Writing Prompt

The light is dimming by the minute. I notice it makes the swelling sky ever more impenetrable. Darkness seems so eager to devour everything… “I said, I’m really gonna miss you”, she almost whispers. I realise I wasn’t quite listening. It’s just the two of us in this big empty parking lot. “Now now, let’s not get carried away, shall we? I’ll only be away for a couple of months. No big deal!”, I say cheerily. “You’re doing it again!” She looks somewhat crossed. “Doing what?” “You’re pushing me away, as you always do when you feel like I’m getting too close.” I keep my cool, “I haven’t the dimmest idea what you’re talking about. Come here, let me give you a hug to prove you wrong…” “Fuck your hugs and fuck your stupid act!” She shoves me back. I know I can recover from this. “If you didn’t like hugs, you could’ve just told me, Shirl. I can do back rubs, how about that?” “You know what I hate about you, Rob?” She’s on the verge of tears for some reason, “…You know what? Forget it…” I barely hear these words as she’s turning away and leaving. I grab her wrist, “Shirl! Shirl. Since when can’t you take a joke?” Her look incinerates me. I let go. “Alright then, see you in a few weeks, ok?” I don’t think she’s heard this as she’s already slammed the door of her car shut. As she disappears in the charred horizon, I feel that something somewhere in my body is amiss.

It rains here all the time, So when it’s cold it gets slippy and yikes, You simply wait it out n’at. You can grab a pop now with some ice. Don’t be a jagoff, Cause yinz don’t understand, The potholes will get you, Again and again. It’s louder than anywhere I’ve ever been. Our sports fans are always pumped, We usually win. A ring for each finger, And one just for fun, We are the champions, This is steeler nation.

“Good morning,” my mother joyfully sings to me as I walk down into the kitchen. “Good morning,” I groan falling into my seat at the kitchen table waiting to leave. “Are you hungry?” She asks hopefully. “No, I’m fine.” “Are you sure? You weren’t home for dinner last night and...” “I’m sure. It’s fine,” I interrupt. A solemn look takes over her face. “Sweetheart... you have to eat something.” “It’s fine mom. I’m eating. Don’t worry about it.” I storm out of the kitchen into the garage making sure to slam the door on the way out. Quickly, I jump into the passengers seat and plug in my earbuds before she can walk out and get another word in.

When I was a young girl, I can remember those long hot summer afternoons that seemed to never end. No pool, air conditioner, or even fan to cool the house, on those endless summer days in 1970 Southern California. Wishing for rain, but in the years of drought, the asphalt would glisten with rainbow colors while steam rose from the molten tarred streets. You can fry an egg on that street, my mom would say, fanning herself inside the families 1955 Ford Farelane. That wonderful old car, with its built-in AM radio, and side vents to rush the outside air inside to act like a cooler. We’d make fans from notebook paper, cardboard or just about anything. Those hot days made only hotter by searching for discarded soda bottles, to be returned for 2cents for recycling. That was the summer of my big idea, that my mother promptly shot down as ridiculous. The girlscout in me, with the constant recycling of newspapers, cans and bottles, thought that it would be a great idea to place bins in peoples yards so they could discard their recyclables. All we had to do was collect them once a week. An idea in the 70s, by a young bright eyed girlscout, was shot down and ridiculed by her mother. Now this older woman sits and smiles, on a hot summer night rethinking of those lost opportunities so many years ago. Tessa🦋

“But— but it’s not fair!” I protest. She glares at me. “Listen, nothing’s fair. Nothing is ever fair. You can either learn that, or leave.” “He doesn’t know that! Why does he get to stay but I don’t?” “As I said, nothing is ever fair.” She pauses, contemplating. “And, for the record, I never said you couldn’t stay.” “Setting me with an impossible task is basically telling me to leave. It’s almost as if you don’t want me here! Wait. Is that it? You just don’t want me here anymore? Are you trying to get rid of me?” “No! Where would you get such an idea? You need to stop for a second and figure yourself out. You’re spiraling out of control.”

It’s finished. The meeting has ended and now back to sober reality. I always wait in the lot and ponder whether leaving is a good idea. I’d be back to my own devices and self pleasure thrill. Who would leave me alone in four enclosed walls with a single mirror? Doesn’t seem effective. “No son, you cage yourself in those walls. Not a single soul is responsible for your disgust in the way things are than you.” I’m listening. “Are you? Where’s your joy?” In… her. “Why not me? Ive sent my angel to you for protection and still you think she was the one who pulled you through your gutter and cleaned your spiritual system.” “Ive given you all you need and it’s not enough. If i wanted you to long for happiness that would have been granted. Joy isn’t easy to come by. It takes times of suffering as a lesson. Remember me tonight. I think you get the point son. I love you.” Dearly beloved, Thank you.

“Is it that bad?” I wondered out loud. “What is so interesting on your phone?” She put down her device and glanced up at me with an imposed-upon look and replied wearily, “Excuse me! What did you want to talk about?” I was stumped. There was nothing I wanted to talk about . . . other than perhaps to say something like ‘I wish I was engaged with something as fully as you are engaged with your phone.’ So, instead I said, “Are you angry with me?” “No,” she barked back at me. “At least not until this moment. I am just catching up with my Facebook feed. Does that bother you? If it does, I will stop and we can talk.” Now I am suddenly afraid that she is going to expect me to engage her in a serious, committed conversation. I do not want that; that would be so boring. “No, don’t. Finish what you are doing. I don’t want to be a bother.” “Listen, Honey, there is nothing more important to me than you. It’s just that I had nothing to do and you said you were going go downstairs into your ‘Man Cave’ and watch the ballgame. So I picked up my phone and opened up Facebook.” “Right,” I said as I walked toward the stairs, “sorry, I do want to watch that game. Do you mind?” She let out a big sigh and said, “No, not at all.” As I looked back over my shoulder at her, I noticed she was in the kitchen putting on her apron. Her phone rested by itself on the arm of the couch.

