Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" is playing as I walk into the dimly lit, eccentrically decorated hotel bar on West Main Street in downtown Louisville. As it so happens, I'm wearing a red satin dress. I take this as a nod of approval from the universe that what I'm about to do is harmony with what is fated.  ​

Twenty-five years ago I was crying in my broken down car in the parking lot of a gas station in my small Missouri home town. I was about $10,000 in debt and barely (sometimes not) paying my bills, even though I was working 40 hours a week as a secretary for an Investment Firm where my boss lived in a small mansion, bringing in over half a million a year. I didn't know what to do. The gas station attendant offered to call a tow truck, and when I refused because I couldn't spare the cost, he had all but insisted because I was “taking up space from paying customers.” I told him (in my most confident--or to hear him tell it "bitchiest" voice) that I would get it fixed and off the property within 2 hours, and that seemed to satisfy him even though I had no idea what I was doing or how I would manage such a feat short of calling in a Criss Angel type magician to make my car simply "disappear."  

So, I'm crying, right? And I guess because of that, I'm putting out that whole "damsel-in-distress" vibe that really gets certain boners going. One such boner comes up to me and starts straight off with that condescending, old-fashioned misogynistic, "Oh, sweety" this and "Baby" that and I'm getting real claustrophobic just being in my skin in the vicinity of him. In my most assertive voice I tell him to, "Back off. Thanks, but I've got it handled. Just leave me be." Well, that sets him off and he starts going off on what a bitch I am for declining his offer to help me and because I was raised the way I was raised in the community I was raised in, I start to wonder if maybe I am being a bitch for following my instincts to decline his  offer to help. I'm on the verge of apologizing when this other guy, maybe early thirty's, brown wavy hair, the type to wear khaki's and a white polo shirt comes up and says, "Hey, Caroline! So sorry I'm late." And just stares at the first guy until he backs off. I look at him, my insides still shaking from the extra adrenaline, and say, "Thanks." He says, "You good here?" I say, "Yes" so fast that I immediately regret it and, still feeling guilty for potentially having been rushing a judgement on the previous guy, I say, "Actually, maybe not." He slides his khaki's across the passenger seat and reaches toward me, suddenly my hand, holding the coffee I bought inside to try to get the gas station guy off my ass, is being flung on him--like my arm is possessed. I apologize profusely. Khaki pants just looks shocked and amused, but not annoyed. "It's alright," he says. "I was just trying to use your phone. May I?" "Sure," I say handing it over to him.  

Now I start getting all self-conscious that the only reason I'm letting khaki pants help me as opposed to the other guy is because this guy looks more trustworthy (his clothes are cleaner--sans the coffee I just threw on him--and he reminds me of my brother) and he doesn't speak using overly familiar "sweetheart" nicknames. I start thinking about how we're all just acting in the ways we're taught to act and I'm debating if my instincts are real or just discriminatory. Basically, I'm doing the mental gymnastics of being a woman--don't be too nice, you'll lead them on, don't be too mean, you'll get murdered, don't be judgmental and generalize that all men either want to rape or murder you, and don't flatter yourself that you think a man would even want to rape or murder you (you're not. that. special!).  

I must have done a really long gymnastic routine, because by the time I come back to reality, a tow truck is pulling up next to us and khaki pants is giving them his credit card number. "No, wait!" I say jumping out of the car. In a hushed and anxious tone, I whisper to khaki pants that I can't afford to pay him back for this. He just smiles and says it's fine and not to worry about that right now. I thank him profusely and accept his offer to drive me home.  As I'm getting out of his car he tells me that he put his number in my phone under "White Knight" as a joke, but that his real name is Robert. "Call anytime," he says. I say I will. I say I owe him dinner. I tell him I'll call, and I mean it. 

But then, you know, life. And I'm trying to get enough money to get my car fixed. And then my cat dies. I get behind on my rent and my landlord evicts me. I stay with my 2nd cousin, Polly, for a few months even though she hates me being there--and I can't blame her--it's tight in her studio apartment with two dogs! I apologize daily for my existence. I try to keep it tidy, to help out. I promise I'll be out of her hair soon. In just two more months I'll have enough saved for a deposit on my own place.  

