Walk to the Lake

http://www.everydayfiction.com/walk-to-the-lake-by-p-j-monroe/

I had to walk to the lake. I could have walked to the river but the river was thirty blocks away and the lake was five blocks away and I had to get to water. So, I had to walk to the lake. It was February in Chicago, which put the temperature somewhere between ten and fifteen degrees. Wind chill made it -10. And, of course, it was colder by the lake, because it’s always colder by the lake. I was walking to the lake with my bottle. A little outing. The bottle said, “Diazepam.” It said other things, too. But all that mattered was that it was generic Valium.

It started last winter. I hate winters in Chicago. They’re so dark. They’re so dirty. They’re so cold. And it’s colder by the lake. I live by the lake. I had a root canal. It was that simple. It seems like it should have been more complicated than that. Just a root canal. I’ve never been good about going to the dentist. I have bad teeth. I take good care of them. Every dentist I’ve ever had has patted me on the head and told me how they can tell I take such good care of my teeth and then they say, I should schedule an appointment for another filling. But this was a root canal. And I freaked out. So my dentist gave me a rather generous prescription for Valium, which the pharmacist filled with the generic, Diazepam. And I took it. I took lots of it. Double the dosage prescribed and I still sobbed through the whole procedure. But I got in the chair, so it could be called somewhat effective. And then I got home and my mouth hurt, but I didn’t care so much. I watched television and found myself fascinated with Star Trek. I watched for hours, eating ice cream, before I fell asleep. I slept like a baby.

I started out taking the leftovers from my prescription rather slowly. Five milligrams here, ten there. Maybe just when we had to go out with people from my husband’s office. I’m so shy. I’m so scared of people. And I don’t drink. I don’t understand people who drink. It tastes so bad. And I don’t like the feeling it gives you. When you hit that perfect tipsy spot, you can’t maintain it. You either drink more and get drunk, which is unpleasant and sometimes leads to vomit or you stop drinking and drive yourself straight into an early hangover.

But then, I started taking them in order to get an occasional nap in the afternoon. A good afternoon nap meant I could be perky and happy when my husband came home in the evening. And I like my husband. So, I was really doing it for him. That’s what I told myself.

And then I ran out. I found myself looking it up on the internet. Why would someone take Valium, if they weren’t getting a root canal? I went to my doctor and told him I had really bad backache. I also told him I didn’t like the muscle relaxants, as they made me jittery. He gave me a prescription for Valium, which I filled at the Walgreen’s pharmacy. I went to a psychiatrist and told her about my social anxiety. She gave me a prescription for Valium, which I filled at the CVS pharmacy. I even found myself going into the emergency room for prescriptions that I could have filled at the hospital pharmacy.

And then I started taking them all the time. To relax. To sleep. To have energy later. Just all the time. And then I woke up today. And it was February. I don’t know how it got to be February. I remember March. I remember September. I remember Thanksgiving. And then it was just today. So I put on my coat and grabbed my bottle and started walking to the lake. And now I’m here. I throw the bottle into the lake. And I breathe a sigh of relief. I can feel the weight slipping away from me. I can feel the cold water rush up against my feet, soaking my tennis shoes. I look down and at my feet I see my own prescription bottle. I pick it up and put it in my pocket. So be it. Maybe next winter.

Bam! Bam! Bam!

 50 Word Stories

You say I am beating a dead horse. Maybe that’s the case, and if so, then I will continuebeating a dead horse. I will beat it often and loudly. I will beat it until it becomes a drum demanding the protection of civil rights for all!

BAM! BAM! BAM!

Milk

http://www.everydayfiction.com/milk-by-p-j-monroe/

“May I have a glass of milk, please?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“May I have a glass of milk, please?” she repeated.

I was quite surprised. My cat had never before said a single word in English, let alone a complete sentence. I did the only thing I could do; I got her a glass of milk. I put the milk down in front of her. She dipped her paw in the glass and licked the milk off of it. I kept looking at her, my mouth wide open.

