This week’s Writers Island prompt is Friendship. It’s timely as the novel I’m writing for NaNoWriMo is titled Forever Friends and is about two girls who become best friends in kindergarten then have a falling out at the end of high school that completely splits their friendship apart. They meet up in later life and find out exactly what it was that happened to cause the lifelong rift.

So, for this week’s contribution, here is the prologue of my novel-in-progress. Please remember this is only a first draft and it has had little editing. That process will come later, in Dec., when I’ve completed the 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo…

Prologue

My mother was always making me late. And then there was the added guilt.

“Pack your bags,” Maggie used to say. “Looks like you’re going on another guilt-trip.”

Mom had been sick, on and off, since I was born. I suppose that was my fault since she had me later in her life when everyone said she was a fool, and having a baby at that age would probably kill her. But she told me when I was older that finally giving birth to me had been like a gift from heaven after all the miscarriages she’d suffered. I was to be her one and only child. Well, I may not have killed her at birth, but she never let me forget that I would eventually be the death of her for various other reasons, mainly to do with being an average teenager. She was wrong on there though. She almost outlived all of us. But looking after her—because Dad said we couldn’t afford to hire a nurse every time Mom suffered one of her “episodes”—became my job in the summertime whenever I wasn’t in school, especially once I hit my teens. And that situation, as a teenager having to look after my mother, was almost the death of me.

And was why I was constantly late. And why, when I did finally get to the beach that day to meet Maggie and Gary, I saw something I wasn’t meant to see. And why, after that moment, my whole life changed irrevocably.

***

It was hot for early June. Perfect for lazing around on the beach for the afternoon. But Mom had had a turn in the morning, so I had to wait until she was asleep again, well after I’d served her lunch, before I could throw on my bathing suit and a blue terrycloth cover-up, and race out the door of our house.

“Mrs. Smith, Hi!” I shouted on my way past the next-door neighbour who was sitting on her verandah. “Would you please check on my Mom at 4:30?” adding, “Thanks” over my shoulder as I kept running down the street, just so she wouldn’t have a chance to refuse.

I was already over an hour late. Maggie would kill me. She could never do anything unless I was with her, always acting like we were joined at the hip. I knew she would have been sweltering in the hot sun, not daring to touch a foot to the water’s edge without her Mae – me – by her side. She had been the one who said it was urgent, that she needed to see me that day, had even taken the afternoon off work so we could meet. I didn’t know what could have been so important that we had set a time, like it was an appointment or something. But then it crossed my mind - she also hadn’t bothered to come looking for me either, to see what was taking me so long. So it couldn’t have been that important, I figured.

School had just finished for the year and my graduating class was enjoying several days of freedom before final results were received, and summer jobs began. Those were the halcyon days of the early seventies, when we were all high school heroes, a string of academic, athletic, and social successes and achievements notched on our belts, but with life’s real triumphs still ahead of us. Well, ahead of some of us. Others would likely drift through the rest of their lives just as they had drifted through high school.

The beach wasn’t far from my house, five minutes away, just at the foot of our street. I hit the boardwalk running then slowed the pace to catch my breath, not wanting to look like I was too eager. I scanned the sandy stretch, our favourite spot, between the foot of my street and the lifeguard station. Maggie was there, sitting on a log facing the lake, and away from me – she hadn’t seen me arrive. But she wasn’t alone. Gary was with her.

Now, Gary and I had a “history,” as we all called it then – kind of an on-again-off-again dating relationship. We were considered “a couple” by all the other students all through high school, but lately things had kind of fallen off again – his fault not mine. Maggie had always said, right from the beginning when Gary and I first met, that she didn’t like him, didn’t like being the third wheel in our relationship all the time. And because Maggie and I had been best friends since forever, I kind of sided with her in the end, and had finally given Gary the boot before the Easter weekend. So now I was surprised – no, that’s too mild… I was shocked to see Gary lift his arm, reach behind Maggie, and set it on her shoulder, drawing her closer into his side. She leaned her head on his shoulder, causing me to stop in my tracks to wait, not knowing what to think.

When they finally broke apart, I gave them a few moments before shouting, “Hey!” Then I slowly crossed the stretch of beach and raised an arm in salute when Maggie turned around. She quickly waved back and turned again to say something to Gary. He jumped up from the log, looking about as guilty as a dog caught with the family’s evening roast in its mouth. Maggie meanwhile pulled a tissue out of her beach bag and was wiping her eyes with it when I finally came up next to them.

“Sorry I’m late,” I sneered. “Looks like you’ve been keeping busy though, while I was still stuck slaving over my mother.”

Gary stammered, “It’s not what you think.”

“Yeah, right,” I said. Then I ripped off my cover-up. “I’m going for a swim. Looks like you could both use some cooling off, too.” I angrily kicked off my sandals.

“Mae,” Maggie called out to me as I strode down to the water’s edge. “Please. Like Gary said. It’s not what you think.” I ignored her. My best friend. Ha!

“Gary. Go tell her.”

I turned and held up my hand at them. “I don’t want to know. I’ve seen as much as I need to. Thanks for nothing!” I shouted over my shoulder as I began walking again. When I reached the shoreline, I took a few steps into the gentle waves, working my angry toes into the sand. My hand automatically went to my throat and fingered the gold heart on its chain, a gift that was never removed, even when swimming. Now I was having second thoughts, but finally decided to leave it around my neck. I immediately plunged into the still-chilly lake water, moving quickly away from shore with several strong strokes. Rolling over on my back, I floated, gazing up at the sky, willing that Maggie and Gary would be gone the next time I looked at the shore. But there they were, still sitting on the log, deep in what looked to be a heated conversation. Maybe even an argument. Good!

