Story 5 of 184: Della’s Chairs

** I am a huge fan of the site, postsecret.com. Some people have the NY Times crossword; I have PostSecret every Sunday morning. The rest of that day, I’ll mull over a secret or two that particularly affected me. Some that felt like I could have written them, well, I’ve saved. This was one and here’s what I imagined for her.**

Della was not quite sure when her love for chairs became an obsession.

Chippendales and Aunt Bessie. Renaissance and studying in Italy. Bergeres and the Ritz drinking tea. Fiddlebacks and hot pancakes at Nana’s. Arts & Craft and her grandpa’s fishing cabin. There were so many memories attached to chairs for her that it was hard to place one over the other. And it was not an obsession, thank you very much, it was a passion, a love. Despite what her family and friends thought.

Now, she was on the verge of turning it into a thriving business. Which should just prove the point to them that I am not the sole chair nut in the world, Della thought to herself as she dusted and cleaned the small store. Okay, maybe, it made her a lone nut, but people now benefit from her wisdom and discerning knowledge of chairs.

Della polished the Boston rocker in the front window lovingly. This had really been her first chair. Her grandmother had rocked Della in it when she was small and the rocking chair had been with Della ever since. It had rocked Della through long giddy phone calls with girlfriends in high school and tearful breakups with boys in college. It was the chair she sat in when she heard of her grandpa’s passing and where she had sat and first dreamed up this shop. Once upon a time, she still hoped to rock her children in it, but facing 40, Della wasn’t sure they’d be coming. But, Della thought cheerfully, the chair is serving me now as a goodluck charm.

Della looked around her little shop and felt very proud. Della simply named the store Chairs. She had gone onto Craigslist and found a rental listing for a small store space on Kings Road. It had great windows and the rent was reasonable.

Della loved coming to work everyday. Polishing the chairs. Photographing some to sell online. Taking phone calls from interested people. And last month, she had started consignment but that had brought a new wave of issues. Stains and tears, the chairs delivered were not in great conditioned. The majority of chairs were in serious need of new upholstery before being properly sold. Della looked at them as an investment. She paid the people a flat fee which they all seemed happy to accept. And today, the supposed best upholsterer in town was coming for a meeting.

Della kept busy until the appointed time for the upholsterer to arrive. Miss Gladstone who ran the tea shop next store, dropped by every morning with a hot cup for Della and was there when he arrived.

“Hello Della?” he asked looking back and forth between the two women. He was short for a man but still taller than Della. He was dressed simply in nice jeans and white shirt but there was something familiar and appealing about him to Della.

“I am Della. Hello. You are Harry Kenton,” Della said shaking his hand and feeling a slight tingle as she did so. He seemed to have felt something as well and nodded his head slightly.

Typically, Della loved Miss Gladstone for her teas and the bright conversation but was eager to have her go so she could allow the man to check out the inventory and then be on his way.

“The chairs to be examined are back here. Miss Gladstone, thank you so very much for the tea,” said Della crossing the hall and heading towards the backroom. She felt very nervous and sticky having this man walk behind her. She felt incredibly self-conscious of her body. Wanting and not wanting to swing her ass in an admirable fashion. Ugh! Why hadn’t she paid more attention to things like this!

“You have a lot of wonderful chairs in here. Whoa… is that a Chippendale from the old Stone Inn?” the man asked.

Della was impressed. “Yes, it is. Kind of one of my favorites that I’m not ready to part with.” And immediately Della lost her nervousness. She and Harry were soon discussing chairs, chair styles, fabrics and more. The talk continued through Harry’s review of the inventory. And into a late lunch next store at Miss Gladstone’s.

Harry provided her with a very reasonable price to fix the chairs and soon he was a regular fixture at the store. People talked. People smiled. People bought chairs.

And in the meantime, Harry and Della fell in love.

#30

© 2009 Jeny M. Dowlin

The Story That Got Me Going…

Well, I’ve learned I didn’t make the last round of the writing contest. I missed the deadline by about two minutes. Bummed but I shall try again. I wanted to share this story though because it is one I liked.

The NYCMidnight contest provided three things: Genre (Romance), Location (a computer lab), Object (glow stick). I had to create a 1,000 word story with these three items. So… here you go!