“No opposable thumbs,” she said, after seeing I was still staring at her.

I shook my head, trying to clear it, and said, “No.  I’ve seen you drink out of a glass before. I’m still a little amazed you’re speaking to me.”

“Well, that’s a little secret. In fact, I could have my cat card revoked for speaking in front of a human being.”

“You have a cat card?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head, “I was speaking figuratively.”

“Oh. But you could get in trouble?”

“You know all those strays… well…”

“Oh. Well, then why are you talking to me?”

She sat down and, ignoring her milk, she looked straight at me. I could have sworn I heard her sigh.

“I thought it was important to tell you,” she began. “We need to talk.”

“Maybe you don’t know this, not talking to humans much and all, but no good conversation ever starts with that sentence,” I said.

Shaking her head, she turned back to her milk. She dipped her paw in and licked the milk off of it. Then she looked back at me. I waited to hear what she was going to say.

“It’s over. I’m sorry.”

“What?” I asked, amazed.

“It’s not you. It’s me. I just can’t go on like this anymore. I need more. You have your friends and your work. And I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. There isn’t. But all I have is you. I define myself by you. I’m not Fluffy. I’m Joe’s cat. That was enough for a while. But now I need more. I have to find myself.”

She looked down at the milk, not drinking it, just contemplating it. I was shocked to say the least. Never before had Fluffy said a word. And now, she opened her mouth and laid all of this on me.

“So, then,” I said, “that’s it. You’re leaving me. You’ve made up your mind. There’s nothing I can say to change it, is there?”

“No.”

“Where will you go?”

“Joe,” she said, looking up at me and then looking back down at the milk, “there’s someone else. You have to believe me, I didn’t plan it this way.”

Now, I was furious. I was willing to be civil, maybe in hopes she would be back soon enough. But she had another owner on the side. And that was an indignation I was not willing to take.

“Fine! Go! But don’t think you’re taking anything. I loved you! I supported you! And you went and found someone else! You go, then! But don’t even think about taking the catnip sock! That’s mine!”

I got up and opened the front door. And she walked out of my life forever.

Guinevere's Last Days

To her, they brought his body,

Which was dirty and bloody

And devoid of the life she loved;

Next to him, on the convent floor,

She kneeled and prayed to God

That He might shine a guiding light

She prayed until the morning light,

Until there was an ache in her body;

Still no answer came from God,

Even though she wore her knees bloody,

On that cold, stone convent floor;

No answer, for God was not the one she loved

Lancelot was the only man she ever loved;

Without him, her life was without light,

As cold and as dark as the floor;

No love, no life was within her body;

She wished herself also dead and bloody,

Perhaps then she could be with him and God

"What other choice?" she asked God-

The king, who she should have loved,

Would be alive but also bloody;

Perhaps, before the next day's light,

She should go, mind and body,

To stand before him, on the court floor

What would he do, seeing her on that floor;

He certainly would not praise God,

Nor ever again touch her body,

For she was no longer the one he loved;

He would cast her out of his light

And that day's dusk would be colored bloody

Or perhaps he would order her neck bloody

And her head to roll on the floor;

This might give him back his life's light;

For her death, he would praise God,

For God, before her, he always loved;

God to have her soul and he, her body

So with wrists bloody, she called to God;

And fell to the floor, next to the man she loved;

In the morning's light, to the king they brought her body

Hektor’s Aristeia

Promised a day of glorious victory,

Prince Hektor led his fighting Trojans,

Shoulder to shoulder, closing together;

In face of this mighty army, fled the Greeks

Their leaders lay wounded, bleeding, or dead;

Hektor and the Trojans reached their wall

Following Hektor to the gates in the wall,

The army knew no future but victory;

So many Greeks were already dead,

Yet, so alive the army of Trojans

There was faint resistance by the Greeks,

As the Trojans pressed at the gates together

All at once, the Trojans stopped together,

And looked up, high above the wall,

Circling over the heads of the Greeks

An omen that there would be no victory

That ill omen meant for the Trojans;

An eagle, his talons held a red serpent, dead

Hektor swore this day was not yet dead;

He drew the men close and together

They were the mighty Trojans!