What I couldn’t figure out was why I’d been blind to the warning signs. Maggie had always told me she hated Gary because he had come between the two of us, ruining the perfect friendship we’d had since kindergarten. But it was obvious now that there was something going on between them. I wondered how long that had been happening then tried to drive all thought of it out of my head. I was still furious, but actually, to tell you the truth, when all was said and done, I didn’t really care.

I turned back around and began swimming out further into the lake, not mindful of the cold, or that that day marked the beginning of the end of my friendship with Maggie.

Writers Island prompt this week - The Stranger. Again, I was able to rework a story I entered in a contest last year.

Another Day In Paradise
By S.M. Toy

Bert generally had been a lucky guy. He’d had a good life: steady, well-paid, job, beautiful wife, big house. They had no kids by choice – the original DINKS of the eighties. He was even lucky enough to retire early. At his retirement party, co-workers told him, “We could never afford to live in the Caribbean. While you’re lounging on the beach all day, clipping coupons, we’ll still be hard at work in this office. You lucky stiff!”

Starting life over again in a tropical paradise would have been the perfect ending, too – if Sheila had shared his dream. After six months she’d packed up and shipped off, saying, “I can’t live like this any more, with nothing to do. We’re only retired from paid work, not waiting to die. I have to get out of here and start enjoying life again. You’re so pathetic. Do something with your life.”

Things might have been better, if she’d stayed. But then some would say he was lucky to lose her, she’d become such a nag. Now, with his wife gone, Bert does spend most of his days laying around on sandy beaches, but is bored out of his mind for the most part, refusing to admit his luck may have finally run out – too stubborn to admit it, in fact, or even to leave, and return to his old life.

He was anticipating the upcoming tourist season, and all the people who would fill those beaches, the restaurants and bars, old acquaintances to alleviate some of his boredom. But they’d offer the same talk about the same rehashed subjects, just like the previous season. Sheila had been right. Bert needed to do something. He couldn’t go on like this, latching on to anyone who glanced his way, hoping to strike up a conversation.

He’d spent most of that morning prone on a towel at Lower Bay. A book, long before discarded, lay by his side. Sitting up, he dusted some of the sticky sand from his arms and scanned the beach. He was still the only soul there. A boat was tacking into the bay, its mainsail flapping like a woman’s long skirt billowing in the wind. Only two other boats were moored there. Business had been slow since the previous Easter. Too slow. Bert was lucky he didn’t need to make a living from tourism. His retirement package had been more than enough to provide him with a comfortable life without having to supplement it.

He squinted up at the brilliant sky then back down to the horizon, gazing at the endless sea. The sun was above the yardarm – time for a drink. He wasn’t an alcoholic… at least, not yet. He’d been lucky to avoid habitual gatherings with several other retired expats in a local seedy rum shop, knowing if he gave in to their repeated invitations he’d soon be on a slippery downward slope. But he might begin to consider the possibility if no other prospects came along.

It had been impossible, too, to make friends among the local people. They considered him to be just another white foreigner, but the worst kind – one who never left to go elsewhere, lived on a fixed income, and was not on vacation, so didn’t throw his money their way. He’d become a man in-between: never completely accepted on the island, he would forever remain a stranger to the locals and the expats; but he was also now a stranger to his old life, and would likely never be able to fit in there again if he ever thought of going back.

Standing up, Bert stretched his arms over his head and then swung them around like he was a windmill. The wind was beginning to pick up, blowing sand into his face, scattering dry leaves. He turned his back against it and a large leaf from an almond tree hit him, fastening itself to the thin hair on the top of his head. He reached back and peeled it off, releasing it to the wind. Someone laughed.

Bert turned around. A young village girl was striding towards him carrying a towel that partially hid a small baby as though it were a precious gift. “You funny,” she giggled as she passed in front.

“Wait, don’t go,” Bert said, anxious for any company. “May I look at the baby?” She appeared too simple-minded to be capable of caring for such a small infant.

“Yes, please.” She stopped and proudly uncovered a boy’s silent face. He
peered at Bert with large brown eyes.

“Is this your brother? What’s his name?”

“No, he mine. He name Shakil. We goes for a sea bath.”

Bert frowned his surprise at this claim of maternity from someone so young. He said, “Do you think that’s a good idea? Your baby seems too little to go in the sea.”

“We’s alright. I a good swimmer. I takes care of he.”

Bert wasn’t as confident. “Maybe I should swim with you, just to make sure.” He’d never liked children, but that didn’t mean he could allow these two to go in the water unsupervised.

“Okay.” She sat the baby down on the sand, still wrapped in its towel, and began taking off her shirt and shorts, revealing a hand-me-down bathing suit. Kneeling, she opened the towel and plucked out the naked boy, then stood up. “We’s ready.” She ran to the water’s edge before Bert had a chance to think, but, in a few paces, he was next to them.

The young mother squeezed the baby so tight to her chest that his eyes seemed to pop out. Both of them squealed their excitement as they bounced in the surf.

Bert’s concern was now bordering on panic. “I really think you should give him to me.” The waves were increasing in size. Where the girl stood the depth was only a few feet, but, even in that close to shore, the current was strong. The children had been slapped by one wave; some strands of the girl’s long and beaded, black braids were sticking to her face and the baby’s head, making the two look as though they were already surrounded by seaweed. Bert moved closer, the better to grab them, if need be.

“Ula! Ula! What you does!” a woman’s voice shouted from behind.