Love,

Your Glow Bug

Carol’s 39^th birthday present from her husband had guests puzzled and her in tears…for the right reasons, of course.

______________________________________________

I need to share with you the sweetest thing I’ve witnessed in a long time. In this day and age of marriage and divorce, it’s amazing when you can be part of a moment that shows you love can truly be everything it promises.

Last Friday was my friend Carol’s 39^th birthday party. We put on a big soiree. Everyone came. Everyone loves Carol. Most of all, her husband, Jack.

You first need to understand that Jack is a practical man. Always researches and analyzes before he buys. But when he does, like selecting Carol, he does it forever.

So when we saw the Tiffany box in Jack’s hand, there were more than a few surprised faces.

“You went to Tiffany’s,” said Carol surprised herself, delicately taking the box from his hand.

“I wanted something custom,” he said quietly, kissing Carol’s forehead. “It’s a big day.”

The room was silent as Carol slid the white ribbon off the blue box. Inside was another box, this one black. The whole room seemed to hold its breath as Carol opened the lid of the black box. I was completely watching Carol’s face at the moment and I’m so glad I did. When she saw the item that Jack had thoughtfully made, her eyes immediately began to tear. She let out a small utter, smiled and then… then she got up and collapsed in tears into Jack’s arms. “It’s perfect,” she huskily said into his neck. “You are so wonderful.”

I have to say many of the ladies, myself included, were brushing away some tears. Clearly this present had made our friend the happiest woman in the world and I took great delight in that.

The room was a bit stirred up for five minutes or so, passing around the gift and trying to figure out exactly what it was. No one got it. When Jack and Carol finally moved apart, they began to laugh looking around the room at their friends’ faces.

“Perhaps I need to explain,” said Carol. “Can someone hand that back to me? Jack honey, will you please put it on me. Thank you.”

Once everyone had gotten their glass filled and Carol had recomposed herself, here’s what she told us:

As many of you know, Jack and I met in high school. In computer class to be specific. Jack was the teacher’s assistant, helping to run the computer lab. Making sure all the programs were set up right and to help us if we had problems. I had tons of problems! I felt like I was raising my hand every five minutes in that class. And I was not doing it on purpose to get Jack’s attention. Well, not at first.

After some time, I started noticing more about Jack. How helpful he was without making you feel dumb. How his eyes were so blue and bright behind his glasses.

I also started to notice, or hoped, that he was looking at me too. He never seemed to be very far away when I raised my hand for help. Our eyes caught each other glancing more and more. This went on for about two weeks and then one day I just couldn’t stand it anymore.

One day after class, I decided to take matters into my own hands. There was a closet in part of our computer lab for the servers. At the end class, Jack always went into that room to check the systems. I decided that I would follow him in there and get him to ask me out.

I remember being so nervous. His back was to me and I clumsily moved the door holder so I could close the door for more privacy.

“No! The door will lock us in!” Jack cried but it was too late. The door was shut.

And until that happened, I hadn’t realize there wasn’t a light on. “Where is the light?” I asked and Jack mumbled, “Right by the door on the other side.”

I felt so horrible! And dumb. I remember asking when would someone find us and he said everyone was at lunch so not for awhile.

For a minute or so, we just stood in the silence getting accustomed to the darkness. The room wasn’t completely dark thanks to all the glowing and blinking lights on the machines. I remembering seeing Jack reach his hand out to me and then feeling him touch me. “Well, we can sit down at least,” he said.

We sat down next to each other, his knee softly pushing on mine. He occasionally pounded on the door “just in case someone hears it.” Except for feeling like a dummy for causing it, I really liked being in there. Sitting so close in the dark to the boy I was beginning to have feelings for. Ah, to be sixteen again.

And no, Jack did not kiss me then! We just sat, talked and then eventually — I’m not sure how — we ended up holding hands.

Anyway, I told Jack in that little closet, how pretty the lights were… like little glow bugs. I told him how much I liked fireflies in the summer and how I’d just seen these cool new things called glow sticks that were out.

The next day, when I came into class, there was  a glow stick on my keyboard with a note. It was about going on our first date and instead of signing his name, Jack put “your glow bug.”

