country road.  A minute later blue lights flashed in my rear-view mirror.  My mouth went dry.  I pulled over, wound down the window, and listened to footsteps crunching in the gravel beside the road.   The blue uniform appeared at the window.

                “May I see your license and registration?”

                I glanced up and gave him a smile.  Green eyes glared above a ridged jaw, and one hand rested on the butt of his holstered gun. 

                I handed out my license before sifting through old receipts, napkins, flashlight batteries, wheel-lock keys, and three years’ worth of insurance cards in my glove compartment. 

                “You didn’t come to a complete stop at that intersection.”

                I shot him a wide-eyed glance.  “That is because I was scared.  There was a bear.  I was trying to escape.”

                His green gaze locked on mine.  “A bear?” He glanced around at the Douglas fir, salal, blackberry bushes, and the naked vine maples lining the road.

                “Yes, we have bears.”

                He tilted his head and pursed his lips.  “Um hum.” 

                “We do.”

                “Umm hmmm.”  He pressed the button on the walkie-talkie attached to his shoulder.  “Run the name Melanie Sherman for warrants.”

                “And coyotes, bobcats and really scary dear.”

                He rolled his eyes.  “Show me the bear.”

                I wagged a finger at him.  “Oh, no.  I’m innocent unless you can prove there wasn’t a bear.”

            
  He listened to his radio traffic a few seconds before a semblance of a smile drifted over his lips.  He pushed the button on his shoulder again.  “Have the NSA send me their satellite surveillance video of the address I gave you for the traffic stop.  Have them send the last half hour.”

                “Fine,” I said.  “The bear is just around the corner.  It’s a sculpture in the front yard of that house back there.”

                “You were afraid of a sculpture of a bear?”               

                I nodded vigorously.  “It’s very lifelike.”

                He snorted, and tapped my license against his forefinger. “Umm hummm.”

                Tap tap tap.

                “What if another neighbor decides to do a sculpture of a bobcat in his front yard?”

                Tap tap tap.

                “And then,” I said, warming to my subject, “what if another neighbor puts in a sculpture of an evil-eyed black-tailed buck?”

                The tapping stopped and his eyes narrowed.  “So?”

                “Well then the next neighbor might do one of a coyote, and the next thing you know, they expect me to have a sculpture also.”

                “So?”

                “Well the only other things I normally see around here are red-tailed hawks eating dead rodents in the road.  How would you like to have a sculpture of a road-kill-raccoon prominently displayed in your front yard?”

                He stared for a few moments before he handed back my license.  He turned and sauntered back to his car, checking the brush along the road as he walked, his ear cocked, as if listening for sounds of wildlife.


The above was a writing prompt:  Write about something that scares you

Writing prompt #6--Create a first sentence in 15 words or less.

She listened at the door, breath caught, blood screaming in her ears.

No picture.  Just that first sentence.  That's it.

Writing Prompt #5--Give advice for the coming year in 150 words or less.

This was even harder than the 350 word prompts. But I did it in 136, and it is good advice too. No, really.
***************

Everyone is wishing people a happy and prosperous 2014. Fourteen is seven—twice—and I don’t know about you, but this is not the come-out roll for me. A seven is bad. A seven will wipe out all the money you have on the table. If, by chance, you begin to recover, you’re going to get slammed with another seven before the end of the year.

I’m pretty sure the number twenty isn’t good either. That is ten—twice. It means once your prosperity is swept from the felt, it may be two decades before you recover. Twenty years! Are you feeling lucky?

My advice for 2014? Stay in bed with the blankets over your head…unless you’re lodging in a casino’s complimentary room. Run. Then call me and I’ll take that room card off your hands.

Good luck!

Writing Prompt #4--Describe your favorite breakfast cereal in a timed one-minute post

Today's writing prompt is timed. I have one minute to describe my favorite breakfast cereal.

If you would like to leave your (family friendly) entry in the comments section, you may do so, or include a link to your blog.

Here is mine:

I like oatmeal. The real oatmeal, not the instant kind, with just a little brown sugar and dried cranberries. But if I were truthful, what I’d really like is a cereal made of left-over pizza. A nice bowl of crunchy bites of pepperoni and artichoke heart pizza, with or without almond milk. Maybe with some grapes on it to make it healthy. And a slice of banana (which I just said in case my doctor is reading this.)