The girl and Bert both turned and looked toward the beach. A big woman had broken through the bush lining the road. She ran towards them, but stopped short at the water’s edge. “You comes here! You brings dat baby!”

“He mine!” Ula cried, turning to take another step away from the shore, just as a wave smacked her in the face, drenching the baby as well. He began howling. Bert reached out and gripped Ula’s arm before she could walk any further. She panicked and dropped Shakil then started screaming. Ducking down, Bert fished the baby out from under the water’s surface then held him above chest level. He pushed through the water on to the shore, the baby coughing and spluttering in his arms, and handed the shivering child to the woman who held open the towel. She immediately wrapped him back up like a package. Ula slowly walked out of the sea.

“What you thinks, girl! You crazy? Dis baby too small for dat! You no deserves he. I gonna give you licks,” she said, holding up a large, flat hand. Ula grinned, open-mouthed, at her mother.

Bert asked, “The baby is okay, isn’t he?” attempting to defuse the situation. He reached over to pull the towel away from Shakil’s face. The boy had stopped choking and was now settled into a steady cry. The woman’s hand came down to secure the towel and she turned away, not allowing Bert to touch her grandson.

She spat out, “Dis no your business.” She marched back towards the road, shouting over her shoulder, “Come, girl! Dat’s what gets you in trouble already, talking to strange men.”

Ula had dressed in the meantime and was about to follow her mother when she turned back, flashed Bert a big gap-toothed smile, stretched out a small hand and said, “T’anks, Mister.”

They shook. “You’re welcome. Lucky I was here. But what were you…” She turned immediately, running to catch up with her mother, ignoring Bert’s plea of, “Wait!”

He watched as they disappeared, his jaw set in anger. He ruminated for a moment, more furious with himself than the mother or daughter. He turned around and stared at the endless, boring sea. It really was time for that drink – a good strong one. Then he would phone Sheila. He picked up his towel, book and clothes, and walked down the beach to the bar.

This week’s Writers Island prompt, Message In a Bottle, was a good one! I wrote a story last Spring as an entry in a contest that had the same phrase as part of its paragraph prompt. Plus it had a 1000-word-count limit. Writers Island has given me the opportunity to dust off that story and rewrite it for my contribution to this Tuesday’s posting. So, I am able to offer readers another story of “Renewal,” last week’s prompt, as in renewal of a story, while adhering to this week’s theme.

Gramps’ Rescue
By S.M. Toy

“Gramps, what’s the most amazing thing you ever found?”

Shifting Sara’s weight from his right knee to the other, Gramps pulled the ever-present pipe out of his mouth. Scratching his forehead with the same hand’s little finger, he said, “Hard to decide, Princess. I find something amazing every few days.”

She searched his eyes. “But what’s the most amazing thing?”

Turning his head, he looked over her head, out past the verandah railing down towards the beach. “Well, now. The most amazing thing? That would have to be a rum bottle floating in the surf. Found it right down there.” He pointed with his pipe’s stem.

“Aw, Gramps, I meant treasure – real treasure,” she said, rolling her eyes.

He looked at his granddaughter’s face. “Hold on. It wasn’t just any ordinary rum bottle, mind you. A rum bottle that came here all the way from the Caribbean. A bottle… with a message inside.”

Sara’s eyes widened in excitement. This was more like it!

Gramps settled in to telling his story. “Yesiree. I found it right down there, down by the headland.” He pointed again, but this time out beyond the receding foamy water to where a buoy marked the reef. “There was a note inside that bottle, too – a note that read, ‘I am being held captive by pirates. Please Help!’ And it was signed, ‘Princess Wanda.’” He nodded, his jaw jutting out in confirmation of what he had said.

“Really?” Sara gulped, her wondering eyes ablaze.

“Really and truly,” Gramps nodded again, setting his lips in a true straight line. His pipe had gone out so he reached into a breast pocket and pulled out a box of wooden matches. Tamping down what tobacco remained in the pipe’s bowl, he struck the match with a thumbnail and relit the pipe. Placing the stem back in his mouth, he took a few thoughtful puffs, removed the pipe, and said, “I took that note to the police station, the pirate ship was found, and they returned the princess to her family’s castle… in England. Her mother, the Queen, phoned to thank me personally.” He stuck the pipe stem back in his mouth, clamping down on it.

“Wow!” Sara exhaled with astonishment and shivered. “A real queen, pirates, and a princess!”

The screen door squeaked open, Gran’s face appearing in the crack.

“Oh, you drunken fool!” she said. “Don’t be filling the chile’s head with your sea-story nonsense! You was only ever a ferry-boat captain anyways. I don’t know where ya gets all this high-seas business. Now, com’on, the two of ya. Get ready for service. It’s time.” As if on Gran’s cue, a church bell began to ring in the distance.

“But, Gran. We was going to the beach. Gramps promised to take me beachcombing. We might find treasure!” Sara’s face burst into a smile and she turned back to bestow it on her grandfather.

“You’re not going anywheres but church this morning, Chile. And I can tell ya now, and for sure, that the only treasure you two will ever find in that surf is whatever comes out of that old coot’s imagination. Stop lyin’ to her, telling her all them fool stories. Now, Sara, get in here and put on your good shoes. You can’t go to church in them boots. You too, Samuel.” Like a startled turtle, Gran pulled her head back into the house, slamming the door.

Leaning her face into his white beard, Sara said, “Gramps, I’d rather go to the beach.” She stroked the other side of his bristly face with her hand.

