Mornings Like This Usually Aren't Mornings Like This

We've all done it. Every single one of us has done it at least once during our lifetime - whether when we were kids or as grups.

"It" is that moment of waking when you think, "Ahhhh, it's Saturday." You snuggle down under the covers and settle in to go back to sleep and then reality leaps in, shouting and waving its hands. "Aw, crap! It's only (name the day of the week)!" A frantic look at the clock usually followed by "Oh, spit! I'm late!" Which is then followed by an even more frantic game of Beat The Clock.

Happy, happy day for me! I had that moment, only I woke up, snuggled and thought, "Crap. Today's Sunday already." I started planning my day, what I'm going to make for lunches, the chores I had to do (which are done which is why I'm sitting here, writing this). I started thinking about Monday, what I have to do there, what I need to do there (damn that Gantt Chart, anyway!).

After a few minutes Sam started crying piteously from the next room. Poor thing sounded so forlorn that I had to get up. I threw off the covers, turned my hips and hit the floor, then took a double-take look at the clock. No. No way! It couldn't be eight forty-five already! I pulled the iPad over and, sure enough, it was. Poor Sam! No wonder he was crying, he probably thought he had been abandoned.

Still thinking it was Sunday I took care of him, did my upstairs chores - scooped the boxes, fed the cat, watered the cat (standing at the bathroom sink so he can drink from the palm of my hand). I made the bed, straightened the room. Then headed downstairs and turned on the heat, cleaned the counters, emptied the dishwasher. In other words, nearly an hour passed before I had a sudden thought followed by a disbelieving, "Nah. No way. It can't be Saturday, can it?" A quick search through the TV listings (since my computer wasn't on and the iPad was still upstairs) and my suspicion solidified. When I stumbled across the QVC shopping network with its 'Saturday Q' I almost jumped for joy. It is only Saturday. Yee-haw!!!

It was the cookery plan that threw me off. I always do my cooking for the week on Sunday, but here it was, Saturday morning and I was thinking of cooking.

I still have a boatload of not-such-fun stuff to do: laundry, folding, putting away. Hubby wants to move furniture and clean. But I also have that much more time for the fun stuff, too. For doing this and shopping at Costco (dare I say I love Costco?), and writing and other stuff I get to choose to do.

Such a nice day. Such a cold day. While I was choring* around the kitchen this morning I looked out the window. There was a scrub jay in the yard. The poor thing was trying to hide a seed for future eating but the ground was too hard. He tried one place, then another, then a third. I got started pouring my coffee so didn't see the end of his attempts but when I looked out the window again, he was gone. I hope that he did find a soft spot for his seed and, more than that, I hope he remembers where he left it when it's wanted.

*Yes, I know that it's not a verb, but it's what I was doing, so I made it work for me. Sorry.

And look at that! That resolution I refused to make yesterday, the one rejecting the use of the words "hope" and "so" has paid off. I didn't toss them in like confetti.

I won't even use it now. Instead I'll be firm and direct: have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Saturday Afternoon Post

Sorry for that title. It's not quite plagiarism. If I had waited a few hours, it would be, but it's not evening here, yet, so I'm safe, except for the bad play on words. Besides, it is Saturday, it is afternoon and this is a post, so it's appropriate.

I have re-upped or upped on all the writer's sites in which I'm interested. I've heard too many stories about people pirating stories on Wattpad, so I'm not interested in that, and I have limited time, so I'll stick to what I've got.

I spent some time on Book Country last night and posted a crit. I still don't like that site - it feels closed in and it's hard to navigate because it's not intuitive. I'll keep pecking away at it and see if it gets easier or more comfortable.

As for Scribophile, I haven't changed my opinion about it. I do like the inline critique feature of it, but that's about all I like. The forums are dead. I dropped into their Flash Fiction group yesterday and the last post was ten months ago. I also noted that someone had commented on what I posted there - months ago. I sent a thank you and got a message back: "Didn't even know you'd left." Hmm. That says pretty much all there is to say.

