Friday Fiction: "Lens. Knife. Crazy."

She didn't know what she would do once she got there.

But the walk to this other woman's house was a short one, only 3 blocks north of her own.

All she knew was that she was tired of that bitch calling her house.

She'd screamed into the phone more times than she could count:

"Get into your head! Tyrone, he my man now!"

But it wasn't enough to keep the phone from ringing all times of the day or night.

So...

She got up.

Tied her headrag on her head.

And put on those sunglasses.

Those sunglasses...

The ones missing a lens.

And she wore them on purpose.

Because anyone wearing a pair of sunglasses with a missing lens had to be touched in the head.

(Just a little... touched).

She walked down her porch stairs, barefoot. The ground was hot from the summer sun beating down on it all day.

She paused at the corner, as the light for crossing had turned red. A glint of metal caught her eye. She looked down, and saw a broken rusted knife wrapped in shoelaces.

She smiled.

Headrag crooked atop her head.

Sunglasses missing a lens.

Busted knife hanging from a shoestring.

Crazy is as Crazy does.

Crazy is as Crazy looks.

After seeing her like this, that woman will think twice about calling for Tyrone.

Afterall, that would be a crazy thing to do.

From Women of Color Writing Workshop: 7 minute exercise: Draw a notecard from a stack and Use the words/phrases written on it in a story: My card contained shoelaces, broken knife, sunglasses with one lens, and remote control. I messed this one up, as I didn't work in the remote control. Sigh. But it was interesting. Strange, but interesting.

Enjoy your weekend. And don't do nothing... crazy.

Friday Fiction: "Consciousness"

"Consciousness"

I watch him as he stands there in the breakroom, stirring sugar and cream into his morning coffee.

I smile and nod politely as he turns his head, smiles and says,

"Good Morning."

I look at him and remind myself that

"I am conscious."

Yes, I am fully awake, standing here, feet very still in my high heels.

Heels in contact with the breakroom floor.

"I am conscious."

For this man, this man who stands here in the breakroom, carefully stirring sugar and cream into his morning coffee, also stands in the very center of my secrets and dreams.

He doesn't know that he makes sweet satisfying love to me every night, and he's faithfullly there to pull me from my bliss and unconsciuos state at dawn.

At that time, I must remind myself:

"He's not really here, and I am conscious."

He becomes a vapor, as thin as the air I breathe, evaporating and reappearing here, right here, everyday in the breakroom,

Meticulously stirring sugar and cream into his morning coffee.

"Do you want some?" he always asks, as he holds the coffee pot up, swirls the dark liquid around. "Do you want some of this?"

I look into his gorgeous brown eyes, I take a deep breath, and I say

"No. No thank you."

He smiles, lifts the cup to his lips, and takes a sip.

I smile too, wishing that I was that cup.

Wishing right then that I was... unconscious.

From June 5, 2010 Women of Color Writing Workshop. Writing Prompt: Write using a phrase pulled from a basket. The phrase I pulled was "Consciousness"