They would not be stopped by a wall

And they would have their rightful victory!

Their army, mighty, would beat the Greeks!!

They were good builders, those Greeks,

Or else they’d have already been dead;

The Greeks cried out for victory,

But stayed and hid safely together

Behind their strong and well built wall,

Where they were safe from the Trojans

The wall proved unbreachable to the Trojans;

But Hektor knew how to finish the Greeks;

He grabbed a boulder and turned towards the wall

If any other man had tried, he’d be dead;

Men came around the strong Hektor, together

Hektor threw the boulder, broke the wall, brought victory

This is the story of the Trojans, who did not lay dead

And the story of the Greeks, and how the armies clashed together

And how the strongest wall could not stop Hektor’s victory

NailPolish Stories

http://nailpolishstories.wordpress.com/

It Starts With Me by P.J. Monroe
I stand up alone. Then you stand up. And then the others join in. We all rise up. We become a wall. We are unbreakable.
P.J. Monroe lives, writes, and paints in Lake County, IL.

One Sentence

I felt a chill when I found out my former best friend had reassured my younger sister that everything would go back to normal, once my husband was dead.

http://www.onesentence.org/stories/4266/

Shameless Self-Promotion

http://fineartamerica.com/art/all/nature/all" style="font: 10pt arial; text-decoration: underline;">nature art

Come see art.  Come buy Jennifer Fliegel's art.

View of a City Cat

 

Looking out over the neighborhood,

she and I watched the action at the station

for the commuter train;

She is stretched into a straight line

lounging like a colorful celebrity

looking out at the night;

I feel I should apologize

for tormenting her with the business

of my own loose problems;

She stretches her back

and becomes once again interested

in my problems and the view

of Saturday night Chicago;

I talk to her of trouble

and she gives me a look

with her shining eyes;

Daytime seems so far away,

as we watch red vans;

I am speculating

as to the meaning of the look on her face,

secrets she has;

Her eyes glow;

She is living here with me,

watching bicycle deliveries go by;

She glances at the end tables

and then back to the avenue

where the people meander eastward

From here she can see the river

and the kids with baseball gloves;

those damnable strip malls,

that moved in from the suburbs;

Mostly she sees my complaints

and she listens with the most caring silence

Idea

I thought I might try my hand at the fine arts.  http://fineartamerica.com/art/photographs/rabbit/all" style="font: 10pt arial; text-decoration: underline;">rabbit photos
Jennifer Fliegel.  That's me.

First and Second Impressions

 

            I didn't understand a single thing he said, but I smiled and nodded politely anyway.  My mother always told me to be polite.  But, honestly, I was bored out of my skull.  I didn't know anything about this car he was planning to get and restore.  Why wasn't he like most guys; why couldn't he spend his time talking about sports?  Sports, I know.  My father is a big football fan and he has been dragging every member of our family to games for as long as I can remember.  My best friend, Mary, says that is why guys like me so much, because I don't mind sitting around on the weekends watching sports.  I would like to accuse her of holding incorrect stereotypes, but to be honest I have never been out with any guy who didn't love sports.

            Until Greg.  Greg has been talking about this car for the last half an hour and all I have understood is that it is red.  Personally I don't know why anyone would go to so much trouble to restore an old car when there are really great, new cars out there.  I tried to tell Greg, but he scoffed at that idea.

            "Great, new cars?  I don't think so.  They just junk them up with stuff people don't really need.  And anyway, there is nothing quite like the look of an antique."

            I nodded politely.  And then I tried to change the subject.

            "So how did you do on Mr. McKinney's test today?"

            "Oh, I think I did really well.  I am pretty good in math.  It comes in very handy when you are working on a car.  For instance..."