“Me too, Princess,” he said around the pipe. Then taking it out of his mouth, he sighed, and added, “But Gran’s my captain now. Captain to both of us. And you know that sailors always have to do whatever the captain tells them. Let’s go.” Sliding her off his knee, he pushed himself up from the rocking chair. He placed a gnarled hand on her blonde head and promised, “Later today. We can have a good look-see down along the shore.”

“Okay, Gramps. But did you keep that note? The one from Princess Wanda?”

“What? Oh, that… No I had to hand it over to the police – as evidence, you know. Now, let’s go. Gran’s already as angry as a late-season Nor’easter.”

That night, when she could hear Gran snoring, and knew the coast was clear, Sara crawled out of bed. This would be her only chance. It was too dark to see anything at all so she fumbled around for the cord and opened the blinds, letting in the silver-light of a half-moon. She’d hidden the note between pages of Treasure Island, Gramps’ favourite book. He’d been reading it to her every night before she went to bed. But not that night. It was Sunday and Gran didn’t allow book reading on Sundays. Sara flipped through the pages and found the note, folding it, making it disappear into her hand. Slipping out of the room, she crept like a mouse past her grandparents’ closed door, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

The rusty hinge complained when she pulled the cupboard door open. Holding her breath, she paused to listen. Gran was still snoring. Sara exhaled with relief. Reaching inside the cupboard, she groped around until she found what she’d been searching for. She clutched the neck of the bottle and pulled it out, holding it up to the moonlight that shone through the kitchen window. It was half-full of dark liquid. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed.

“Yuck!” The strong alcohol assaulted her young nose. That’s a Gramps’ smell. That, combined with pipe tobacco, was how she always knew if Gramps had been in a room. Sara smiled. She was about to do something that would help them both, in just a few hours. She took the bottle over to the sink, poured out all the rum, then shook the last drops from the lip. Gramps won’t mind. She rinsed the bottle, dried it with a dishtowel, and then replaced the cap.

Sara went to the front door, carefully opened it, and walked out on to the verandah, making sure not to slam the screen door behind her. The outdoor sound of lapping waves along the shore wasn’t loud enough; she could still faintly hear Gran’s snorts and snuffles coming from inside, even after the door was securely closed. Gramps always said, “That woman can make more noise while she’s sleeping than she does when she’s awake, like a full-force gale some nights.” But he never said that within Gran’s hearing. The wind was picking up and was even beginning to drown out Gran. There was enough breeze to speedily twist and turn several decorative windsocks hanging from the rain gutter across the front of the house.

Sara crept down the front stairs, her bare feet chilled by the cold wood. The moon lit up the stone path ahead, allowing her to safely walk alone, but she scurried now out of excitement and fear, wanting to hurry to get the job done before being discovered. She soon arrived at the beach.

Standing at the edge of the water, just out of the waves’ reach, Sara unscrewed the bottle’s cap, but hesitated before placing the note inside. To make sure she hadn’t picked out the wrong piece of paper, she unfolded the scrap and, holding it up in the moon’s light, she read out loud, but mainly from memory, “Help! We is being held captiv by Captin Gran! Please resku us! Sined – First Mate Gramps and Cabin Boy Princess Sara.”

The paper fluttered in the breeze; she clutched it tighter in her hand so it wouldn’t fly away. When the air had calmed again, she folded the note, shoving it down into the bottle, and screwed the cap back on good and tight.

She raised her arm and threw the glass bottle as far as she could into the dark sea. The bottle bobbed where it landed, a few feet from shore. Then, with the very next wave, it disappeared completely.

This week Writers Island’s prompt was “The Renewal.” I couldn’t think of an original idea specifically for that prompt so I’m posting a story I was working on for Ann Ireland during the Ryerson Short Story Writing Course I took this past summer. It’s theme is more one of “awakening” than “renewal,” but it’s the best I could come up with in a pinch this week.

Family Jewels
By S.M. Toy

Shut up! Just shut up!

Tracy propped one elbow on the café railing and cupped her chin in the hand’s palm. She gazed down the street at nothing in particular, silently willing her husband to stop pontificating. Bad enough she’d had to traipse around after him in the museum all morning.

The Parisian back street was moderately busy that sunny day. The restaurant patio, a block from their hotel, had offered welcome shade and a place for Tracy to relax her aching legs. Doug had plans to hit another art gallery shortly after they ate lunch. While they were settling in, he automatically ordered café au lait. “Deux, s’il vous plait,” he said, holding up two fingers at the passing garçon.

Tracy would have rather had had something cold, maybe a beer for a change, but said nothing.

Doug launched back into lecturing her and didn’t show any signs of letting up, so she continued to stare down the street, nodding every once in a while so he would think she was paying attention. After thirty years of practise she had this routine down pat.

Finally some activity caught her attention, braking through her husband’s droning. Startled into close observation, she blinked hard twice, not believing her eyes.

Pedestrians were stepping aside, giving wide berth, pointing, and stifling their laughter behind hands. An elderly man, squat, pleasantly plump, and totally naked, save for sandals and white socks, strolled out from the parting crowd and along the centre of the sidewalk towards where Tracy sat. With a full head of wavey-grey hair and a Cheshire Cat-face, he had the look of an odd mix of aged-cherub and manically grinning gargoyle, just like those carvings they’d seen in Notre Dame.

Tracy stared intently, then giggled, imagining a friend’s oh-so-British voice declaring, “His dingly-danglies are showing!” When the man came along side of Tracy, his head turned, they made eye contact. He flashed her a big, satisfied smile, threw a quick wave, and continued walking.

“What the…” Doug said, his consideration of the Gauls and Visigoths coming to an abrupt end.

Tracy turned back to look at her husband, a smile still playing on her lips. “You didn’t see his gem-encrusted penis ring. Gave new meaning to the term Family Jewels.”