I'm at work. It's a Tuesday afternoon and I'm bent down in the lobby cleaning up some kind of mess--I don't know why I can't remember what kind of mess it was or what happened to cause it.... maybe animal poop? The dirt of an office plant knocked over? Who knows. I'm bent down dusting it up when I feel someone kneel down beside me, I glance up and it's him. Khaki pants aka White Knight aka Robert. I smile in shock. He doesn't looks so happy. My smile fades just as he pops a smile on and jests, "Hey, you were gonna call me." "Yeah, about that... sorry." "That tow wasn't cheap you know! You owe me dinner, don't you?" His tone is a mix of joking and not-at-all-fucking joking. I'm not sure how to respond, so I just say, "I do," as I continue to sweep up the brown matter on the floor. He takes out his phone, still kneeling beside me and presses a button. The phone at the front desk rings and Samantha, my co-worker, grabs it for me, "Fidelity. This is Sam." "Hey, Sam. This is Robert. I'd like to make an appointment with..." he puts is hand over the phone, "You never did tell me your name." "Juniper," I say. He cackles softly, "Seriously?" He unclasps his hand from the phone, "I'd like to make a lunch meeting with Juniper for tomorrow at noon. At Raphael's. Her treat." I go to protest--say it's too expensive--say I'm busy, but he puts his hand up. The nerve! I'm thinking. I can't tell if I'm completely repulsed or semi-flattered, but I'm leaning toward repulsed. Sam, observing this, stutters, "Uh, we don't really make appointments for secretaries... I mean, we don't really make personal lunch meetings or you know... that's really up to her." He hangs up as if he's accomplished his goal and stands, "I'll see you tomorrow. Noon. Raphael's!" He walks off, shaking his head, giggling, "Juniper." 

My name's not Juniper. But he already knew this. He knew this because after I didn't call him, he went back to my house and went through the mail in my mailbox. He knew my name was Cait Lois Hopper. And because he also stole some of my mail, he knew where I worked, how much I made, my ATT account number, and that I, at one time (in a more financially stable place), donated to ACLU. I'd always wanted to change my name to Juniper when I was kid, I guess that's why it came out; also, because the unpredictable energy he was exuding was making me nervous in that same old claustrophobic way. The next day, when I failed to show up at Raphael's, I expected some kind of... something to happen. I watched the door like a hawk... is this the start of something awful? I would think. But nothing happened. I mean, there were more phone calls at work than usual and a lot of the time no one would be on the line--it would just be silent, but I didn't think anything of it at the time. It had happened less frequently, but still quite a bit, before so it didn't seem that unusual and certainly didn't feel connected.  

What I didn't know then was that I was being surveilled 24/7. At home, at work, awake, asleep, online, and in person. What I didn't know then, was that my White Knight was stalking me and was determined to make me his, in the most possessive of terms. It was the start of something awful and that something awful lasted 25 years. 25 years of almost deadly encounters, and job losses after he started doing more than just calling and sitting silently on the line, but started harassing everyone I worked with and spreading lies about me, and waking up in the middle of the night because I felt his presence in the room only to not find him but then in the morning find a note he left behind. I moved dozens of times. I went to the police even more. I got a restraining order but could never PROVE he broke it. I tried to date, but when a boyfriend ended up waking up to his house on fire... I stopped trying. My life had been a living nightmare. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't be around family or friends, couldn't hold down a job, couldn't live like this anymore. 

Three months earlier, I had managed to somehow successfully seem to go under his radar. I changed my identity and had moved for the umpteenth time. I don't know how it worked but it did. I felt, briefly, free. But I knew... he was coming. And suddenly, not knowing when or where or how he would emerge was worse than when I knew he was there every day. My anxiety spiked so high I ended up hospitalized for a heart attack. That's the night I decided enough was enough. It was me or him and I wasn't willing to sacrifice any more of myself for him. It had been 25 years.  

I bought a gun. I stalked him. I found him. I drove to Louisville. I got a hotel room at the hotel where he was staying. I went to the bar and waited. Just after midnight we locked eyes across the room while the bartender yelled for last call.  

"Hi, Robert." I said, sliding into his booth. "I hear you've been looking for me." 

Robert, speechless, just stared as if I had walked into the room straight from his dreams.  

"So, here's what we're going to do. You're going to take me up to your room, yes? And I'm going to order you that dinner you deserve. So sorry to have been so long in getting back to you. You know how life is. Tragic. And then, we're going to be done with all this, yes? Yes. And you're going to move on." 

"Of... of course." Robert said, smiling uneasily. "You... you look just great. Red satin. Great." 

Robert and I exited the booth. I held my arms open, "After you, Robert." He stared back at me, unsure, but then proceeded. 

"I'm caught, uh, a little of guard here. I didn't know you were coming, so, so, so you'll have to excuse the mess. If you could just give me minute to tidy up..." Robert stuttered as we neared his door. 

"Oh, I don't mind a little mess, Bobby! I thought you knew that about me." I smiled coyly as he slowly put the card key in the door, but then paused short of turning the handle. 

"I really wish you would let me go in and tidy up, Cait. This is very embarrassing for me." 

"Why? Do you have company?" I ask. 

"No. Not, not exactly, but..." 

