A Story for Rosanna

I challenged my friends to “send me a one word or first line prompt and I will write a story about it.”  My boyfriend’s aunt, Rosanna, sent me “The circus is coming to town…” So here you go, Rosanna.  I hope you like it.

Roxy

by Joy

Little Emily squealed in delight as her parents pulled into a parking space.  She fiddled with her seat-belt as the van came to a stop but she just couldn't manage to break free.

"Hold on!  Hold on!" her dad called as he got out of the driver's seat.  He opened the side door of the mini van and took a good look at his four year old daughter.  She insisted on dressing herself for the occasion.  Below her blond pig tails was her favorite pink Hello Kitty shirt and matching purple tutu,rainbow leggings, and Wizard of Oz shoes.  "Why did you agree to letting her dress herself today?" he asked his wife as she appeared from around the front of the van.

"It'll be easier to spot her in the crowd if she runs ahead of us," she explained.  "Besides, look at that!" she said, pointing to their daughter.  "That style, that panache, and elegance!"

He unbuckled Emily's seat belt.  She quickly hopped out of the van and did a quick twirl and a curtsy.  He applauded her grace.

"I have to look my best today!" the little girl replied to the query in her parents' eyes.

Her dad shut the door.  "We're just going to the circus, Honey," he said to her.  He grinned at his wife, who shrugged in response.  "You don't have to get that dressed up for the circus." 

"Of course I do!" Emily smiled.  "This'll be the first time that I've seen Roxy since she ran away to join the circus," she explained.  She grabbed her dad's hand and pulled him towards the ticket booth.  He looked back at the wife, who stood by the van, her mouth agape.

"Why did you have to tell her that her dog ran away to the circus?" his wife whispered into her husband's ear when she finally caught up to them.

He shrugged.  "That's just what you're supposed to say, isn't it?" he asked.

"You're supposed to tell the truth," she whispered.  "What are we going to do?"

"I didn't want to hurt her."  He turned towards his wife.  She gave him a reassuring hug and kissed his cheek. 

Emily and her parents waltzed through the gates and were amazed at the various acts that welcomed them to the big top.  Emily gawked at the elephants and the beautiful women riding them.  Her dad eyeballed the beautiful women as well.  And his wife eyeballed him.

"What?" he smiled at her.

"Hello," came an alluring voice.  "Welcome, and what's your name?"  A striking redhead bend down toward Emily.   She was dressed in a flamboyant outfit with gold sequins and marvelously bright colors.

"Emily!" their daughter replied.

"Are you here to see something special?" the woman asked.

"Yes!  Yes, I am!"

The woman patted her on her head.  "I'm sure that you'll find it here."  She led the little family into the tent and sat them down in the front.  They surveyed the tent, which seemed much more gigantic on the inside than it did from the outside.

"Do you remember Roxy?" Emily asked.  Her parents looked at her.  "I know that you had just married Daddy when she ran away."  Her stepmother shook her head slightly.  Emily's eyes got big with the memories that flooded into her mind.  "Daddy got her before I was born.  She was a..." her voice softened as she tried to think. 

"An Irish Setter," her dad finished. 

Emily smiled.  "She used to sleep by my bed and keep me safe from all the monsters that hid in my closet," she explained.  She played with the tulle of her tutu.  "She used to like to play in the front yard and the street, chasing our neighbors cats and all the squirrels.  And she liked hotdogs!  If you weren't looking, she'd take it right off you plate!"  The lights suddenly dimmed.  The noise of the crowd hushed to a silence.  Then, a spotlight in the center of the ring and out walked the ringmaster.

The ringmaster was exquisite: elegant and charismatic, playing to the crowd and their sensibilities.  He presented a variety of acts: trapeze and aerial silk performers, contortionists, clowns.  And crazier performers like Carl the Human Cannonball; Cassandra and Ilythia the fire-eaters; knife throwers; and Ivan the Strongman.  After Ivan left the stage, Emily's dad looked over at his daughter.  She had hardly touched her cotton candy and was staring, hopelessly, at the door of the tent where the performers entered and exited, praying for the next act.

"Here," a familiar voice said.  They looked up to see the same redhead that welcomed them, holding a paper bag in front of Emily.

