Monthly Archives: June 2011
Popcorn
| 27 June, 2011 | Posted by BobbiJaye under Non-Fiction, The Red Dress Club, Writing |
I will never forget the look on that face of the man with the overalls. It’s funny, the things we remember.
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RemembeRED – School trip
I rubbed my eyes and scratched my nose. Hay always made me sneeze. But I liked it here. It smelled good, like clover and horses and earth, and if you closed your eyes and listened, you could hear a symphony. Buzzing and whinnying, wind rustling leaves, farmers shouting to be heard over the low grumble of tractor engines. And the excited chatter of fifteen kindergarteners on a field trip.
We followed our teacher to the fence behind the barn, and climbed onto the wooden railing. I hung my arms over the top rail and let them dangle, while the big man in overalls talked about different kinds of corn— white corn, yellow corn, Jubilee Supersweet, Spring Snow, the Honey and Cream yellow-white mix my granddaddy grew in his garden at home. We’d eat it off the cob, dripping with butter.
The boys on the end of the fence were restless. They poked and prodded and jabbed their elbows into each other’s ribs, each trying to claim the fence as his own. Silly boys. Icky boys, I thought.
Then the man in the overalls held up another ear of corn.
“Now,” he said. “How many of ya’ll like to eat popcorn?”
The word was magic. Fifteen hands shot into the air, including the boys’. Even they wanted to know about the popcorn. I leaned a little harder into the fence, trying to get as close as possible.
“All of you?” He grinned. “Me too. Popcorn is mighty good. And it’s real interesting too. I’ll bet none of you know what makes popcorn pop.”
My hand shot into the air. The man hadn’t asked a question, but he wasn’t right, and I wanted to tell him.
I knew why popcorn popped.
He stopped and pointed at me.
“Popcorn pops because there’s water inside that turns to steam when it gets hot and makes the kernel bust open because there’s too much pressure like when you blow too much air into a balloon,” I said, all in one breath. When I stopped talking, everyone was quiet.
The man in the overalls tilted his head and looked at me.
“How old are you?” He asked.
I raised my chin a little. “Five,” I answered.
“And where’d you learn about popcorn?”
I didn’t understand why he was asking me these questions. I knew I was right about the popcorn getting too hot.
“My granddaddy has a book about corn,” I said. When the man didn’t respond, I added, “I read it there. I like to read.”
“And you’re five?” He asked again. I nodded.
“Well,” he said, “I guess I lost the bet on that one.”
I smiled.
The wind blew my pigtails across the back of my neck. They tickled. The sun was warm on my arms. The man in the overalls went on to talk about the history of popcorn.
Over the next several years, I would get used to the looks that grownups gave me when I spouted off facts they thought I was too young to know. And every time I watched the popcorn kernels spin in my granddaddy’s old popper, I would think about the steam inside them and wonder why everybody didn’t know what made popcorn pop.
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Thanks for reading! Concrit welcome and appreciated!
Life or Death
| 24 June, 2011 | Posted by BobbiJaye under Fiction, The Red Dress Club, Writing |
300 words? Evil. So. Evil.
Red Writing Hood
Flash Fiction can be fun and a real challenge. This week focus on the words and the strength of each to contribute to your story. Write a 300 word piece using the following word for inspiration: LIFE.
Life or Death
She knelt in the soapy water, knees aching in her wet jeans. She stared down at the white kitchen floor.
It had been an hour, but it wasn’t clean.
She started again, methodically scrubbing the tile in front of her.
Top left corner, down the side, across the bottom.
It had to be right.
It had to be clean.
She pushed the rag hard against the floor, scraping her knuckles in the grout and gritting her teeth against the sting of soap on her raw skin. She rocked back onto her feet and fought through the ache spreading through her back. Darkness creeping in.
There was still a spot. She abandoned the rag and scraped with her fingernail. Imperfections would not be tolerated. She would have to start again.
Top left corner, down the side, across the bottom.
If it wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t right.
And it had to be right.
A bead of sweat ran from the base of her neck to her waist.
Harder. She had to scrub harder.
In her mind, she saw the crash. The metal crumpled like paper, erupting into flames. Cars twisted. Faces cut by shattered glass.
People lying bloody and broken.
Flashing ambulance lights.
Death.
No. She wouldn’t let it happen. She had to make it right.