"Well, go on then!" I say, flashing my gun.  

Robert's eyes suddenly flare as if there's been an explosion. "Oh. Oh!" He turns around in place and then just stands and stares at me. "No." He says defiantly. "No." 

"Really? But I wanna..." I say slowly. "Lemme see." The key still in lock, I turn the handle and kick the door open. "After you." 

Robert walks backward into the room and sits in the chair. The wall behind him covered in surveillance photos of me from 5 months earlier.  

I lick my lips, in dehydrated, anxious, anticipation, my heart beating so fast I'm begging it to slow down. "So, you're not going to stop, are you? Ever? And that's not okay. I can't live like this anymore, Robert. And I think you know that, don't you? You've put me through hell and so now it's time for you to go." 

Robert starts to speak and I cannot let him leak one more word into my life, I shoot him in the head. Red everywhere. I'm disgusted. I scream. I'm in shock.  

"Well," I say to no one. 

"That's done," I say to no one. 

I look down at my blood stained everything and leave the gun on the floor. I walk to the door, down the hall, and to the lobby. People stare. I go to reception. The man behind the desk is on the phone but he stops speaking when he sees me. 

"Yes, hi. I'd like to report a murder. You should probably call the police. Also, I did it, but don't worry, please. I left the gun in the room and I have no intention of hurting anyone else. I'll just wait over here until they come, okay? So sorry for... all this. It must be terribly scary for you." 

Duke Ellington's "Satin Doll" plays again--must be a playlist on repeat. The blood of Robert mixing with the red satin of my dress. I sit on the cozy lounge chair, even though I know I shouldn't--the mess and all. Very rude of me. But I think... it may be the last time I get to sit in a truly comfortable chair. And who knows how long the police will take--and suddenly sirens. Not long at all I suppose. They never were that quick in getting to me, ah well... 

"Ah, well," I say to no one. "Done, now. Now I can sleep.” 

I was sitting on the sand, while the waves lapped up and over my feet like an enthusiastic dog’s tongue in the morning. I fixed my gaze upon the Santa Monica Pier a few feet away. Nile had just left to go get us some hot dogs, and I could see him in his bright red shirt, stalled on the pier to observe the man with the parrot act who was leaning into the franchised “pirate” look made famous by Johnny Depp. Nile and I were a day away from celebrating our 5th wedding anniversary and about 2 months away from celebrating the birth of our first child, Naomi. This trip was meant to be half anniversary vacation and half babymoon. Santa Monica was just a short 3 hour drive away and our friends offered to let us stay in their beach house (which they left vacant about 11 months of the year—what a waste!). So, really, it was a vacation motivated more by convenience than anything else.  

Nile and my relationship was stalled, like Nile on the pier with the parrot, we kept parroting the same arguments back and forth without ever moving forward to get our proverbial hot dogs. Naomi wasn’t conceived to fix that, but once she made herself known, she certainly quickly made it hard to break ourselves apart. How could we say no to a week on the beach? We had the vacation time saved up. We had a free place to stay. We had no excuse other than the fact that we didn’t want to be around each other 24/7 for a week and the fact the being on an implied romantic beach vacation would only make it all the more apparent that our relationship had lost its romantic spark long ago. And you can’t exactly say that to your friends when they kindly offer you their beach house for the week. So, here we are. Day one. Hour two. Six days to go. Countless tense hours and silent seconds ahead. I feared this may be the final nail in the coffin of our relationship and while the potential for less tension in my life and the hope of new love did give me some comfort, the overwhelming feeling was one of anxiety at how I would manage birth, a newborn, and a divorce all at the same time.  
 
The “d” word was fresh on my tongue—I’d said it just 2 days earlier in a sort of casual should-we-or-shouldn’t-we kind of way that I’d been mastering over the last 365 days. Nile’s response was to shut down, say nothing, and wait for me to change the subject. I didn’t get it. He didn’t seem happy. But he refused to talk about it with me. He wouldn’t talk about why he wasn’t happy, he wouldn’t talk about our relationship, he wouldn’t ask if I was happy, he wouldn’t try to come up with ways to improve our relationship, he wouldn’t give his opinion on if we would be better off apart…. nothing! We were stalled on the pier.  

“I didn’t know if you wanted one or two, so I got you two. If you don’t want it, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it,” Nile said returning with the hot dogs.

“Two is perfect. Thanks,” I said.  

“No problem.” Nile sat down and stared off into the horizon. 

I looked over at him, fixating on the mole to the right of his left ear--had it grown? I touched it softly and he turned sharply, “Did I get some ketchup on my face?” 