"What's this?" Emily asked, taking the bag from her.

"It's for the next act."  She leaned down and winked at her.  "The one you've been waiting for."  The woman stood up and looked over at her parents.  "I'm sure that you will enjoy it," she said to them. 

"What's in the bag?" asked her stepmother.

"Peanuts?" Emily said, her nose in the bag.  "Peanuts," she repeated, pulling one out. 

Not missing a beat, a loud cry was heard from the outside of the tent.  An elephant.  Followed by a loud roar and screeching.  They surveyed the tent, which was suddenly filled with colored smoke.  Boom! 

"Was that a trunk?" someone called out.

"I think I see a lion!" someone else cried out.

There was a loud thunder.  When the smoke dissipated, an entire zoo appeared in the center of the ring, all the animals pranced around in circles: elephants, horses, birds, bears, tigers, and lions.  All singing in unison.  Gorgeous women led them around the stage with leashed and whips.  Inside the circle of animals were smaller creatures.  Dogs and cats running around, jumping, and doing tricks. 

From the crowd came the cries of children. 

"Teddy!"

"Fluffy!"

"Sammy!"

"Chucky!"

"Roxy..." Emily whispered.  Her father looked over at her.  She was standing tall, peering into the center of the ring.  "Roxy..." she repeated, her eyes scanned the scene.

"Do you see her?" her stepmother asked.

"No..." Her voice was faint.

They sauntered out of the circus tent amongst the crowd and solemnly made their way to the minivan. Emily was nearly in tears but for some reason the just wouldn't take shape to fall.  She could hardly see the ground in front of her because the tears in her eyes blurred her vision.  Suddenly Emily's dad scoffed.  She looked up at him as he stomped his way over to the van.  He looked like the vein in his forehead was about to burst.

"A parking ticket?" he shouted.  He picked up a note left under the windshield wiper.  As soon as he saw what was scribbled on it, his tone changed.  His forehead relaxed and his eyes welled up with tears.  He crouched down to look Emily in the eyes.  She wiped away the tears and took the note from his hand.

"S-s-sorry I c-can't be her...here," Emily read.  "I l-l-love and miss you.  Love Roxy," she finished.  Her stepmother's hand covered her mouth.  She looked over at her husband but he was at a loss for words.  He opened his mouth and no explanation came out.  There were only tears.  Emily fell into her father's arms.  "I miss her too," she said, squeezing hard.

"I do too, Sweetie," he managed to say.  He picked her up and squeezed her tight before opening the door to the minivan.  She held onto the note tight and smiled as he buckled her into her car seat and shut the door.  He let out a long sight and looked over at the circus tent.  The redhead stepped out of the tent, looked over, and waved, like she was staring right at him through the crowded parking lot.  He awkwardly waved back.  As he turned toward the driver's door, a ball rolled across his feet and under the van.

"Sorry!" a man called from across the parking lot.  He looked over and saw that the voice came from one of the trapeze artists.  "Sorry," he repeated as he walked up to the van.

"It's okay," he replied.  "Hey, um...who's that redhead over there?" he asked, pointing to the tent.

The trapeze artist looked over at the tent.  "Oh her?  That's just Roxanne. She's fairly new." The trapeze artist said something else but he wasn't listening anymore.  He just watched her as she walked over to the concession stand for a hotdog.

A Story for Chris

I challenged my friends to “send me a one word or first line prompt and I will write a story about it.”  My cousin, Chris, sent me “skullduggery” and “crapulence.”  So here you go, Chris.  It’s a little over the top (okay, a lot over the top...) and was fun to write.

Shadow in the Night

by Joy Bernardo

Chris sat down at the bar.  It was a hot and muggy Wednesday night, brought forth by the four o clock rain shower and the accompanying 85 degree heat.  He had come to Florida for this.  It was the land of hot, half naked women after all.  Mostly because of the incessant fever and humidity, but that was beside the point.  Tonight, he was looking for a little debauchery and to let loose after a long day at work. 

Beads of sweat formed on his shiny, bald head.  He grabbed a handkerchief from his front pocket and dabbed his forehead.  To any other man, a suit would have made him feel overdressed at this particularly shabby bar.  But Chris was no other man.  He knew what he wanted and he knew that they liked well dressed men.