Doug huffed, “Where are the police?” Craning his neck, he watched the man’s backside, adding, “Surely, even in France, one can’t walk around naked.”

Tracy looked at Doug, her brow now furrowed. “Why not? He seemed perfectly happy to me.” She turned around for another glimpse, but the nudist had already disappeared into a crowd. “And harmless,” she said, more to herself, continuing to look down the street.

A moment later there was a scuffle when two uniforms approached. They grabbed the naked man’s arms and plucked him from the passers-by, dragging him out of Tracy’s sight.

“Good!” Doug said, settling back into his seat, pulling straight his jacket lapels. “That’s taken care of.”

The waiter appeared and disinterestedly placed two cups on their table, leaving immediately.

“Merci,” Tracy said to his retreating back. She reached for a napkin and, while sopping up the spilled coffee from the saucer, she studied her husband’s face. “Why ‘good’? Why can’t we do what makes us happy, whenever the moment grabs us?”

“What a question! Everything would become chaotic without rules. You know that. You’ve helped me raise three children.”

“Helped?” Tracy said breathlessly, shaking her head in disbelief. More like, we’ve always done as you’ve said. She didn’t dare speak her thoughts out loud.

“People can’t just do whatever they want, not if it upsets everyone.”

Looking around, Tracy observed that life in the café had resumed as though nothing had happened. Or, what she thought was more likely the case, a naked man walking down the street was so common an occurrence that few had paid any attention at all. “You’re the only one who’s upset,” she said, waving an arm at other diners seated on the patio. “Besides, if the man has an expensive penis ring, why can’t he flaunt it?” she smirked.

No longer in the shade, she cupped a hand over her eyes. Doug’s face, even though protected by the awning, was turning red; sweat beaded his brow.

“Tracy, this isn’t funny. He’s crazy. How long might it be before he hurts someone, or himself? Better if he’s locked up.”

Like me? Tracy pursed her lips, but remained silent.

After gathering courage for a few moments, she said, “I’m leaving.”

“You want to go back to the hotel? But we just got our coffee. I thought we were going to eat.” He searched around for their waiter.

“No, Doug. I’m leaving you.” Tracy reached to the ground, fingering her purse handles.

Doug turned back to his wife with a startled look. She’d managed to silence him more effectively than if she’d reached out and slapped his face. He harrumphed and, reaching for the sugar, fumbled with the coffee spoon, trying to buy time and avoid the direction Tracy was heading. Finally finding his voice, Doug said, hissing at her, “What will the kids think? What about the rest of the family, our friends, our neighbours? How do I explain this? You’re going to make me look like a fool!”

The sun glinted off the balding spot where his hairline receded. The beginning of a tear glistened in the corner of one eye so he quickly removed his glasses, swiping the moisture away, not allowing it the opportunity to course down his cheek.

Tracy sighed and shook her head as if to stop the guilt from settling on her shoulders one more time. She grabbed the handles of her bag, lifting it from the ground, and pushing herself up from the chair, reached over and placed one palm on his cheek. She whispered, “Goodbye, Doug.” Then turning, she straightened her back and walked steadily through the café entrance, out onto the sidewalk, heading towards their hotel. If Doug had called out to try to stop her, she didn’t hear.

The sun shone in her face causing her to squint. Or was that the beginning of a smile? Tracy fingered the blouse button at her neck and quickly unfastened it, as well as the next, allowing a slight breeze to deliciously trickle down into her cleavage.

Tracy lay on the bed, fully clothed. With the window shut and the curtains closed, she was completely in the dark. But she wasn’t asleep, just thinking, thoughts racing through her head so fast and all jumbled up that she couldn’t sort out what she should do next. She had unknowingly been studying a crack in the hotel room wall, one that began in the left-hand upper corner and snaked its way down to almost meet the window’s edge.

A tentative knock sounded at the door. Tracy closed her eyes then covered them with the back of one hand. She remained silent.

“Tracy?” Doug tested the waters. “Tracy, I know you’re in there. Please open the door.” A moment passed before he tried the handle. It turned and the door opened. He entered the room. “Why didn’t you lock the door?” he said, sounding annoyed at first. “Anyone could have walked in.” Then becoming concerned, he said, “And what are you doing in here in the dark? You’re not feeling well? I knew it. Why didn’t you say so at the restaurant?”

Tracy waited a long moment then said quietly, “I’m fine.” She removed her hand, but kept her eyes shut.

“Maybe you just need something to eat. Would you like me to order room service?” Doug hesitated. “Or maybe you’d like to go downstairs. You could get the same food and it would cost a lot less in the café. Walking around might do you some good, too. Better than laying here on the bed, in the dark.” He walked over to the window and grabbed a curtain.

“Please keep that closed,” Tracy said, and she opened her eyes to glare at her husband.

Doug turned when she spoke, dropping the curtain. “What’s wrong with you, Tracy,” he said. “And what’s this about leaving? You amaze me! You don’t really want to leave me. Where did this suddenly come from? Just because a naked man walks past, you want to give up thirty years? After all I’ve done for you, provided you with? And right now, especially when I’ve finally retired, you want to leave? I thought we were going to spend our golden years together. Now stop this foolishness, Tracy. Get up and we’ll go out so you can have some lunch.” He stopped speaking for a moment and moved to the foot of the bed. “I ate after you left the restaurant. We can skip the art gallery this afternoon, if you want. Maybe do something you’d like to do. Shopping? But let’s forget we even had this conversation and just go back to the way things were. Okay?”