“No. No…” I couldn’t stop thinking about the time after we first started dating and we came out to the Santa Monica Pier and ate ice cream on the beach. He had kissed me—his chocolate ice cream still flavoring his lips and my strawberry ice cream flavoring mine creating this delicious chocolate covered strawberry swirl. “Do you remember the first time we came here?” I asked.  

Nile furrowed his brows trying to summon the memory. Suddenly, “Ah!” he smiled, but then ever so slightly retreated back into his protective shell. “That was fun. We got ice cream from… what was that place called?” He looked around as if hoping to find something so long ago forgotten that he couldn’t quite tell if it was real or imagined.  

“Soda Jerks.” I said, pointing my finger in the store’s direction. “You can’t see it from here, but it’s over there.” 

Nile shook his head in quasi-annoyed disbelief, “The memory on you.” 

I smiled, “Pregnant too! Doubly impressive, no?” 

“Truly,” Nile rested his hand on my belly. “Your Mama remembers everything for better or worse, Naomi. You’ll do well to learn that now.” 

I stared at him. “For better or worse?” 

“Forget it.” Nile said. “Sorry.”

To the untrained ear, we were just a happy married couple having hot dogs and a nice conversation on the beach, but our ears were calibrated to the same station--and we both knew this interaction was a publicly disguised fight we'd fought a hundred times before. We both sensed the rising tension and danger of a quick escalation and so, not wanting to throw proverbial punches, we both just dropped it. 

The sun was starting to set. Perhaps it was hormones, or the collective anxiety of months of a rocky relationship with someone who used to be my best friend, but tears started falling out my eyeballs and wouldn’t stop. Nile noticed, though he tried to pretend he hadn’t. We had learned each other’s cues so well now that I could tell he felt annoyed that I was crying even though he would never admit it.  

“Sorry.” I said, at the same time resenting my impulse to apologize.  

“Should we head back?” Nile asked, standing.

“Go ahead.” 

“…without you?” 

“Yeah,” he helped me up, always needed to play the role of gentleman. “I’m gonna get some ice cream.” 

He stared at me, as if to say, “Without me?” But he wouldn’t say that and I knew he wouldn’t say that which is why I didn’t bother clarifying.  

“Okay,” he said. “Be safe.” 

Be Safe. That’s all that’s left to say when “I love you” is no longer relevant. Don’t get murdered or mulled—it would really be a hassle for me to deal with if you did. Don’t be a hassle. Be safe.

He walked off. I watched for a moment. I wondered what he would do with his free time in the empty beach house. Probably watch some tv show he’s seen 1,000 times already and drink some wine since he couldn’t drink around me without feeling guilty.  

I started walking through the hot sand towards the ice cream shop, Naomi doing flips in my tummy. This isn’t how I wanted to bring a child into the world. To be frank, I didn’t want to bring a child into the world at all, but low and behold, after a rare moment of mutual horniness and too many glasses of wine, Nile and I had sex for the first time in 3 months and made a human. Ope.  

They should really require a course before you get to be a certified adult. I don’t know what I’m doing! I would have flunked out by now and been held back in childhood—unable to make big decisions like getting married and having a baby; relegated to conquering the monkey bars and mastering cutting in circles with scissors. But no, we’re all out here just flying blind and making life-changing mistakes aren't we?

Mistake 1. Marrying Nile. 

No. Maybe it wasn’t a mistake. I loved him. I love him? I mean, what is love? Is it even real? I couldn’t have foreseen our relationship turning into what it has become. It was so great in the beginning. Maybe we just didn’t have staying power, maybe we changed too much, maybe we didn’t work hard enough to make it work. Maybe love is an illusion we trick ourselves into believing so others can be envious that we’ve found the “one.” 

Whether I was ever actually in love with Nile or not, the current fact of the situation is that I don’t want to be around him. And so, I shouldn’t be. Simple!

I had arrived in front of Soda Jerks. I went inside and ordered two scoops, one chocolate, one strawberry. I would be my own chocolate covered strawberry swirl. I would create my own magic. I would move us forward off this pier, by force if need be. I decided to tell Nile when I got back to the beach house that I wanted a divorce. No questions this time, just a statement. “I want a divorce.”  

As the anxiety about the logistics of our situation started creeping in, I forced myself to start imagining a new life—me and Naomi. Just the two of us. Doing whatever we want. Dancing in the sunlight on a Sunday morning.  I hated dancing and couldn't for the life of me actually see myself enjoying a grace-less, uncoordinated dance with my newborn in whatever shitty apartment I could find to afford on my own but for whatever reason this was the daydream that comforted me.

“Ma’am?” An older voice with an out of place southern accent drawled. “Is this you?” The old lady was excitedly walking out from behind the counter with an old Polaroid picture. “I can’t believe it! It is, isn’t it?” 