That’s why this is so special. Because even now, Jack will leave me a note with a glow stick and nothing… nothing makes me feel more aware of his love than those.

As she finished the story, Carol’s eyes were wet and she was grinning. Jack’s hands held one of hers and her other was touching Jack’s special gift. A platinum pendant shaped like a glow stick with the engraving “Love, your glow bug.”

See, love sometimes is everything it promises to be.

Story 4 of 184: Bored Robin and the Site

*** Okay, first one of my stories using items suggested. So this is for Amy who gave me “Warren, Michigan” and “a diaper.” ***

The rain fell softly outside. Robin stared out through the open kitchen window watching it fall, hearing the quiet plinking it made into the grass and asphalt. They were small drops but many and so the house next door was slightly muted. This pleased Robin as she did not particularly care for these neighbors. She might enjoy them to be permanently muted.

Robin was bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.

Warren, Michigan wasn’t exactly what she had imagined as the big city living she would have as an adult. Her teenage bedroom walls had been decoupaged with city scenes from Chicago, New York, LA, San Francisco. Warren offered little comparable excitement.

Unless big city life equaled brewskis at the bowling alley which for her husband, Steve, it did. Every Friday night. Same bowling alley. Same pitchers of beer. Same people.

Boring. Boring. Boring.

Robin felt her life as gray and monotonous as the rain falling outside. She didn’t always. But the last two years with the kids now going to school and her without a job, she had begun to feel stifled, choked, dying.

She knew it was her place to make things better for herself. But she didn’t even seem to have the energy for that. But of late she did seem to have the energy to go online and consider an affair.

It was Kate’s fault. She was the one who had told Robin last week at the bowling alley while getting the fourth pitcher of beer for their husbands that she had started an affair online with this younger guy and this was the site. It had all come out of Kate’s mouth that rambled and fast since there wasn’t much time.

Robin had almost dropped the beer. Almost. Steve saw it beginning to tip and quickly grabbed it from her. That’s Steve. Concerned for the important things in life.

Bored. Bored. Bored.

Maybe Robin could find herself a young Antonio Banderas to sweep her away to Chicago to live in sin? Or a rich older man to take her to Europe? Robin’s imagination and libido began to explore varied sexual scenarios.

One that vividly came to Robin’s mind was an evening pool party – adults only. On a cool rooftop in Chicago with the city lights glowing all around. Everyone laughing and enjoying themselves – drinks, good music, fun people. Very fun people who decide that a game of strip truth or dare is in order. Soon everyone is in the pool naked, feeling free, feeling high on life.

In her fantasy, Robin feels especially free and frisky and she wants her man now. The man in this scenario is an older Antonio Banderas… it might be the actual Antonio. With no qualms about her body, Robin glides out of the pool and strides to her lover on his chaise lounge. She kneels down and begins pleasuring him right there in front of everyone. He moans delighted loving her initiative.

He gently pulls her to her feet and they walk into the house into a room where they find another couple on the bed. Robin finds herself aroused seeing this other woman giving head. Robin joins Antonio next to them and resumes her sucking once more.

A crowd has formed to watch. Robin can feel the men’s eyes on her ass, watching her mouth and getting aroused. Robin could have this whole room of men if she wanted. She could lie there and be pleasured, deciding who could touch or kiss or…

The phone.

“Hello? Hey Kate… What’s wrong? Did you say he was wearing a diaper?”

Kate seemed to be crying from a pay phone in a parking lot. It was very hard to understand what she was saying.

“Do you want me to come get you? Where are you?”

Well, this wasn’t boring, at least. Robin scrambled for her car keys and her shoes.

 This one might need to be continued…

Story 3 of 184: Little Pen

*** Little Pen stories are something I’ve been sharing with my family for several years. It began with my grandmother’s 80^th birthday and was the best way I could find to share my love and wishes to her. ***

Little Pen sat close to the lake’s shore listening. She was listening to the wind through the tall pines. She was hearing the soft waves washing onto the bank in front of her. Most of all, she was waiting for Great Spirit to speak and provide her some guidance.