Though small and unknown, it was a well kept bar on the boardwalk of a lonely beach.  The owner kept it clean and classy with a country flair.  The lacquered wooden bar and matching booths constantly felt sticky because of the constant swipes with the wet cloth. 

Chris looked around, it was fairly empty tonight except for a couple groups of girls and a few desperate men trying to cling on to the hope of getting a phone number or perhaps getting their hands on a pair of lacy underpants.  He sat down at the bar and waved to the bartender, who he knew well. 

"Rough night?" the bartender asked.

"You have no idea," Chris said.  "Can I get a gin and tonic?"

"Anything you want, mi compadre," the bartender said, pouring him a glass.  He set it down in front of him at the bar.  "Three o'clock," he whispered before wandering off.

Chris picked up the glass and brought the drink to his hungry lips.  He savored the pine flavor that wrapped itself around his tongue and grabbed hold of his throat.  As he set the glass down his eyes wandered up.  A woman was sitting alone at a table to his right.  Her brown locks curled softly down her neck and draped over her bare shoulders like a veil.  She nursed some fruity drink in a tall glass that was as voluptuously curvy as she was.  The red dress that she wore clung to every arc and bend on her body.

"What's her story?" Chris asked the bartender, but when he looked up, the bartender was long gone; he was attending to a gaggle of girls in a bachelorette party.  The phallic shaped crown on the bride's forehead, kind of, gave them away.  Chris smiled and turned his attention back to the brunette at the table.  She was now joined by a rather large man wearing a brown leather jacket and a silver cross around his neck but by the way that he was acting, he didn't seem like a very religious man.

"Come on," the large man muttered as he grabbed her by the elbow.  Dragging her out of her seat, they made their way to the door, albeit begrudgingly.  Chris rolled his eyes and gulped down the rest of his drink before getting up.

"Where are you off to?" the bartender asked.  Chris looked up at him and smiled.

Handing him some cash he nonchalantly replied, "Just a bit of skullduggery tonight."  And with that he was off.

“A good man’s work is never done,” the bartender said after him.  “When you get back, I’ll make you another drink.  On the house.”

"Who was that?" the bride asked.

"Shadow of the night," the bartender replied. "Just going to take care of some of our garbage."

Chris followed the adorable couple down the street.  The large man drug his girl along the sidewalk by her arm.  The hem of her dress wavered in the cool midnight breeze which wafted off of the Atlantic.  The pair slowed from a jaunt to a dawdling pace as the man turned around.  Chris quickly jumped into an alley and hugged the wall.  His eyes trailed the two as they continued on down the street and turned a corner. 

Chris hopped to.  He brushed off his suit jacket, which got dusty from the brick wall and casually strolled along the boardwalk.

As he rounded the corner, he saw the brutish ogre wrap his claws around the lady's dainty neck.  She looked past the man and straight into Chris’ eyes.  She pleaded with him.

"Now that's not a way to treat a lady," Chris said as he stepped out from the shadows. 

The man turned around and saw an elegantly dressed young man trying to stand his ground. He scoffed and turned his attention back to his task at hand.  "Stay out of this, Short Stuff," he muttered.

"I'll appreciate you leaving your short jokes at home with the rest of your dignity and chivalry."  Chris raised an eyebrow at the Neanderthal.  “Or do you even know what those big words mean?”

"What?"  The large man's grip on her neck loosened.  The woman took advantage of this opportunity and took off, fleeing to safety behind Chris.  Her arms wrapped around his chest.

"You don't have to do this," she whispered.  “Come on, let’s just go.”

But he wasn’t done yet.  "The only good thing that you had was this lovely young lady,” Chris continued.  “And it seems that you can't seem to find the right way to hold onto that, now can you?" Chris smiled.

The woman leaned her head in and whispered in his ear.  "What are you doing?" she pleaded.  "We need to get out of here..."

"I don't run away," Chris replied.

"That's a pity," the man thundered.  "Cause I really think that you should listen to the lady."

Chris gave the woman's hand a soft squeeze before releasing himself from her grasp.  "Don't worry," he whispered in her ear.