She held out the photo for me to examine—two young lovers kissing over their ice cream cones, the sun setting vibrantly behind them. I clutched my cheek and got butterflies in the pit of my stomach--Naomi, are you seeing this? I felt briefly like I did the first time I kissed Nile--a strong, overwhelming, joyous feeling I hadn't felt in so long, here now so rudely interrupting the determination of my decision to leave—casting shadows of doubt on the notion.

“Yes, that's me. I’ve never seen this… how did you…?”  

“I’m Paula Crohn. I been workin’ here for 20 years and oh, five or so years ago my nephew was visitin’ and playing around with his Daddy’s Polaroid camera and took this photo. I thought it was just such a gorgeous little picture. But by the time it developed, y’all were halfway down the beach and lost in the crowd. Benny, that’s my nephew, he wanted to find you and give it to y’all before he had to go back home to Memphis, but… anyhow, I said you’d be back. Everybody comes back eventually. Our ice cream’s that good, right?” She winked, and then glanced down at my belly. “I see things worked out for y'all.” 

I stared down at the photo of Nile and I at the start of everything, and so certain of our love. It was a great photo, beautifully captured. I noticed our ice cream cones--wait a minute, I thought. In Nile’s hand was a strawberry ice cream cone and in mine was a chocolate ice cream cone. Guess my “perfect” memory had its holes after all and I couldn’t wait to tell Nile… 

Nile.  

“Can I keep this?” I asked Paula. 

“Of course, honey! That’s what I been sayin’! We been trying to get this photo to ya for years!” She clasped her hands around mine. “Y’all take care now. And don’t wait so long next time to come back in and see us for a scoop or two!” 

“Will do,” I said. “Thank you.”  

My slow walk back to the beach house was inexplicably accompanied by romantic old Jazz tunes blasting out one of the shops—the kind Nile and I danced to at our wedding—as if the universe was throwing me little signs to remind me of what Nile and I used to have together… of what we could possibly have again if we found a way to work at it together. I looked at the picture and the look on our faces reminded me of something I had forgotten… what it had felt like when things were good between us. Something so incredibly special. In this photo: proof of our love. And in this photo I found myself confronted with what I would really be giving up if I called it quits on our marriage--the good stuff. If we could find a way to get to the good stuff again... it would be worth it to stay and get through this rough period. If we could learn from it, grow from it, get closer from it, it would all be worth it... now it just came down to if I was willing to try... was he?

I opened the door. "Nile...?" 

Tonight the writing prompt I brought into the group was about creating dynamic characters that are layered. One way to do this quickly is to take a stereotype and go the opposite way. I believe this is an important exercise not only in writing or acting but in life. None of us are just one thing- we are all layered and have struggled, failed, overcome, made mistakes, done good and bad in life. A lot of times, particularly with celebrities and people we hear about in the media, we are told one part of a complex story and we rush to judgement. If it were you- would you want to be defined by the role someone else casts you as that is based solely on one aspect of your actions? I told them to pick a stereo-type and then defy it. We only had 10 minutes to write. Here's mine:

DUMB BLONDE
She was referred to as “Dumb Blonde” at the office. Much was made of her towering physique, and massive bust size. The lightness of her hair, they said, caused by box-bleach must have sunk into her brain and made her daft. The jokes at the water cooler more often than not were made at her expense. The staff enjoyed their laughs- little moments of happiness in an otherwise mundane day. They thought little of any consequence, indeed the little that was thought was shrugged off by the notion she wouldn’t even be able to comprehend their sophisticated jabs. What they did not see, however, at 10 and 2 was her crying in the bathroom stall. Imprisoned in a body that did not feel real to her. And when she stood to wipe the tears in the mirror she fantasized about her homeland, not necessarily in the state she’d fled it in, but a homeland was a home none-the-less in the small comfort of traditions in culture that she could understand, be understood and be made whole again. She fantasized about cutting off her breasts, her hair, her nails, her heels and growing some facial hair. Most of all she wanted freedom and comfort and confidence in who she was. But her own mind, and her home land, and her adopted home, and her office job, and all the world seemed only to yell her down until she was too small to stand, too weak to crawl, and fumbling on bony legs in awkward heels, as she’s been taught to do, in a foreign land on unsure ground she overhears herself defined by these two words, “Dumb Blonde” – as if that were the beginning and end of her. As if her life were conceived merely for their punch line and all the struggles and victories null-in-void to the richness of their entertainment at her expense.

