A Funny Thing Happened

This popped up over here...

300 Writing Prompts; Take 1

What is your favorite way to spend a lazy day?

Dear Ex Lover,

When the evening sun slants in through the tree outside my kitchen window in that special way it usually reserves for Hollywood cameras; When sad songs full of longing dominate the radio; When there's no nook or cranny left to scour in my tiny home; When my day has not been stressful enough to provide distraction -- It's days like this that I can't help but think of you.

On most of these noiseless evenings, I arm myself with soft sweat pants, a t-shirt worn thin and smooth, and a book that will speak loudly enough to drown out the memory of your voice. It never works. Your words press into the walls I've thrown up around my new life. They threaten to crush all the progress I've made these past two years. "There she is!" you say, after we've been apart so long.  "I promise," you say, as I drift to sleep.  "I need you here," you say, when you ask me to elope.  "I married a smart, independent woman," you say, "and now look at you." "I can't do this anymore," you say, as my resolve crumbles. Round and round and round your words go, until I can't run from them anymore. Until I find myself here.

"A perfect lazy day at home," my Facebook status will read. I am too ashamed to let anyone know that even now I ache for what we were before - young and brave and sure of heart. I mourn the fairy tale we pretended we could be.

Someone Old, Someone New, Shining Penny in My Shoe

I was raised a proper southern lady, but I met Ryan in the midst of personal turmoil.  Consequently, all my grace and poise and good manners had been tossed out the window.  It had been less than a week since I found out my marriage was over.  I'd delivered 20+ resumes, but hadn't received a single call back yet.  I was living couch to couch, toting all my earthly possessions around in the trunk of my car.  I felt like a train wreck, and it showed.

Carrie On? More Like Carrie Off.

I have hardly written at all in the past two years. When I write, I have to be honest, and honestly, I don't want to have to face the things I'm feeling.  I don't want to write about being sad; I've cried too many tears already.  I don't want to write about be angry; I try to rise above that anger.  I don't want to write about being happy; Happiness feels like a betrayal of someone long gone.  But honestly? Honestly I'm feeling all of those things anyway, so what will writing about them hurt?

Backyard Fairy Tales

Once upon a time there was a little girl who wanted to live in New York City.  She spent her childhood winding pearls around her neck and sneaking her mother's clothes from the closet.  There was a tube of bright red lipstick hidden beneath her socks, and at night she dreamed of high heels clacking against shiny marble floors.  She tried to hide her country accent, polishing away any word that couldn't be found in the Oxford English Dictionary, and spent hours tugging at her naturally curling hair in an attempt to make it hang long as straight like the hair of the glossy girls in magazines.  She wanted the world she saw in books and on television:  glimmering skyscrapers, roaring traffic, foreign foods, never-ending bottles of deep red wine, and, most of all, to be always surrounded by a crowd.

A Morning Out of the Office

I spend the last few hours of darkness dreaming of a different world.  When the sun rises, I dress with care.  I twirl my curls round and round an iron, careful that each one is as tightly wound as the next.  I repair a tiny chip in my nail polish. I count the lights as I switch them off.  I dab a little extra perfume on my wrists.

There are not enough tasks in the quiet hours to make me forget what I'm doing today.  Later, there are not enough busy hours to make me forget what I've said goodbye to.

Story Time on the Teller Line

I've been working in a bank for a little over a year now.  My first position was in the "loan vault;" a dimly lit, dusty room filled to the brim with multicolored folders containing the financial history of our customers.  It was my job to organize and track these files, as well as to help launch an online filing system.  I grew to know our customers from their tax returns and title lien statements.  I spent hours alphabetizing and shredding and stacking and shipping and typing and color coding.