I did sign up for two others and need to drop in and see what's going on with them, but I don't have high hopes.

In the meantime, this was supposed to be a day for writing. Instead, I've spent my entire morning sulking. Playing computer games (Farm Heroes) and watching Bond movies. What I'm not doing is what I meant to do yesterday and looked forward to doing last night. It's just a bit depressing given the current state of affairs. There's time, later.

I have to say, I do enjoy James Bond movies - they're stupid but fun. Just finished watching Goldeneye and now I'm on Tomorrow Never Dies. It's easy on the eyes (they always choose such good looking men for the role of Bond) and the brain (no thinking is needed).

Speaking of movies, we watched the remake of 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers' with Donald Sutherland last night. I like the original, but the remake is really quite good. It starts off slow, and I suspected Leonard Nimoy's character of being a pod-guy straight from the off - as soon as I saw him - but it was still well done.

I'll get to writing here in a bit. I'm feeling the need building - and writing this post isn't taking the edge off. I just don't know what I'll work on.

I took a look at Book Three of Elizabeth's Braid yesterday and it isn't as bad as I had expected it would be. It's not good, because it was written three years ago, before I knew as much as I know now, so it's wordy and repetitious, it needs some trimming and cleaning, but it starts off well.

'Would it have been deemed accident or suicide? 'twas a question to which I would never have the answer for I had not died.'

I think that's pretty intriguing as a story open. Unfortunately, as much as I prefer begin as I mean to continue, it didn't continue that well. There's a good story in there. It's just cluttered up with 'newbie' writing.

In Book Two, Elizabeth and her husband are at a house party.  While they're there, Elizabeth catches the eye of a man who it is later revealed (in Book Four) is part of a human trafficking ring. This group kidnaps young women and sells them overseas as sex slaves.

He stalks her for days. Her husband has seen her watching this man and has gotten the wrong idea. It all leads up to his final assault on her during which she and her assailant are discovered - after he's beaten her nearly unconscious. He's not successful - they're found before he finishes the deed, but it's enough to destroy her reputation.

Since this story is set in the early part of the 19th century, such an event was almost always presumed to be the lady's fault. She must have been loose, have led him on or done something to make him lose control.

I won't go into any detail because I don't want to give anyone else any ideas, or spoil the story for anyone who might buy it once I get it published.

Book three picks up when she's reflecting on the past months - and her near suicide.

Naturally, I think this is a ripping good tale. I just need to clean it up and get it ready to go. So maybe that's what I'll work on this weekend. Otherwise, perhaps, I'll work on something else.

I'll have to think about it. While I do the shopping, which I need to get out and do, so I'll finish this up.

Have a lovely day!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter: https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories

Where Did My Saturday Go?

I woke up at 7:00 this morning. Instead of getting up, I lay there, playing around on my iPad - games and such.

Finally, Sam forced my hand. His crying was piteous and I had things to do.

Got Sam taken care of. Got the bathroom cleaned, the bed made, etc., then I sat down and started to write. Next thing I know it's almost 3:00 in the afternoon and I still haven't done the dusting or the shopping - the things on my to-do list I need to do.

Sheesh! So now, instead of doing the 'must dos' I'm doing this - which is fine because this, too, is a commitment I've made to myself. I'll whip this out and then go on to the other, less fun stuff.

In fact, I'll compromise. Instead of beating my empty head against the bricks of creation, I'll just post a flash piece.  How's that?

A Man Named Jack

The scent of cherry smoke woke me; a sweetness that tickles the nose and hints at taste.  At first, I didn’t think it was there, really.  I thought it was still my dream.  Turning over, I slithered under the covers, hoping to slip back into the nest of sleep, but the scent wouldn’t let go.  I sat up, listening.  It was still there, heavier, but there were no sounds except snores from Jeremy’s room.  I got up, shivering, because Jeremy insisted on leaving the windows open, even in the dead of winter.