The reflections of light on water played in her heart when she looked at him. He wasn't the beautiful sort by any means, but his intensity and smart wit more than compensated for his aesthetic shortcomings. She loved an odd, ugly type with black shoes and white socks pulled up to mid-calf- the kind of person who seemed like each movement was a question or a threat. Henry was all these things in spades. He could never meet your gaze for more than a few seconds before casting it just off your face, a little above or to the side. And when he laughed at something, which indeed was rare, he seemed to lose control of his body- almost as if his brain hadn't told his limbs what it was reacting to and his limbs, startled by the overwhelmingly loud and boisterous noise, were trying to escape. It was a funny thing to see and she tried daily to strike his funny bone- for it was her favorite and most important goal.

She was the type to fill journals with poetic musings- and I mean journals. Plural. Many plurals. It's like her mind was constantly on fire with thought and her hands, pen and paper a slave in the effort to put it out. Not that it could ever be put out- not that it should. It was, at first, his favorite thing about her. So mysterious. What was she writing in those things? He had to find out. It look him a long time to be allowed entry into one but in the meantime he found other favorite things about her- like how comfortable she was just being- anywhere- just present. She would look you in the eyes and it would be terrifying because you had her full attention. If she was looking at you, it was in the eyes, with open ears and open heart, with every thought anchored on you. He was not brave enough to hold her gaze. He did not trust what she would find there. 

Philosophical Isms: anthropomorphism, bonism, nihilism, positivism, absurdism.

RULES: Use the painting as inspiration for your main character(s) and setting. 

Read the poem "Your Hands" and pick two lines to use in your piece. 

Use one or more philosophical ism as either a word or theme. 

This may be a short story, poem, play or screenplay. 

Write for 20 minutes. Edit for 15 minutes. 

Title and author and e-mail to andiebottrell(at)yahoo(dot)com and I will post it below.

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DEEP
by Andie Bottrell

Mr. Rigley was married to Anita Rigley for 47 years. Every day after work he would walk the cobblestone streets through the city’s main square passing men just like him- working, well-dressed and well-respected husbands going home to their wives. The day after day routine didn’t bother him much. He was able to find joy in the little things like the perfect combination of the sun’s warmth and a cool breeze. He was grateful to see and hear the birds sing, to smell the scents of the bakers baking, and to observe the children playing.

Mr. and Mrs. Rigley were never able to conceive. This was a sore and painful subject for Anita, and while Mr. Rigley sympathized with his wife, he never had any deep seated longings for offspring. The fact of the matter was, that until recently, Mr. Rigley had not ever been aware of any deep seated longings of any kind, for anything. He was the picture of contentment at all times. This is the sort of thing that may have bothered some wives- the kind who enjoy dissecting and disrespecting rival ladies and enjoy a good enemy tale to wash down their suppers. Mrs. Rigley was no such woman, however, and as such they made for a very compatible match.

It was unfortunate then, on October 5th, as Mr. Rigley returned home from work, that he found her stabbed to death in their angelically lit kitchen, mid spaghetti dish. The shock caught him woefully off guard and he stumbled back out onto the street, hand over mouth, eyes refusing to close- caught in a sight they could not unsee. His heels tripped over the cobblestones and he fell into the arms of Neil Harrison, who was still in his army fatigues, a small bundle over his shoulder, a wound on his left leg. As Neil straightened Mr. Rigley back up to posture, he recognized the look of horror on his face and immediately took his hand and pulled it in to his heart. Neil studied Mr. Rigley’s eyes upon his own and his hand clutched all the tighter as his heart pounded like a Morse code replying to an S.O.S.

In this strange moment of sudden loss and shock, Mr. Rigley began to feel the beginnings of an inner longing so deep seated and unaware that to acknowledge it would be to whisper answers to questions that had not yet and never would be asked. Time seemed to stop and circumstances suspend and through Mr. Rigley’s mind passed an observation meekly and with great awe, “Why do I recognize them as if then, before, I had touched them?” His hands clenched Neil’s back, in gratitude for salvation.  The thought was purely absurd- impossible even- and yet, despite it all he was positive. A wind of change was stirring in him, deeper than he’d known he could go. And while his waters grieved within, a sun was rising with pointed strength and new passion upon the gay golden horizon.

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RULES:

Title your piece "There Are No Gods" (taken from the title of a D.H. Lawrence poem)

Use the words: denuded, raindrops, anguish, rocks, gull, winsome, jar. (words pulled from his works)

Use D.H. Lawrence's painting above as inspiration.

This can be a fiction or non-fiction story, a play, screenplay, or poem.