            How did we get back to this?  I nodded politely again.  I am going to have to thank my mother for teaching me that.  And I think I am going to have to kill Mary for setting this up. 

            I never talked to Greg in Trig. class.  But I saw him.  And Mary saw me see him.  I suppose I could not have been more obvious.  My chin almost hit the floor.  There he was standing there in jeans and a flannel and I could tell he had a beautiful body, which matched his smile.  His eyes sparkled when he smiled, letting little specks of gold intermingle with the brown.  His hair was short, so short I wasn't even sure if it was blond or brown.  Now that I have been sitting here looking at his hair for almost an hour, I can definitely say it is brown, very light brown, but just a bit too dark to be said to be blond.  Of course, it is probably a judgment call. 

            Mary was the one who talked to Greg first.  I couldn't.  I wanted to talk but I just stood there, next to Mary, smiling like a fool.  I did notice, though, he kept looking at me, even when he was talking to Mary.  I was so nervous I just grabbed Mary's arm and dragged her to two empty seats in the back, as far away from him, as possible.  And there we sat for two months.  Every day I would sit in my seat and stare at the back of this completely gorgeous person and daydream about how our date would go, if he ever asked me out. 

            According to my daydream, he would pick me up in one of those sporty cars which he has spent the evening decrying.  He would walk up to the door wearing a three-piece suit.  I don't know what it is about a guy in suit that makes me swoon, but I can't help it.  I would come down the stairs, wearing a pale green (to match my eyes) dress, backless, of course.  He would be so enamored with me, he would almost drop the flowers he was carrying for me.  After handing me a bouquet of a dozen white and pink roses, he would take my arm.  I would hand my flowers to my father, who would be standing there, nodding approvingly.  I would glide out on Greg's arm and he would open the door for me.  Then he would drive me to an elegant restaurant, where he would order for us and we would laugh and eat lobster and drink champagne.  Then he would take me to go dancing and we would be so good that the other people would stop dancing and just watch us.  And then he would return me home with a soft kiss on my lips.

            Okay.  I realize that was a big fantasy.  I don't even own a pale green dress, let alone a backless one.  My father has never approved of any of my dates.  No high school student could afford lobster and we aren't old enough to drink.  And I can't dance.  But everyone has to dream.  And that was my dream.

            The reality was different.  He picked me up in a station wagon, his mother's station wagon.  He didn't bring me flowers.  My father did not nod approvingly.  My father didn't kill him, so that’s a start.  I am wearing jeans and a tee shirt from our high school.  First we went to a movie, which was a fine movie.  Not great, not terrible.  And now we are sitting in the local fast food restaurant/hangout.  And I am listening to him talk about the car he wants to buy and restore.  I can't believe this is happening.  I smile and nod politely.

            The food is gone and I am truly bored and I am just thinking I want to go home and go to bed and forget tonight even happened.  I start to put my trash on the tray.  Greg takes the hint and starts to clean up his trash.  We stand and go to the trash can.  We dump our stuff and walk out to the car.  He does hold the door open for me.  I get in and he walks around and gets in the driver side.

            "So, I hear you are really into sports.  I don't really know much about any of that.  What is your favorite sport?" he says to me.

            I am a bit taken aback.  But I start telling him about football.  He asks me some questions and I answer them.  He looks genuinely interested.  I hope I looked as interested in what he said about cars.  We reach my house and he comes around and opens my door.  He walks me up to the door.  He looks at me, a bit nervous.  And then he leans in and kisses me.  Sparks.  Definite sparks.  My legs tingle.  Oh, this is nice.  I have never been so happy.  Very happy. 

            Pulling away from me, he asks if he can call me tomorrow.  I find myself unable to speak.  I smile and nod politely.

            "Great, maybe we can watch the game," he says.