Tracy sat up and turned around, placing her feet firmly on the floor. She looked directly at Doug and said slowly, emphasizing each word, “What you’ve done for me?” she gulped. “What you’ve given me?” Now that she had suddenly found her voice, there was no stopping, and she leaped right down his throat. “I’ve had thirty years of boredom, of doing only what you wanted to do because I thought that was the way a happy marriage worked, what society wanted of me, and I was afraid to do anything different. Now a naked man has shown me there’s something more to life that I’ve been missing all along. I know now I can do what pleases me – if I want to. It’s not just the gallery this afternoon, Doug.” Her volume had risen to the point where it was close to becoming a scream. “If I get dragged into one more museum, or have to do anything else because you want to do it, I might just possibly die. Walking around the streets naked would be preferable to this unrelenting boredom our life has become. At least I’d feel free, like I was doing something I chose to do.”

“Shhh. Keep your voice down.” Doug held out his hands, patting down at the air. “There might be someone in the next room.”

“They wouldn’t care about what we’re saying in English.” But Tracy’s voice had lowered voice out of habitual deference.

Doug paused to think. He slowly said, “It’s the money you want, isn’t it? If you think I’m going to let you go without a fight, allowing you to get away with this… or, wait a minute… is there someone else? You’ve planned this with someone, haven’t you?”

“You just don’t get it – and there’s the problem. I don’t want your money, or at least no more than I’m entitled to. And there’s no one else. I just want to be allowed to find out who I really am. I can’t do that as long as you’re constantly calling the shots.”

“I know what it is - you’re menopausal. You’re not thinking clearly, Tracy.” Doug suddenly looked concerned, leaning over and reaching a hand out to pat her shoulder. She stood up from the bed and shrugged him off. He continued, “Can’t we wait until we get back to Toronto to talk about this? You could see a doctor there, or maybe talk with a therapist first. Then we’ll both decide what to do.”

Tracy sighed loudly. Then clenching her teeth, she said, “I’ve never thought more clearly in all my life.” And if I don’t follow through now, I’ll never get away from this man, she grimly thought. “I’m not sick. I just need some space.”

“So what do you plan to do?” He became very business-like again. “I might remind you that there are responsibilities you can’t just walk away from. We have tickets and bookings already paid for. You should at least stay and finish this trip.”

For the very first time in her life, the novelty of not-knowing, not having a plan as to what was about to happen, was decidedly exciting yet, at the same time, still frightening. “I think I’d like to go home.” She said, looking away from him.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” Doug shook his head. “I don’t know why we can’t just go back to the way things were this morning. We were having such a good time.”

No, you were having a good time. I was tagging along, like I’ve always done.

Tracy glanced at Doug’s angry face before he turned away to walk into the bathroom. When he came back out she was still standing in the same position as though unsure how to move.

“I’d better start seeing about changing our flight,” he said. “This isn’t going to be easy, you know. It’s probably going to cost a lot, too.” He pointed around the room. “You’d pack up our things. I’ll call you from the lobby and let you know when I get through with it all. And, Tracy…” He reached an arm out to her, attempting to drape it around her shoulders, but she moved out of the way so the arm dropped by his side again. “Buck up, Sweetie. We’ll figure a way out of this.” He let himself out of the room.

Tracy sighed deeply. Where had her happiness gone, what she’d felt earlier when leaving the restaurant? She walked over to the window and drew back the curtains. The much cheaper room-without-a-view Doug had insisted on taking looked out at a blank wall of the next-door building. The windows still allowed in some light and Tracy stood in the middle of it, trying to clear her mind of all thought. It hurt to think, but if only she could only figure out which direction she should go now that she had suddenly set things in motion. All she knew was that there was no going back to what they’d had, what they had been.

Reaching up behind her head, Tracy expertly pinned back some escaped strands of hair into her usual hairstyle of a tightly wound bun. Sighing once more, she walked over to the wardrobe, opened the door and, reaching in, pulled out her own suitcase. She hesitated briefly, just for a moment, before reaching in to grab Doug’s.

This week on Writers Island the prompt was The Journey. Here’s my short story:

Andrea’s Journey
By S.M. Toy

Her fingernails were filthy. One was broken, another chipped from having pulled her body across the uneven, scrubby ground. There were rocks of all sizes she hadn’t expected and, in reality, the going had been much more rough than it looked from a distance.

Rather than rush, exhausting herself, Andrea had taken her time, stopping to rest after each stretch of the arms, her limp body following unwittingly behind as she pulled it forward each time. Getting to the edge had been more difficult, and taken longer, than she’d calculated. She’d expended a lot of energy covering that last fifty feet of ground. A short distance, really, but she had little strength left in her upper body, and now even less after all the exertion.

She looked back at the abandoned wheelchair, now resembling an empty prison cell from which the inmate had recently escaped. Draped over seat and armrest, the blue blanket’s corner flapped loose in a sudden refreshing breeze, as though it were waving her on.

Andrea gulped at the air, its strong scent of sea-salt helping to brace her as she pushed her torso up and sat, almost upright, or as best as she could, propped on hands and arms securing her to the ground.

She gazed out at the sea. It was calm for that time of year. The others constantly discussed the weather – most people in her life seemed to have nothing better to talk about – and said that the storms this year were long overdue; everyone expected they’d be in for a doozy soon. Maybe though this would be the year of no storms at all. She’d heard it happened before, but that was unusual.

Keeping a fixed gaze on the horizon, she resisted looking over the edge for fear of losing her balance. She wasn’t ready yet. The sixty or so feet of sheer cliffside met the sea abruptly at the bottom. She remembered that. There was no beach, no boulders strewn in the surf, just the water incessantly crashing against the shore’s steep wall. It was the perfect place.