Write for 20 minutes. Edit for 10 minutes. Stop. E-mail it in andiebottrell(at)yahoo(dot)com. Watch for it to be posted here.
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There Are No Gods
by Andie Bottrell

Azure blue sat their ocean seats
swift shallows cusping interiors red
a laugh bellowed out from beyond
and distracted their longful stares
their lusting ambitions
it begged interruption
as trees swam past
and the sky caught fire
they knew what they wanted
but damn if things weren't
wacked, denuded of their rightful
place and ways
a nightmarish dreamscape
and them, just dolls adrift in it
the laughing ceased- the joke finished
their eyes returned to each other
fingers touched the tender rubber
of sun stained skin
a gull swashbuckled a fish
and winsome man stuck his dick
in sweet woman's inner jar
their breathing beat the waves
in calm
their beating bodies settled things
there are no gods, they said,
or holy things
no trinities or entities unseen
beyond the horizon ended things
and death would always settle things
raindrops fell from anguished skies
crying eyes mirrored them
beating bodies kept heaving on
rocks rose from seas below
bowing into rocket ships
shooting to the moon and back
and they, they
kept holding on
the believing ones on shores
parallel and further yond'
with occasional screams
and condemnation for their 
wayward, heathen souls
but
the azure sea kept rocking them
back and forth
keeping them
as if to comfort them 
and their lustful ambition
remained new as birth
binding them in locked eyes
bodies connected and
held strong by tissue
and bone
these simple, basic human things
the human strings 
of love

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(here is D.H.'s There Are No Gods, if you care- figured it be good to include)

There Are No Gods
by D.H. Lawrence

There are no gods, and you can please yourself
have a game of tennis, go out in the car, do some shopping, sit and talk, talk, talk
with a cigarette browning your fingers.

There are no gods, and you can please yourself -
go and please yourself -

But leave me alone, leave me alone, to myself!
and then in the room, whose is the presence
that makes the air so still and lovely to me?

Who is it that softly touches the sides of my breast
10and touches me over the heart
so that my heart beats soothed, soothed, soothed and at peace?

Who is it smooths the bed-sheets like the cool
smooth ocean where the fishes rest on edge
in their own dream?

Who is it that clasps and kneads my naked feet, till they unfold,
till all is well, till all is utterly well? the lotus-lilies of the feet!

I tell you, it is no woman, it is no man, for I am alone.
And I fall asleep with the gods, the gods
that are not, or that are
according to the soul's desire,
like a pool into which we plunge, or do not plunge.

Persons/Places/Things WRITING EXERCISE

Use images above as inspiration.

Persons: You must have two main characters and they must both be women. You may have other characters of varying genders in supporting roles.

Places: Your setting(s) must include both the suburbs and the sea.

Things: Explore what happens "when the sun goes down" and using non-traditional adjectives.

Use the Words: Vestigial, Fugacious, Furtive, Gambol, Imbroglio, Lagniappe, Lagoon.

Write for 45 minutes. Edit/re-write for 15 minutes. Be sure to include your title and name, then e-mail to andiebottrell(at)yahoo(dot)com and watch for it to be posted here.
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“Suburb City in Maritime”
by Andie Bottrell

Chilly, iceberg Adrianne was adroit in getting what she wanted and as of 10:32pm East Anchor Time what she wanted most now was to be introduced to Ceru, the aquatically calm and seemingly amatory new resident of Suburb City. Ceru Parama was a fugacious character- never found where last you saw her- least of all where you’d expect her. This unpredictability and mystery intrigued Adrianne no end and she felt she simply must master her.

The year was 2452 and rain had fallen from the sky for 5,032 days. Reports were coming in; in any way they could, from all over the world, that city after city, country after country had submerged. The rain had fallen slow and the tragic torrents- called “The End of Times Storm”- had been adequately predicted to allow for technology to come up with options for the world to adapt to an underwater submergence.

In the pre-maritime world (as it is now called), Adrianne lived in a shabby abode next to a polluted lagoon. She was married to Ted Felix, one of the first to predict the “End of Times Storm.” While this prediction was later verified by sources the world over and picked up as a nightly news story and eventually bought into by the masses- at the time Ted Felix predicted it, there wasn’t even a vestigial of people who thought that he was anything but bonkers, bonkers, bonkers. And as his public position as local weatherman availed him to the masses on the regular, he became a literal punching bag and his home and wife targets of the most unfortunate of furtive folks.

Ultimately, all the mockery and beatings led to his death when one particularly minatory and mordant man shot him in the head, effectively widowing poor Adrianne. While this event was without question tragic, by comparison, Adrianne’s life in Maritime was now at least ten-fold improved. After Ted Felix’s death and the stunning confirmation that he had been right all along, Adrianne was awarded a gasp-worthy sum from the city for all her hardship endured. Now, in Maritime, she was one of the wealthiest and most respected citizens. In short, what Adrianne wanted, Adrianne got.