“There’s seriously something wrong with you”, Aliyah says, leaning in to cup her chin in her hands. She’s sitting in a chair beside me, her elbows resting on the bed inches away from my hip. My hands, which are resting in my lap under the hospital blankets, yearn to reach for hers for comfort. But I know she’d only bristle at my touch. I remain quiet, waiting for my older sister to fill the silence. “You do this all the time, you know. You always do stupid things and the rest of us have to suffer the consequences. What you did today-” she gestures to my resting form “-this is selfish”. I bite my inner cheek, willing the conversation to die down. But it doesn’t. “You made mom cry today”, Aliyah says. I feel every sensation dampen at those words, the world turning into a hazy blur of beeping heart monitors and the scent of bleach. You made mom cry today. You made mom cry today. You Made Mom Cry. My eyes shift to the door, willing the forces of the universe to do anything in their power to just make Aliyah leave me alone. I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t deal with her constantly reminding me just how badly I’m ruining things for everyone. My mother already had enough to deal with since dad's death last month and yesterday's eviction notice; what I did today would be enough to break her. “You told her already?”, I croak. My voice is hoarse but I don’t know if it's from having that tube down my throat when they were pumping my stomach, or if it's from the threat of tears forming. “She was the one who got the phone call. You still have her listed as your emergency contact” I squeeze my hands together until it hurts. Sometimes having physical pain offered a distraction from the other forms of pain that often plagued me in difficult moments. Moments like this. “Oh. Aliyah, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry her or- “ Aliyah lets out a dry laugh and pushes herself away from the bed to pace around the room. “Sorry? That’s all you have to say? Not this time Nico. That’s not going to be enough. We can’t afford any of this. All these medical expenses are going to be too much. God, you are so self-centered and…” But her words are lost on me now and I am so tuned out that I can no longer keep pace with what she is saying. I can no longer even acknowledge her movements in my peripheral vision. My eyes shift to my backpack sitting on the chair in the corner of the room. They move to my denim jacket which is also draped on that same chair. Then, they find the square breast pocket, and my attention is stolen by the little silver button holding that pocket closed. That gleaming button is all I can focus on as Aliyah rambles on and I mentally count down the seconds until she leaves. “Are you listening to me?” Please leave. “Nico they want to keep you here overnight. Do you have any idea how much that costs?” Please leave. “We are already behind on bills and not only are we struggling to keep our house, but on top of that we now have to pay for a hospital bed” Leave. Later, when she finally does, I let out a sigh of relief and rub my eyes which now hurt from staring at one spot for too long. I pull my aching body from the bed and walk towards the jacket. I open the pocket and smile in silent victory. ‘Just one. Just to help me get to sleep’, I think, as I press the tiny white pill to my lips.

“Mommy, what is cancer?” Isabella whispers to her mother. With tears in her eyes, Jane looks at Isabella’s heart-shaped face , so full of confusion. She does not know how to answer her sweet little 4 year old. The father of her child, her husband, had passed at away that morning at the tender age of 37. Their story reminds me of the day I received the same news about my own father. My father, whom I loved so dearly. It has been 24 years since that day. I do not remember much, just my mother and sisters sobbing with tears running down their faces. I touched my face not realizing I was crying, too. My father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer at the age 50. At that time, I did not know what that had meant. I was 9. My father was a strong man. I watched my father grow tired, weary and thinner for 2 years. At the end of his life he was so fragile that I was scared to break him just by touching. I still miss him so. I remember the last Christmas break we had together. Something happened, that is engraved forever in my heart. My parents had a very complicated relationship before the cancer. I would wake up at nights to the sound of them fighting and breaking dishes. I guess that is the reason why I remember New’s Years Eve 2000 so clearly. It was so quiet, my little sister who was 4 was asleep and my older sisters had gone to a party. My mother and I placed 2 chairs in front of the living room window. I asked my mum “what are we doing”. “Dad wants to see the fireworks”, she replied. “I will get him as soon as they start”. At the stroke of midnight, there was a bang and beautiful hues of red, green, and blue lighted up the sky. My mother rushed to the bedroom and came out clutching my father by her side. They sat down on the two chairs in front of the window, while I slumped down on the sofa behind them. My father sat looking out the window, the colours of the fireworks reflecting on his glassy brown eyes. My Mother picked up his very thin hand and started stroking it lovingly. I heard her whisper, “I am glad you made this far”, then kissed his hand. I never saw my mom show that much love towards my father until that night. Sad, really, when you think of it. 19 days later, my father died and nothing has been the same. It has been 20 years and my mother still grieves. I just hope for Jane and Isabella they will have more memories, like the one I have of New Year’s Eve 2000. Forever engraved on their hearts.

i nod, not listening to what she is saying to me. instead my eyes are flitting around, noting all possible exits, and watching every single person in the cafe. closely. my eyes land on the mirror, watching the people eat and serve behind me. my constantly moving eyes finally stop- on me. to the outside person, im a calm picture. however on the inside, im a nervous wreck. i fidget with my hands, i shift on my feet routinely and i make sure im constantly ready to get up and run. my eyes, blue in colour, sweep my body, trying to work out any possible chinks in my armour. my hair, tied back for easier getaway, is brown. a change from the blonde i had last week, and the black i had before that. "are you listening to me?" i look back at her and nod. i smile and shoulder my pack before patting her shoulder in goodbye. being in the run isnt fun, but what acn you do when youre the most wanted person in the nation?