The man loomed in front of him like a brick wall.  "I'm going to give you one more chance to get outta..."  He didn't have time to finish his sentence before Chris punched him in the stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

"Your tendency for crapulence isn't doing you any favors," Chris said, punching him again.  "It just makes you a bigger punching bag."

The man reached up to grab Chris by the arm but Chris slipped out of his reach.  The man staggered forward, reaching for him again but Chris dodged his grasp and swung once more, catching the man in the jaw.  He fell to the ground in a heap.

"That's not how you treat a lady," Chris said.  "If you haven't learned that lesson yet, let me reiterate."  Chris bent down, looking at the man eye to eye.  He grabbed the man's throat.  "They like it best with a gentle touch and a soft stroke of your fingers."  The man let out a garbled cough.  "You understand?" The man nodded his head.

Chris stood up and dusted himself off.

"Who are you?" the woman asked.

Chris kissed her hand and smiled.  "A gentleman." 

Flash Fiction Challenge: Fairy Tale Update

One of my favorite people to read in order to get inspired is Chuck Wendig.  He's a fantastic writer and an inspiration.  He's willing to give writers a swift kick in the pants in order to get them writing.  Every once and a while, he will put up a writing challenge for his followers.  This week's challenge is to redraft a fairy tale and have the setting be some modern place and time.  Here is my entry:

The Three Little Allies

                Once upon the 1940’s there lived three jubilant, little pigs that often played tricks on their mother.  That is, until they had a little mishap with a blowtorch and a Roman candle.

                “You boys are nothing but trouble!” Mom cried.  The cigarette that she held in her pink hoof smoldered.  She lifted it up to her small lips and took a deep breath.  The ash grew to twice its size and fell to the floor as she lowered her hoof.  The three boys sat on the couch and watched her nostrils flare as she breathed.  “I can’t stand it anymore.  I know that I shouldn’t do this but I’ve had it up to here,“ she said, holding the cigarette above her head.  Ash dropped down in to her beehive hairdo.  “I’m kickin’ you out.”

                “What?” Frankie cried.  He was the youngest out of the group and easily the most handsome, with his oblong face and petite snout.  “You can’t just kick us out!  Where are we going to live?”

                “You can go out and build your own homes to live in for all I care.” She walked them to the front door.  “Go make something of yourselves,” she said, shooing them out.  “And watch out for the big bad wolf,” she warned before slamming the door shut.

                And with that, the three little pigs were thrust out into the world.  They walked the streets, trying to figure out what to do.  They were so deep in thought that they didn’t even notice the big bad wolf stalking the trio in hopes to learn a little something about them.  Joey, the middle brother, looked to the eldest for a few words of wisdom.  Winston was always good for that. 

                “Oh, Winston,” he said.  “What are we going to do?”

                “We are going to move forward and build our own home.  We shall not flag or fail,” Winston mumbled.  He puffed on his cigar and stood, deep in thought.

                “I don’t know if I can…” Frankie started.

                “Don’t worry about it, little brother,” Winston said.  He patted Frankie’s head.  “Come now, let’s drink away our sorrows for the night.  We can deal with them at the dawn.”  He led his brothers into the Yalta Pub for a little scotch and a few words.

                The next morning, disheveled and hungover, the brothers made their way to an alley in the suburbs where they could start building their new home.

                “A nation that destroys its soils destroys itself. Forests are the lungs of our land, purifying the air and giving fresh strength to our people,” Frankie cried out.  “I will not cut down any of these precious trees!  I will build my house out of straw.”

                Winston looked at the scattered, adolescent oaks lining the sidewalk and puffed on his cigar.

                “What about the…” Joey’s voice wavered.  “The big bad wolf…” he whispered.  “He’s going to huff and puff…”

                “He can feel free to smoke crack somewhere else while I’m building Frankie’s Fortress of Love.  Now go away, I’m busy,” Frankie said, shooing away his older brothers.  He clapped his hooves together.

                Winston chuckled and pulled Joey aside.  “Leave our little brother,” he laughed.  “We can build our own house that will be able to withstand the huffs and puffs of the environment.”

                “Yes.”  Joey smiled in agreement.  “I have this wonderful home, in mind, made of sticks.”