(I found this picture interesting because it includes sloe schnapps, which I hadn't thought of as a breakfast food until this minute. Photo is by "cyclonebill" from Copenhagen, Denmark, 2011.

Writing Prompt #3---Five random words

Today's writing prompt is five random words I got from a random word website. I have to admit, I was pretty happy to see "anchor" on there, since my first book takes place on the a Royal Navy vessel, the Reckoning, in 1805.

Here are the five words.

Ball
Hospital
Anchor
Hope
Tonic

I'm trying to stay as close to 350 words as possible. Without further ado, below is my story. If you'd like to do a 350 word story, using these same words, please put a link to your blog in the comments.

* * * * * *


“Take this tonic,” the Spanish physician said in French, waving a spoon in my face. “You’ll feel better.”

I doubted it. If I’d been a boy, like everyone thought when Napoleon’s soldiers captured me, I’d simply be a prisoner of war. When they carried me to hospital and dug the musket ball out of my shoulder, they discovered I was not a boy. That was when they decided I was a spy.

That meant the guillotine. I knew enough French to know they intended to let my wound heal before the trial, but what was the point if they intended to kill me? My only hope was they’d spare my life because I was a woman.

The sweet smell of medicinal herbs wafted under my nose. The physician pressed the spoon to my lips. I took the laudanum and tried to clear my mind. Sleep, I needed sleep.

When I opened my eyes, it was dark. Footsteps in the hall held an unmistakable note of stealth. They stopped. The faint sound of breathing drifted through the doorway. I could hear it over the heartbeats slamming into my bruised ribs. I couldn’t decide if I should hide under the sheet, or sit up and face the enemy like a…like a…like my shipmates would expect. I struggled to focus.

The footsteps started again, coming closer. Panic filtered through the euphoria of the drugs, and I couldn’t stop the whimper from escaping. Were they here to take me to trial, or were they here for something far worse? I dragged myself to a sitting position and squinted into the dark.

“Maxwell?”

A thrill sparked through me. I knew that whisper. “Yes.” He was the commander of my ship. “Lieutenant Kearney?”

He huffed out a sigh of relief. “Glad we found you, boy. We’ve just taken one of the Spanish ships at anchor. Get up and let’s get back to the Reckoning.”

He scooped me up. We sneaked past a sleeping orderly and out into the moist night air.

Writing Prompt #1

Writing Prompt: Fall out of love, without using the word "love"


His kisses, his smile, his soft, husky voice made my insides quiver. Late at night we’d languish in each other’s arms and whisper we’d always be there for each other. He changed a washer on our dripping faucet, and grinned when I told him he was my rain and my sun. I’d throw vegetables and a roast into the crockpot before work, and he’d say he could hardly wait until we’d be together to eat it. He drained the gas from our mower when the bags of fall leaves were tossed onto the garbage truck in the misty dawn, saying I was brighter than autumn. When I’d duck into the cleaners to pick up his suits during the evening commute, he'd laugh and say I was his angel.

One day a note under the plastic covering the freshly pressed clothes indicated a stain could not be removed. Bright pink lipstick. Not mine.

At first I thought nothing of it, but he started to come home late, go to bed late. He complained he didn’t like pot roast. Long into the winter, the lawn-mower gas remained.

A dusting of snow slicked the roads. On my way home, my car slid into a ditch. I punched his number with shaky, cold fingers, listening to the ring until it went to voicemail. I tried again. Voicemail. The cold seeped through my jacket and my teeth chattered. I pressed redial.

“What do you want?” I heard the impatience in his growl. “I’m busy.”

“I slid into a d-ditch. It is going to be at least an hour for the t-tow truck.”

“Okay.”

Okay? That was it? My eyes filled. “Will you c-come get me?”

“Wait for the tow,” he said. “I’m busy.”

In the headlights, the white snowflakes fell in silence, like my tears. Trucks rumbled past, making me balance against the wind of their wake. Adrift, I huddled into my jacket and shivered on the edge of the dark, icy street until the snow quieted the world.

He wasn't mine anymore. I was alone.