After donning my robe and slippers, I peeked into my brother’s room.  He was sound asleep, snoring heavily as usual after a late night of drinking.  In the hall, the cherries were stronger.  Following the trace, my slippers whispered on the hall runner.

The study door was ajar, showing golden in the gap.  Surprised that Jeremy had left the fire burning, I pushed the door wide.  Surprise became astonishment when I saw a dapperly dressed man I had never seen before sitting in the wingchair.  His fingers curled lovingly around the bowl of a pipe, from which arose the heavenly scent that had woken me.  He moved, withdrawing the pipe stem from between the neat mustache and trim beard.

“Hello, Jillian.”  His voice was soft, like warm honey, and, by the light of the fire, I saw the skin around his eyes crinkle when he smiled.

I leaned against the solidity of the doorframe, afraid, but not.  He was so calm, looked so easy and natural there, he didn’t seem to be a threat.  After a minute, when I didn’t move or speak, he shifted, crossing one leg over the other.

“You’re wondering who I am, what I’m doing here, aren’t you?”

Still I didn’t move, even to acknowledge him.

His eyes looked away, into the fire, then turned back.  “You look like her.  Like your mother, I mean.”  The lines in his face, caught by the light from the fireplace, deepened.  His expression became hurt.  “I shouldn’t be surprised she never told you about me.  I know she wanted to forget.  She said she did, but she never could.”

“How did you know her?”  My mother died when I was three, killed in an accident, and no one my father’s family had ever talked about her, shutting down questions almost before the asking.

Despite the oddity of having a complete stranger sitting in my brother’s study, smoking a pipe at two-thirty in the morning, I felt excited.  I stepped away from the solidity of wood, drifting to stand by the partner of the chair in which the man sat.  “Who are you?”

The lips curled, the eyes crinkled.  “My name is Jack.”  The smile faded, saddened.  “Yes, I knew her.  Long, long ago, before you were born.”

“Are you related?”

Another flash of humor.  “To her?  No.”

“Then to whom?  What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”  He gestured at the other chair, and I sank onto its cushion.  “I heard your … father died, and that you were here for the funeral, so I came to see you, to introduce myself.”

I waited, knowing he would tell me whether I asked or not.

“I met her when she was sixteen.  Friends invited her to a party, and that’s where we were introduced.  For her, it was instant love.  She said she never felt alive until I was there.  Years went by and she fell in and out of love.  When she was almost thirty, she met your father and, for a time, she gave him the devotion she had shown me.  But he traveled, made her feel neglected and she took back up with me.  Your father made her feel unloved, taken for granted.  Then Jeremy was born, and things got better.

“When she was thirty-four she met Matthew, a man your father hired to work around the house.  Lonely, unhappy, she was easy prey and Matthew took advantage.  Their affair ended when he left one morning, without a word.  She had confessed to him that she was pregnant, but that wasn’t something he had bargained for.

“She took back up with me.  For three years, she made any excuse she could think of to spend time in my company.  Even when your father begged her to stop, to think of you and Jeremy, she couldn’t.  It was too late.  Six months later, on her way home from shopping for your birthday dress, she ran into the tree, killing herself and nearly killing you and Jeremy.”

My throat was dry and I colder than the air around me.  All those years, nearly twenty-five of wondering why and how, and here, in my father’s study, this stranger had given some answers.  More, I had been given questions.

“How do you know all of this?”  I hadn’t meant to waste a question.  It just slipped out.

The man’s laugh was warm and smooth, like bourbon.  “Because I was there , through it all.  I helped her try to deal with her pain, her fear, her insecurity.  When she felt lonely or sad, she took me up.  I was with her when she died.

“You see, my dear, my name is Jack Daniel’s and I was your mother’s favorite crutch.”

 
* * * * *

Have a lovely weekend!

Best~
Philippa

Follow me on Twitter:  https://twitter.com/PhilippaStories