 

Scented

 

In the sticky, hot

mid-August air

of May,

On the backroads

that silently wind

over the green hills

and past

the sno-cone stands

on the way

from Washington, D.C.

to Baltimore,

A scent hangs

on the humidity;

It comes

from the pastures

on which nothing grazes,

up over the trees

that shade

the small roads

and their sharp curves,

and sticks to the cars

along with the yellow

dusting of pollen;

A mixture

of youth and home

of honeysuckle and green onions

Directions

 

                                                                     

 

I sit to watch the children playing where I played, as

   a small child, on the school's playground

I swing again on the jungle gym that I once fell off of

   and broke my nose

Beyond the fence, which wasn't there in my smaller days,

   is a wooded glen with the creek where I used

   catch crayfish

If you follow the water, you'll end up next to the baseball

   field, where I spent my summers and the houses

   that I watched them build

Behind those houses are the ones where I grew up

From there you follow the fence that was meant to keep

   us out off the road but didn't

Go past the swimming pool on whose diving board I broke

   my nose a second time

Keep next to the fence until you get to the hole, still

   there and big enough to crawl through

On the other side is a pond, nothing special, even the

   ducks don't go there

Walk around the pond and you'll see two posts connected

   by a chain, to keep the cars out

You can swing on the chain, if you want, but I wouldn't

   because I fell off it once, though I didn't

   break anything

Follow the road, past the house where my best friend used

   to live

Cross the four-lane road, very carefully because the cars

   might not stop

Walk up the steep hill between the apartment buildings

   and turn left

Ignore the playground and pool on the right, I never played

   there anyway

Second to the last apartment building, second floor, door

   in front of the stairs, be sure to pet the

   cat when you come in

These are the directions my life has taken

Tea Time

 

 

            I checked through the peephole.  I found there were five of them.  Two more than I’d been expecting.  Leave it to them to invite along their own guests without telling me.  The ducks stared up at me when I opened the door.  They started quacking immediately.  Quack, Quack, Quack.  Loudly.  I stood back and held the door open.  The ducks came in.  One of them was pulling a little red wagon.  Inside the wagon was a plate of cookies. 

            I led them to the living room.  I tried to make pleasant conversation, but the ducks were quacking quite vigorously and quite loudly, so I could not get a word in edgewise.  I had put my good china out for this tea party.  I hustled to the china cabinet to get two more settings.  The teapot was full, but I went into the kitchen to put some more water on to boil.  I wasn’t sure there would be enough tea for all of us.  I would just have a small sip; that should help.

            When I got back to the living room, I saw two of the ducks sitting on the coffee table.  One of the tea settings had been knocked over.  Another duck was quacking wildly at the cat, who was cowering in a corner.  The other two ducks were going through my DVD collection, picking a selection up with their bills and then discarding it on the floor.  The stereo was playing Sheryl Crow a little too loudly for my tastes.  And the quacking!

            I tried to pour the tea, but one of the coffee table ducks kept pecking at my hand, until I finally dropped the teapot.  It smashed to pieces on the floor.  I went into the kitchen to get some paper towels.  When I returned, the ducks that had been going through the DVDs had moved on to the CDs.  There were two piles.  The first pile included The Byrds and Counting Crows.  I assumed the other pile were the rejects.  I tried to offer a nice game of Scattergories.  I was ignored.  I cleaned up the mess that had been made of my teapot and finally gave up.  I took the tray of cookies from the red wagon.  Eating a cookie, I plopped myself down and listened to the quacking and watched the destruction of my living room. 

            Ducks have no manners, but they bake the best cookies.

Outside Baltimore

 

                      

 

Waking to the grey sunshineless light that

       falls over my bed covers

I rise and go to my window with its

       suburban snow view

The perfect white on the parking lot, like my

       own typing paper, and then the cars

       come to write their poetry

I dress like the day, grey and black with

       hard boots, so as to stomp

       the people down

I go outside where the air covers me in

       softness that I am unable to

       reach through

The smell of snow long gone from the air and

       the snow on the ground turned into

       slush, like the slush that fills the sky

I long to be two months and ten miles

       forward, sitting at the Inner Harbor

       in the spring sun

First Bloom

 