The entire village knew Little Pen’s challenges these last few moons. None knew the full extent of her internal anguish and heartache. But as we all do, the villagers felt her pain recounting their own heartaches and sent up prayers for Little Pen to smile fully again.

Little Pen had known when the dawn broke at the beginning of this year, that it would be an important one in her growth. She had taken that first day to herself. Arising before the sun and walking to the top of a nearby ridge to be nearest the sky. She gave gifts and had sent up prayers for love, happiness and abundance for herself and all her people. And in the moon of the cherry blossoms, it seemed as if love was finally delivered to her.

For several moons, Killing Elk from a nearby village had wooed her and there was much serious talk between them. The entire village had noticed a new light in Little Pen during those moons. She herself blossomed like the cherry tree, the old women gossiped. Many had been glad as Little Pen was one who walked alone much and was deserving of a strong partner.

But this joy faded when Killing Elk stopped visiting in the moon of thunder. No word was received from him. No smoke signal or messenger. Little Pen did not know if he had chosen another, been wounded in battle or simply did not desire her company anymore. Little Pen sat up many nights trying to hear Great Spirit over her tears but “in time” was all that she was told.

It had been two difficult moons for Little Pen.

And now, today, Little Pen had been asked by the basket women to not return. It was her tribe’s customs that everyone was able to share one special gift of contribution. For many years, Little Pen had been making baskets, learning under different teachers and refining her skills. But of late, Little Pen had been bored and under this new teacher, her efforts were not successful. Little Pen’s way was not her way and the past year had been hard.

Little Pen had been thinking and praying that a new path of contribution might be made open to her. As she walked the forests and rode with the horses these past moons, she tried to remember what other tasks had given her much joy. It was difficult to imagine not making baskets for the village and having them admired and bartered to other tribes. At the same time, something within Little Pen grew excited.

Sitting now by the water, Little Pen closed her eyes and felt the sun’s warmth on her skin. She knew she had to be courageous now. That it was important at times to release something good to receive something great. Had not she seen it many times? This was a time for faith in herself and that her life was meant to provide great things for her people.

Only a few days ago, the elders had spoken to her about the herbs required for healing and teas. Had she seen an elderberry or lemon balm during her walks? Perhaps now, Little Pen who held great respect for custom might become an apprentice to the wise woman that performed the tea ceremonies and healings for the tribe. She imagined this and smiled.

Then, as Little Pen sat there at the shore, she felt something plop in the grass to the right of her. It was a perfect acorn, apparently just dropped from the tree above. Little Pen smiled at this hopeful sign from Great Spirit.

Yes, Little Pen would grow something new. Something that in time could become a gift to her people that was strong like the oak. She put the acorn into her pouch, gave thanks and returned to the village. Little Pen had much hope in her heart and felt herself blossoming once more with belief and love.

Story 2 of 184: Fat Maggie – the Dawning

** This comes from some raw notes I’d written back in 2005 for the start of a book entitled “Fat Maggie.” 991 words tweaked and buffered in 35 minutes.**

Maggie was fat. Enormously fat. She had no clue when this had actually occurred but as she tried browsing the racks of Lane Bryant to find something suitable to wear, and finding nothing, there was only one conclusion… she was on the far right of the fat continuum. Okay, maybe not “far” right but dangerously approaching.

Or, she rationalized, was it where her fat was located on her body was vastly different than thousands of other women because she didn’t know WHO was looking good in these outfits. These slinky, satiny tanks with bra areas the size of cantaloupes hung by tiny spaghetti straps and tapered waists. So their arms are thin and not flabby but their breasts are six times the size of normal women? Uh, haven’t seen these girls recently.

Okay so maybe not every piece of clothing was meant to work for her even in the “plus size” store. But still.

Still it was time to make a conclusion.

Somehow, somewhere Maggie had stopped taking care of her body. She had stopped really looking in the mirror. Stopped realizing just what kind of food she was putting in her mouth. And most of all, Maggie had stopped moving. All she did was sit. Sit at work, sit in traffic, sit in front of the TV. Sit and not make progress in her life at all.

And was it no surprise again that she was doing this all alone, Maggie told herself.