On Tuesday, a full week after her first eyeful of Ceru, Adrianne got her second view. Ceru was dressed in turquoise that blended in with the serene aquatic seascape and her breather-head sparkled in the sunbeams. She looked as if the sea itself had manifested into womanly form- all mystic, magic, and uncapturable majestic. Adrianne discreetly stalked Ceru throughout the day, making sure to never once take her eyes off her, least she disappear again.

At sun-down this quest became more challenging without turning on her breather-head light, so Adrianne decided it was time to make her move. While Ceru approached a homestead, Adrianne tapped ever so light and tingly upon her arm.

“Pardon, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Adrianne.”

Ceru looked at her a bit shocked, but then smiled slowly as if she’d been expecting her all along.

“Yes,” Ceru answered, cupping her hand over Adrianne’s, “You are. Aren’t you? Wont you come in?”

Ceru lead Adrianne into her home. “How was your commute?”

Adrianne looked at her puzzled, “I’m sorry…?”

“You must be exhausted. I had a hellish amount of errands today.”

Adrianne suddenly blushed the color scarlet and felt like throwing up. She was accustomed to being in control and now she felt too much like the poor, teased and bullied wife of Ted Felix than she ever wanted to feel again.

“Oh,” she muttered, “oh…”

Ceru sat them both down on the seafa and nuzzled into her neck. “You don’t have to feel bad, Adrianne. I’ve been watching you too. In fact, I even prepared a bit of a lagniappe to give you for when you screwed up your courage to approach-“

Suddenly defensive, Adrianne burst out, “Well, why didn’t you approach then?”

Ceru just laughed and leapt to grab the lagniappe. When she returned she resumed her place in the crevasse of Adrianne’s neck and handed her the gift. Adrianne’s mouth opened wide again as if to protest but was stopped short by Ceru’s finger.

“Now, now, Adrianne. Let’s not have us an imbroglio shall we?”

Adrianne swallowed her discomfort, pride and expectations and decided things could be worse. She leaned in and quickly began undoing Ceru’s breather-head and with fast response, Ceru began to undo Adrianne’s. As soon as flesh was freed, their lips were intertwined in a passionate gambol of movement and joy.

(time's up! so, the end?)

Write three pages (you may use as much or as little of the page as you want) in any format (fiction, non-fiction, play, screenplay, poem, etc.) You may use the image above as a descriptive scene on one of the pages, or not- your choice!

Page 1. is titled "IN THE BEGINNING"
Use the words: Brood, Dastardly, Dulcet

Page 2. is titled "IN THE MIDST"
Use the words: Ebullience, Felicity, Inglenook

Page 3. is titled "IN THE END"
Use the words: Inure, Penumbra, Woebegone

Give yourself 30 minutes to write/create and 30 minutes to edit/re-write. 

-----------------*DO IT!
I am going to start posting these writing exercises regularly- maybe every day or once a week- most likely sporadically, whenever I think of it so check back often or watch your Facebook as I'll also post it there, too. I would like to invite everyone who wants to participate to join in! I would also love to feature everyone who does these exercises work so we can all read each others. You can participate and keep it to yourself, obviously, but think how fun it will be to do this together! So, when you are done e-mail it to me: andiebottrell(at)yahoo(dot)com and I will start posting them under the exercise's description with the Title and Author of the piece (you may sign it anonymous if you are shy). I will also post my own. Happy writing! 

*Oh, and you definitely don't have to consider yourself a "writer" to do these, if you're just a geek who likes having homework, or an artist of another kind looking for new ways to unlock inspiration, or if you just want to practice your writing and grammar skills or expand your vocabulary- these are all great reasons to join in!

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"On This Intermission"
by Andie Bottrell

IN THE BEGINNING

I brood, I admit. Can’t help it. I feel and it shows. I’m transparent. This dastardly move has brought me closer to a game I never wanted to re-enter. This game of “life conventional.” Seemingly dulcet creatures greet you with teethful smiles and trustworthy handshakes and talk your ear off when you just want a quick transaction for a cup of coffee, black.

IN THE MIDST

Felicity eludes me- replaced with lethargy, but don’t worry- I’m fighting it. I am armed with St. John’s wart and energy drinks and internal pressures of failing. These great motivators pull me out the inglenook when my sleepy head falls too low and for too long. I may not have yet found that same old ebullience I once and at times have had the pleasure of living with, but I strive, dammit, I strive on.

IN THE END

I dream about the end of this when I’ve become inured- a deadened paste, calloused and withered, but retaining inner moist and garden. Eclipses of the sun occur to frighten, delight and re-introduce us to our sight. I’ve lived through several in my life and can say this one only qualifies as a penumbra- partial in every way, though not light enough for me to stay to the end of my day to days. No, I require my woebegone to be woe gone away for good and to lay roots in the inspired land that makes my inner garden grow.