                “Sticks?” Winston gave his brother a cockeyed stare.  “Nevermind.  You build your house and I’ll build mine,” he said.  He pointed across the street.  “Go build over there.”  Joey grunted and walked away. 

                The next morning the wolf stood on the front porch of Frankie’s straw house.

                “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” he called through the front door.

                “Fuck you,” Frankie called out.

                “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down!” 

And that’s just what he did.  Frankie sprinted to Joey’s home, which was built of sticks.  Joey welcomed his brother with open arms.  He was just about to explain what happened when they heard a voice from the front door.

                “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” the wolf called.

                “Fuck you!” they cried out in unison.

                “Then I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down!” 

And that’s just what he did, just as he had done before.  The boys immediately rushed to Winston’s brick house.  Winton welcomed them with open arms.

                “Little pig, little pig, let me in,” the wolf called.

                “Fuck you!” they cried in unison. 

                “Then I’ll…

                “You’ll what?” Winston asked, opening the front door.  He held a shotgun to the wolf’s chest.  “We shall go on to the end,” he whispered.  “We shall fight on the porch.  We shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air.  We shall defend our home, whatever the cost may be.  We shall fight in the fields and in the streets.  We shall fight in the hills.”  He paused to cock his gun.  “We shall never surrender.”

                Adolf looked into Winston’s eyes.  “I just wanted to know if you’ve found God…”  His voice was meek.  He handed Winston a pamphlet.

                Winston stared at the German words scrawled along the cover.  “Mein Kampf?” he read.  “Get off my porch,” he grunted. 

Winston slammed the door in his face and turned to his brothers.  “Well,” he said, leaning his shotgun against the door.  “Who wants some tea?”

“You’re just going to leave him…” Joey’s voice trailed off.

“I think I have some crumpets left on the counter,” Winston added as he filled the kettle and set it in the fireplace.  “We’ll have to talk about the living arrangements.”  The wolf grumbled as he shimmied down the chimney.  They turned toward the noise just as the wolf landed on the hot kettle and bolted straight up the chimney like a cork out of a wine bottle.  Winston nonchalantly turned back toward his brothers.  “I get the master bedroom and I have a tendency of sleeping naked.”

Creative Juices

My intention is to have at least five bottles on my desk labeled "CREATIVE JUICES" of various shapes and forms.  All of which will have different colored liquids in them that represent various moods and genres.  One will have a black, viscous, sludge-like substance.  One will be transparent and a light green like the picture above.  One will be opaque, white, and milky.  One will be filled with oil and blue water.  And the last will be red and translucent.

What would you have in yours?

Muddy Footprints

                The footsteps abruptly ended without warning…

                “It’s on the ceiling,” Michael spouted.  His words rang true and yet, so unbelievable.  We stared at the ceiling of the living room.  Hovering above the coffee table was the last footprint; a boot, with gnarly tread, the kind that hikers use to climb mountains…not walls.

                “Someone broke into our house,” I said, sensing someone behind me.  Michael and I turned around and found Dad, dressed to kill in his Spongebob boxers and blue, fuzzy robe.  He rubbed his eyes with one hand and held a coffee mug in his other hand.

                “What are you talking abou…” he started, but it was soon apparent that we didn’t have to explain ourselves.  His lips moved as if he was going to ask some poignant question but no words came out.  I watched his eyes follow the tracks from sliding glass door, across the living room, up the wall, and end on the ceiling.

                “Oh that’s just Bosco,” another family member said, waltzing into the living room.  We all turned around to see Bianca walk in, holding a juice box in her tiny hands.

                I asked the question on everyone’s mind.  “Wha…huh?” I muttered.

                “I told Bosco to clean off his shoes before he came in but he wouldn’t listen to me,” Bianca said.  She slurped her juice through the straw.

                “Oh…” Michael uttered.

                “Who the fuck is Bosco and what is he doing, walking all over my fucking walls?” Dad exploded.

                Bianca stared at him and replied, “My friend.”  She cocked her head to the side.  “And he doesn’t like the eff word.  He says that it’s vulgar and that you shouldn’t be a bad role model to your young, impressionable, and very receptive children.”  She ended on a huffy note and walked back into the kitchen.  Her pink, fuzzy, bunny slippers squeaked with every step.  I looked over at Michael, who shrugged and looked at Dad.  Dad looked at me. 