And with this thought, if Maggie had not been standing in the midst of a store, she would have collapsed to the floor and wailed. She did not want to be alone. And reflecting on her crazy college years and wild 20s, was she paying some kind of karmic bounty and why she was alone. How was she — out of all her friends — still nowhere even close to pushing a stroller or reading the Sunday paper in bed with someone?

Everything could only be reduced back to the fat.

Her waves of realizations were almost too much to bear – drowning her, crashing her against the rough shore of reality and the realization of the Next Step. But bear these waves she must and change them she knew.

Maggie closed her eyes and could feel the very active, kicky size-12 inside. This gigantic shell she was wearing had been there far longer than a year. Reality said the true weight began to build five years ago. For five years, she had only been adding more blubber on to more blubber.

Maggie really felt her fatness.

She walked out of the store and back into the mall causeways. Fat people were everywhere. Huge butts in low-riding jeans, rolls showing through too tight and too short shirts, entire families of roundness.

How did this happen – not only to America but more importantly in this moment to herself? How did she join the ranks of these people? She ate vegetables, salads, water. She understood smoothies were a standalone meal and not a shake to go with a burger. Why hadn’t Maggie been aware of this three years ago or last year?

And the final wave of realization hit her as she scooted to the car, tears beginning to well.

She had not been ready then.

It was a sad fact she knew she had been adding and keeping weight on her body for a reason. She hated her body. She had hated how men had reacted to her body and her personality. How she felt so little control over these reactions and in some case stopping their actions.

She hated her body and that many restaurant chairs were tight and uncomfortable as her ass was too large for the seat. Not that she didn’t fit. She did fit – barely. But as a meal progressed, more and more of her focus was on the feel of the steel arms pressing into her thighs than on the conversation. Forcing her thighs to stay contained; to not expand.

Maggie kept walking to her car, the tears now making their way onto her cheeks. Where was her car? Maggie thought frantically.

And airplane seats. Airplane seats and her belly. This should have been a sign. For her work, Maggie was on a trip monthly and always fighting, tugging the airline seat belt. Silently praying for a glorious “click.” One of the most gratifying sounds in Maggie’s life. How sick.

Maggie got to her car and hurriedly got in. She was slightly out of breath, heaving, sobbing. A bonafide fat girl mess sitting in a shopping center.

Maggie tried to think better thoughts. More loving thoughts for herself. She prayed for more loving thoughts.

Then Maggie remembered her trip to Philadelphia to visit an old college friend.

“C’mon, don’t you want to run Rocky’s steps?”

Maggie had looked up those stairs daunted by the task.

Yes…no. Maggie thought. I definitely do not want to embarrass myself by passing out, gasping like a fish by the 20^th step.

“I’m afraid I might pass out doing all those,” Maggie dared to say aloud.

“Well, then I’ll come around with the car.”

So she walked them. All the way. She could actually hear Rocky music playing as she walked step by step.

She was heavy breathing but not gasping, not crawling, not keeling over due to the exertion. She did not feel like others were looking at her as if she was the heaviest woman in the world to climb the stairs without stopping.

And then she was there. She turned around on the Rocky embedded footprints and saw the amazing view of Philly laid out. Clearly worth all those steps to see this, Maggie thought.

How many other views has she missed out on out of fear? Nervous about exertion?

Maggie remembered feeling then that she wanted more of her life to be this way – breath-taking, beautiful and satisfying.

It was time she made it happen.

Story 1 of 184: Moonwater River

Writer’s Note: Off to a good start! I fulfilled my first promise which was to begin this project on September 1. One down, 183 to go. 913 words written in 57 minutes.

Daylight ended fast on the river. Like the men who worked the waters, daylight didn’t play much. The sun was up and then within five minutes, she could be behind the mountains and you in darkness. And once in darkness, it was best to just sit tight. There was no getting off the river once daylight left you.

Many of these men learned that the hard way. Thinking themselves to be invincible they always tried once to leave the river’s shores after dark. Only to be caught in tentacle bushes on moonless trails, where eventually, you had to give up and just sleep right there. That cold earth your pillow. And bed.

At dawn, another man would find you, kick you and laugh at the fact you were mere yards from your truck home. And the river? She laughed too.