I shift into a position, purposefully, 

where I can listen to the honeysuckle

that absently teases my nose;

To sit in the woods,

these abundant gardens of wildflowers,

for hour upon hour…

Life here

is starting to bloom

Cat Poem

Sitting at our window and

watching the entrance to a restaurant,

her head rests on my shoulder;

Looking at the rising tide of people,

turning over and over;

I think about the others before her,

all special,

some with even stranger names;

But I thought of this poem while I was watching her

 

Soon the image of words died

as I became entranced with petting her fur and

as she found the unimagined spot in my heart

Life With William

 

There were more than I’d been expecting.  The night before, when I had left my jeans on the floor, there had been four holes in them.  And now, in the morning light, there were six.  The four old holes were getting a little larger everyday.  But the two new holes were small.  Small and in the shape of a little bunny mouth.

            I looked over at William.  He was looking innocent.  He was not innocent.  He munched hay, as I talked to him.

            “That’s it.  No Star Trek for you today.”

            William is a weird little bunny.  Not because he likes to chew holes in things.  That is a very normal bunny activity.  William is weird because he likes to watch Star Trek.  And he knows his Star Trek.  The Original Series.  The Next Generation.  Deep Space Nine (his personal favorite).  Voyager.  He does not, however, consider Enterprise to be a valid Star Trek series , but who among us does?  He understands that all of these things are Star Trek.  When I turn on Star Trek, he comes running into the other room and stares intently at the television.  During the commercials, he cleans his toes and ears or snuffles around.  But he understands that’s not Star Trek.  He doesn’t watch any other television shows.  Not even other science fiction.  Just Star Trek.  Weird little bunny.  So every day, at 4:00, I turn on the SciFi channel and we watch Star Trek together.  But not today.  Today, William is being punished.

            I put on my jeans, the ones with the holes in them and a tee shirt, which also had little bunny holes in it.  I padded, barefoot, into the kitchen.  William followed closely behind me, anticipating breakfast.

            Walking through the door of my kitchen, I found myself in the Oval Office.  There was a nice looking gentleman behind the desk.  No president I knew.  But, hey, anyone sitting behind the desk in the Oval Office had to be the president, right? 

            “Good morning, Mr. President.  I’m just getting some coffee.” I said to the man behind the desk.

            “Security!” the man said into an intercom.

            I walked over to a coffee trolley and poured myself a cup.  Just as I was taking my first sip, several Marines with guns were standing around me.  I walked slowly backwards, showing my hands and the fact that they held nothing but coffee.  I kept backing up.  William was circling my feet, making it hard for me to not trip and fall down.  Tripping and falling down would definitely be a bad thing.  William and I continued our slow movement backwards.  The Marines continued to point guns at us.  And then we were back in the hallway of my apartment.

            “Well, I’ll have to get your breakfast from the grocery store, but you’re going to have to wait until I drink my coffee,” I said to William.

            I went to the front door and opened it.  I was looking for my newspaper.  Instead I found an alien vista of some sort.  William continued to snuffle around my feet.  He looked up at the vista but quickly lost interest when he figured out that if wasn’t Star Trek.  I closed the door.

William and I went into the living room.  Standing there, looking quite confused was a Roman solider.  I smiled and pointed to the porch door.  

            “You want to go out there,” I said, which was silly, because he couldn’t understand what I was saying. 

            He looked at me, looked at the door, looked at me.  I walked over to the door and opened it for him.  Through the door I could only see my own porch, but I had a suspicion that it really lead to some part of the Roman Empire.  I motioned to the soldier that he should go through the door.  He seemed to understand and went through.  William tried to follow him, but I put out my foot to stop my bunny from ending up as Caesar’s dinner.  I closed the door and went to sit on the couch.  I turned on the television and leaned back to drink my coffee.  William jumped up on my lap, causing me to spill my coffee.  I sighed.

            “You know you have to stop chewing holes in the space – time continuum,” I said to William, who was licking up the spilt coffee, “And my jeans.”