                “Don’t look at me,” I muttered.  “I’m not the one with imaginary friends who don’t know how to wipe their feet.”

                “I know how to wipe my feet,” Michael muttered.

                “I’m going to pretend that I didn’t hear that,” Dad said, staring at the ceiling.  “I’m going to not let the vein in my forehead burst,,” he said, walking over to the sliding glass door and checking the lock.  “I’m going to get a bucket full of soapy water,” he continued.  “And I’m going to watch as the two of you scrub the walls.”

                “What?” I pouted.  “I didn’t do this.”

                “Well, I know that I didn’t do it and if your sister didn’t do it and there’s nothing missing from the house, I’m just going to mark it off as tomfoolery – “

                “What the fuck is that?” I interrupted, my voice escalating to ear piercing levels

                “And I’m going to suggest that you clean up your mess before I outlaw shoes in this house.”

                I stood in the living room and stared at the bootprints as Dad left for the garage to fetch a bucket.

                “Can you believe it?” Michael asked.  “A girl Bianca’s age…with imaginary friends.  How juvenile…”

                “She’s four,” I informed him.  "And imaginary friends don't leave bootprints."

                “Doesn’t your father talk to himself as well?” Michael asked.  “Is schizophrenia rampant in your family?” Michael continued with his game of 20 Questions.

                “Yes, actually,” I answered nonchalantly.  “I do believe it does.”

                “Who are you talking to?” Bianca asked as she walked back into the room.  She handed me a sponge.  “Dad says that we need to clean the walls.”  She sighed.  “But that’s not fair cause I didn’t do it.  Bosco did it.”

                “You and Bosco,” I muttered.  The sound of sloshing water caught our attention.  Dad set down two buckets filled with soapy water next to the footprints. 

                “Scrub,” he ordered.  “I’m gonna get more coffee.”  Bianca and I exchanged looks as we fell to our knees and began the arduous task of cleaning up the muddy footprints.

                “What’s she doing?” I suddenly heard.  I stopped to look up but no one else was there.  Just me and Bianca.  Oh and Michael.

                “It came from the other room,” Michael responded, pointing toward the family room door.

                “How come you don’t have a sponge?” I asked him.

                “Because I don’t exist and imaginary friends don’t need to scrub floors.”  He chuckled.  “Now clean, wench!”

                “Who are you talking to?” Bianca repeated.  I shook my head and continued to scrub the floor.

                “She’s scrubbing the floor,” answered a different voice from the other room.  I turned my head toward the family room door.  It was painted gray with a little window in the middle of it, letting us peer into the happenings of the other room.   A face appeared in the little window.  He had gold rimmed glasses and a receding hairline.  The corners of his mouth formed a crooked smile as he waved at me.  But just as fast as he had appeared, he disappeared without a trace.  “She does this every day,” I heard him say.  I turned back to the floors.

                “Why does she scrub the floors every day, doctor?” asked the first voice.

                “She’s done it since the first day that she was admitted,” the bespectacled man replied.  “They found her at her home, in a bloody mess.  She claimed that some masked man broke into her house and slaughtered her father and sister.  She was nearly killed herself.  Prosecutors claimed that she actually did it in a schizophrenic rage but the police couldn’t prove one way or the other.”  He shrugged.  “She was in the midst of a breakdown so they didn’t believe her testimony. So they put her in here.”

                “They couldn’t find any evidence at the crime scene?” he asked

                “Only a trail of bloody footprints.  But they couldn’t identify who they belonged to,” the doctor explained.

                “They didn’t belong to her?” he asked.

                “Nope.  So every day, she scrubs the floor, trying to get rid of the footprints on the living room floor.”

                “That’s such a sad story,” the man replied.

                “They’re talking about you again,” Bianca whispered.

                “I hate it when they talk about me,” I seethed.  Flames felt like they were igniting my cheeks.  Tears welled up in my eyes.  “But I hate it more when they talk about you,” I cried. 

I turned to my sister but she wasn’t there.  I looked up at Michael but he was gone too.  It was just me.  In an empty room.  I let out a deep breath and curled up on the muddy floor.  “I miss you,” I whispered.