The river didn’t like to be left. Used all day by the men for her bounty of fish and quarry, she always wanted one to stay behind. On occasion she even took one down to her depths. There were parts of the river that went so deep, prehistoric fish were rumored to dwell there.

These men knew that. The river they rode and the daylight that shone, these were their lady loves. Their bitches. Their great affairs. Daylight and river ruled their part of their world. And their world was hard.

Things were learned the hard way in this area. People were grown the hard way, too.

Smiles were a rare sight in the bars. People drank to forget their days. It was the way the town that worked the river had always been.

 

Until today.

Today, I came back.

I came back to this town that raised me up and taught me hard things the hard way. I came back from being in parts of the world where smiles came freely, laughter echoed off ceilings and human touch was encouraged. I came back for love.

I knew walking into McGee’s that I’d cause a stir. Those steely eyes would watch me and wonder where I’d been. And why the hell was I back here.

“Why the hell are you back here, girlie,” Rod Henry asked peering over his whiskey.

I could hear the room pass around the whisper that I was that little Devon girl grown up. The Devon child that had taken off and now was back. I had prepared myself for weeks for this. I walked into small town bars and allowed hardened eyes to glare at me. I worked to keep my focus on my goal and not tear up or run.

“You came back for love,” I affirmed in my head. “You came back for love.”

A love that was standing at the end of the bar. The far end. Not moving at all towards me. One hand on the bar grasping his drink. The other shoved into his faded jeans.

I always noticed his hands first. I loved those hands. They were callused, hard-working hands that once upon a time had delicately touched me. Touched me gentle and soft in this hard place.

I took a breath and watched those hands as I moved closer to the end of the bar.

I felt like I was trying to corner a feral cat. I needed to move slowly or he’d bolt. I knew his eyes were upon me, never leaving me as I walked the length of the bar.

“You came back,” he stated in such a way that made me smile.

“Yes. It appears others have noticed it too,” I said lightly. Lightly anywhere else in the world but here in this place it sounded like Broadway refrain.

“You came back for love,” I affirmed in my head. “You came back for love.”

I was within touching distance now. But I didn’t touch. I just looked. I looked at that face with those blue eyes and a mouth which once told me to leave here.

He coughed slightly and tilted his head. “Why are you back?”

The words held tight in my throat. I, too, had practiced the answer to this question for weeks.

“You came back for love,” I affirmed in my head. “You came back for love.”

“For you,” I squeaked out in a voice not practiced. “For you.”

I wish I could tell you all that happened in the two excruciating minutes I stood there. In my mind, there were cymbals crashing and trains running off tracks, thousands of glass walls shattering. But I stood there without moving. In silence.

I had learned hard things growing up and in this moment, I knew God had given it all to me for this. To stand here in front of him… hard… waiting for an answer.

Two minutes of feeling everything rise up and fall inside me like waves. Waves on that river. That river who never wanted to lose one of her men unless she took him.

Two minutes of feeling hope and despair. Belief he would give a yes and then, oh wait, a no. Like the daylight here, it rose light and went dark over and over inside of me.

Two minutes I stood hard for a lifetime of soft loving.

Two minutes before he moved his hand out of his pocket and reached for mine.

“Then, let’s go,” he whispered close to my ear, kissing my cheek.

And as we walked out, I saw smiles in that bar. And I knew some finally drank to celebrate.

#30

© 2009 Jeny M. Dowlin

My Challenge Begins on September 1st!

As some of you know, I’ve written about six half novels — create a good beginning and good end but no middle — I just write better in spurts. So after watching Julie&Julia and thinking a lot about goals of late, I’ve been wondering about a blogging goal for one year — what could I write.

I think I’ve hit on it. To start on September 1 – Project184. 184 is the average number of elementary school days  Deadline is June 1st to complete 184 short stories with people providing me two “items” to include — locations, colors, a name, drink, mood, etc.

I’ll post to to my project184 blog which will be connected to my Facebook too and we’ll see if putting all these short pieces together into a collection doesn’t get me a published book. Or a few together spark me to really write a novel.

I’ve got a lot of energy right now to channel and this feels like a good direction to go.

Looking forward to your thoughts and ideas.