The wind speed was increasing. Andrea’s stringy, blonde hair whipped around into her face. She couldn’t chance removing a hand from the soil long enough to hold back her hair, so by shaking her head and facing into the wind she managed to clear her face.

A smile crept across her lips. She must have looked like that famous painting as she’d inched away from her chair – the one of the woman in the field. Christina’s World? That was it; she was sure, but she couldn’t remember the artist’s name. Andrea had liked the colours in it; they were very soothing, very Prairie, but she could never relate to the subject. At least, not then when she first saw the painting. But now things were different, although the Christina in the painting had been crawling back towards her limited life, while Andrea was making every attempt to escape the trap hers had become since the accident.

Looking back again at the stretch of ground she’d covered, not very far at all, but further than she’d travelled alone in quite some time, she said out loud, “Andrea’s World.” The wind ripped the words out of her mouth almost before she’d finished speaking. The sudden sound of her own voice made her laugh. Like the lower half of her body, it had been unused for so long. Yet body and voice were not exactly alike because she’d been silent by choice. For what? Almost two years now? My how time flies. She laughed at the thought, but didn’t speak out loud again. All along she’d realized it had been better, no easier, to let them think her faculties were paralyzed, not only her legs. Now the surprise-sound of her voice had scared her. She pursed her lips, keeping any further words to herself.

But time was passing; the sun would soon set. She’d have to decide, to finally make up her mind, now that she was actually faced with the ultimate choice and no longer simply fantasizing, planning her “leap of faith” as she’d come to think of it, even though she’d held little to no faith throughout the living time of her life.

She shifted her hands, easing the weight on them. The right one, propped to the side and slightly behind her body, bore the greatest load. And, unused to any kind of movement at all, let alone strenuous, what muscles remaining in her arms were already stiffening. She couldn’t leave it much longer.

The orange sun began its descent into the sea, the cloudless horizon promising a spectacular finish to the day. Without having really planned out this part ahead of time, she could now time it perfectly, slipping over the edge at the same moment the sun disappeared. That possibility hadn’t occurred to Andrea during the time she was thinking of her exit, but getting to this final perch had taken longer than expected – first by wheelchair and then, after that became stuck on a rock and loose dirt, by sheer force of will. Unfortunately, the wheelchair would have to be left behind, marking the spot for anyone who came searching. Nothing could be done about that now. Likely they’d find her body sooner, but it would still be too late.

Andrea squinted at the final sharp brightness of the sun as it went out in a “blaze of glory,” ending with the blip of a green flash. A single involuntary tear coursed down her cheek.

Then voices broke through the constant sound of crashing waves.

“Andrea! There she is, Jim!”

In sudden panic, Andrea glanced around and lost her only window of opportunity. Before she could move her stiff arms, or even before she had time to think, two people had raced across the open ground and reached her side. Jim crouched down, grabbing Andrea by the shoulders, wrenching her back to safety – away from her wish, and sealing her fate.

Martha shouted over the wind, “Thank God we found her!” Then looking directly into Andrea’s vacant eyes, she screamed, “How the hell did you manage to do this?”

Jim shushed his sister. “Quiet, Martha. She’s frightened.” He held Andrea so tight to his chest that she could feel the strong, steady beat of her husband’s heart.

“She’s nothing, just like usual. The elevator doesn’t go all the way to the top floor,” Martha grumbled, leaving them and walking over to retrieve the wheelchair.

Jim wouldn’t loosen his grip. It was as though he were afraid his wife would make an attempt to jump, although he knew that was impossible. Andrea, resignation now having settled in, watched over Jim’s shoulder while Martha fussed with the chair.

After a brief inspection, she said, “Well, this is how she managed. Some idiot didn’t set the brake. She must have got her hand stuck on the controls and motored all the way out here from the house. Heaven only knows how she got from the chair to there. The battery’s run down, too. You’re going to have to push her back,” she called out. Then, continuing to inaudibly mutter to herself, she folded the blue blanket.

Jim’s grip began to ease. Holding Andrea away from his body, but still not letting go her shoulders, he asked, “Is that what happened, Andrea? Was this an accident?” Andrea gazed blankly off to the side. After so much practise, she knew that look was convincing.

Martha came up to them, wheeling the chair. “Of course it was an accident. And you know talking to her is no use,” she said. “You won’t get anything out of her. She can’t understand a word of it.” She impatiently tucked loose strands of greasy hair behind her ear.

Not looking at his sister, Jim set his jaw. “Why weren’t you looking after her?”

“Oh, you’re not going to try to blame this on me, are you? No way! I’m just helping out here. I’m not a nursemaid.”

Jim, angry now, replied, “You’re supposed to be a companion. That’s what I’m paying you to do. Not leave her unattended. Now hold that chair steady.” He stood up and leaned over again, scooping Andrea from the ground. He whispered into her ear, “Let’s go home.”

After placing her in the wheelchair, Jim pulled back a bit and searched her face with his eyes. For just a split second, Andrea’s eyes locked on to his and pleaded with him. He blinked in surprise, but during that split-second her changed expression passed just as quickly and her eyes slipped back into their normal cloudiness. He shook his head once as though wondering if there had been a lucid moment. But then he dismissed it as impossible, visibly shrugging away the question. He moved to the back of the chair and gripped its handles.

Martha began walking away from them across the meadow, calling back, “She’s going to have to be restrained from here on in. I can’t be expected to watch her every minute.” She stopped and shouted, “You know what I think?”