It wasn’t rational. There was no car. There were no people. But what if there were?
The breath caught in the back of her throat.
What if she was wrong?
What if she missed a spot?
She knew it was the OCD. But she scrubbed, because she couldn’t be sure that spotless tiles weren’t a matter of life or death.
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This is fiction based on reality.
It isn’t the OCD you see in Monk. Television shows you the cleanliness, but never the thought process. This is called flashing. For someone with OCD, it can feel very real. The magical thinking that you know is completely irrational, but you still feel compelled to do the ritual anyway, because if you don’t, the pictures in your head might come true.
My best friend still teases me about her all-powerful broom. I rarely sweep to prevent car crashes anymore. Though I did clean my door jambs before my niece was born. Just in case.
Thanks for reading! Concrit WELCOME and Appreciated!
*Bobs
A Different Kind of Pain
| 21 June, 2011 | Posted by BobbiJaye under Non-Fiction, The Red Dress Club |
I almost didn’t post this. I wasn’t sure if I should.
I’m not this person anymore. But I remember her very well.
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RemembeRED
A Different Kind of Pain
(The first time I cut after promising I’d stop.)
Selfish.
Worthless.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my hand clutched around the phone, thumb still lingering over disconnect. The echoes of his words hung in the air, making it heavy and thick. My whole body shook with the effort of breathing.
You don’t love me. You don’t respect me. It’s your fault I’m stuck here in this fucking desert. You don’t care what I’ve done for you. I gave you an opportunity and you just threw it away. I wasn’t shot at in Vietnam so you could be such a screwup.
He’d stopped taking his medication.
Again.
He thought they gave it to him to shut him up. He didn’t think he was sick.
You and your mother, you’re conspiring against me. Don’t think I don’t know that. You both just want me dead.
He berated me for an hour, twisting my words and flinging them back at me. He ripped me apart with one delusional accusation after another, and even though I sat rigid, trying to be strong— trying to be stone— the tears came.
Don’t try to pull that crying bullshit. You can’t manipulate me like that. You aren’t as smart as you think you are.
I stared at the phone in my hand. I hated him. I hated myself.
I wasn’t seven any more, but his words still paralyzed me. Even through a phone, he could back me up against a wall and recite my wrongs.
I couldn’t even disconnect the phone. Not until he stopped and I was shattered. Until he’d given me his permission to go lick my wounds.
Weak. The voice in my head spat the word at me.
I threw the phone to the floor and curled into myself, rocking, sick, aching. I had to do something before my skin turned inside out and my chest caved under the tight pressure of disgust.
I couldn’t hurt like this anymore.
My eyes flicked to the bottom drawer of my nightstand.
It had been three weeks since the last time. Since I promised I would stop. In three weeks, my wounds had turned to scars.
I opened the drawer and pulled out the tin lunchbox with Lucille Ball on the front. No one knew I had a kit. Inside was my salvation.
Bandaids, gauze pads, and a roll of adhesive wrap. A bottle of hand sanitizer. A washcloth— stained. Rubber bands. A pink thumb tack. An Exacto knife. Clean blades.
An orange box cutter.
I picked it up and turned it over in my hand, weighing the decision in the cool metal. Opening it, I ran my thumb over its blade. Just a little deeper and I knew I could trade the feeling in my chest for adrenaline and dopamine.
I could feel better.
I pulled my dress up over my hips and traced the blade across my upper thigh, leaving a thin, white mark.
Deeper. Harder.
Anticipation and guilt throbbed in my fingertips.
I want.
I need.
I shouldn’t.
Worthless.
Weak.
I held my breath and drew three hard lines down my leg— two for my father’s words and one for my own broken promise. Tears filled my eyes again as bright red blood rose in beads from the cuts.
I bit my lip and traced the line of blood with my finger.
I still hurt. But this pain, at least, I could see.
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My father isn’t a monster. He has schizophrenia and PTSD. Medicated, he’s fine, but unfortunately, the nature of his illness is such that he doesn’t trust the doctors who are medicating him. I don’t know, really, what goes on in his head. But I do know that unmedicated, he is mean and paranoid and delusional. It isn’t his fault.
But it’s not mine either.
I’ve been clean now for one year, seven months, and twenty days.
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Thanks for reading! Concrit welcome and appreciated!
*Bobs
My name is Bobbi.