Andrea heard Jim exhale sharply. “No,” he said, “I don’t know what you think, and I don’t care either.”

Still facing the sea, Andrea caught one last glimpse of the fiery red streaks of cloud that criss-crossed the sky, leftover from the end of the sunset. Red sky at night, sailors’ delight, was all that came into her mind. The colour was quickly fading though, even as Jim turned her chair around and began heading back towards home.

This week’s writing prompt on Writers Island was The Gift.

More Than a Dime
By S.M. Toy

How can a dime be worth more than five dollars? It all depends on where the money comes from.

My grandfather was a great man. Not in the save-the-world, make-a-difference, lead-others-on-to-do-good-things sense of great. But he was great to visit, easy-going, had a good sense of humour, and loved seeing all us grandkids - for a certain length of time at least; then, when he’d had enough of the family, he’d disappear to the basement to play solitaire with a moldy deck of cards and visit his secret consoling-stash of cigarettes and beer. He was the only member of the family who could silently endure my grandmother; sadly hen-pecked as he was, he’d long-since learned that when it came to his stern wife, silence, and total compliance, was golden.

Plus he knew the value of a dime.

We lived about six blocks away from our grandparents. My younger sister and I were sent most weekends to their house for a visit, sometimes having to stay overnight on Saturdays so our parents could take a break. We cringed at having to spend time with Grandma, a mean old woman who caused us untold humilities and embarrassments. I know, I know; we shouldn’t speak ill of the dead. But Grandma… well, she was something else! My other three sibs will agree with me on this. And our mother agreed as well. That only-child relationship with her mother was a contentious one, but she was always the apple of her father’s eye.

Generally our visits consisted of Grandma lecturing us from her big armchair, always set in the corner of the kitchen, next to her ever-increasing row of pills. Grandpa, his back to Grandma, was constantly reheating thick, strong, earlier-perked coffee in a small aluminum pan on the stove top, an ever-present cigarette stuck firmly between his lips, the inch-long ash constantly in danger of falling off into the pot of boiling coffee.

Some days, the really excruciating ones, we’d have to go shopping with Grandma along Queen St. Or, worse, if Aunt Polly and Aunt Irma came along, we would trudge through Shopper’s World for the afternoon, dragged along by the three biddies. Much better was when Grandpa offered to take us to the bakery around the corner where we could choose from chocolate éclairs, Napoleons, custard slices, and palm leaves. Or, if he managed to escape Grandma’s clutches, he’d take us to the (still then) Woodbine Race Track a few blocks west. She allowed him to go as long as he had only enough cash to pay for our entry. He was never given any money to place a bet. But all he really wanted to do anyway was watch the horses run. Having been a stable boy back in Belgium, he still loved to be around horses – possibly more than he liked being around people in general and my grandmother in particular. Other times he’d take us for walks in Kew Park to watch a baseball game at the diamond, or right down to the boardwalk by Lake Ontario so we could play in the sand.

But best of all, as far as I was concerned, was when we helped in the garden behind the house. During the early days of summer we could always count on being handed the first of the thin, sweet carrots Grandpa pulled out of the ground and brushed off against his pant leg. Maybe it was the remaining dirt clinging to the vegetables that made them taste like they were the best in the world, but likely it was just because they came from Grandpa. Then there were the pigeons he kept in a coop at the fence line. We were allowed to go inside where Grandpa would hand us each a squab to cradle. The first time I realized that what I was eating for dinner one evening was actually one of the baby birds I had been recently cuddling, I was traumatized. But they tasted so good, prepared lovingly as they were by my grandfather, who did all of the cooking anyway, that my horror soon passed. I’m absolutely certain my grandmother had a hand in making Grandpa eventually dismantle the coop and release all the birds. Horrid, filthy things, according to her. Which they were, but that fact had never seemed to stop her from gobbling up her share whenever Grandpa cooked them for us.

On Saturday afternoons we sat on Grandpa’s lap while he read the comics to us. How were we to know that he couldn’t actually read at all, but was making up the stories as he went along? There were a lot of “Pow”s and “I’m going to get you, you bugger!” that I’m sure were not written into the originals. But he kept us laughing, not only because he made the comics funnier, but because he was also giving us surreptitious swigs from his bottle of Labatt’s IPA the whole time. Then, after we’d finished dinner, Grandpa, my sister and I would be relegated to the kitchen table where we’d play cards, usually Go Fish, and listen to the Maple Leafs playing Saturday Night Hockey on the radio. No TV for us because Grandma was in the living room watching Stampede Wresting.

If it hadn’t been for Grandpa, I don’t think our parents could ever have dragged us, kicking and screaming, over to that house to visit. The worst part always came when we were leaving to go back home. Grandma would open her purse (I’m sure a moth flew out every time the snaps were released), hand us each a five dollar bill, and say, “Here’s your money. I know that’s why you came.” The sad part for me was that, as far as Grandma was concerned, she’d hit the nail on the head, and it made me feel excruciatingly guilty as I kissed the pointed-to spot on her cheek in thanks. It didn’t happen as often, but every once in a while Grandpa would pull out a Seagram’s velvet bag, the kind the whiskey bottles came in, that closed with drawstrings. (I still keep one in memory of my Grandpa.) All his worldly fortune of change was contained in that bag because, as you guessed it, Grandma also controlled the family money. He would search around with his hand and pull out a dime for each of us, saying, “You go buy yourself something.” And with a smile playing on his lips, he’d add, “Now get the hell out of here!” We would run off, giggling.

That gift of a dime was like a million dollars to me, especially now that Grandpa has been dead for these past thirty-five years. A million dollars worth of memories.