Story: "Promises"

Promises (3rd/4th version)

My arm is beginning to hurt from holding this phone up to my ear for—going on 45 minutes now. There should be a company that employs people to listen to other people’s problems and give the obligatory mmhmms and I’m sorrys that are usually delivered from the bored friend on the other end of the line. I’m playing the game of matching his tone in my one-word remarks so he’ll still believe I’m listening, even though I’m really putting together an online jigsaw puzzle of a dog lying in a hammock. He’s starting to catch on to me. The only hope for pulling me back into the conversation is to ask if I want some gossip on an old high school friend. Of course I do. He took a line of coke off of a stripper’s boob when he went to Vegas for his birthday? Eh, I’ve heard better.
It’s not that I don’t care about Joe’s friend Natalie getting fired from her job today because her asshole boss was doing his job wrong; I’m outraged for Natalie. I just wish there was a way to cue the orchestra on Joe’s end of the line and usher the rambling guy offstage. Does that make me a bad person? We still call each other because we’ve been friends for years, and that is what you do with someone you’ve known since the tenth grade. I suppose we do rely on each other for the hard stuff. I call him every so often when I need help with Mark. Girl friends are no good for that sort of thing, they’ll always tell you what they think you want to hear. Women are rarely honest about the complications of relationships. I think half of my friends are living in a dream world, complete with their own Prince Charming who in a few years will probably reveal himself to be the old frog, and she won’t be able to kiss her way out of that one. No, Joe really is the only one who gives it to me straight, even if it means winding through endless tangents to get there.
I had gone into the kitchen when he called. A call from Joe sentenced me to at least one hour of conversation, and Mark hated it when someone talked during a movie. I hung up the phone and on my way out of the kitchen brushed the edge of the refrigerator with my shoulder, knocking a picture to the floor. I picked up the four by six-inch photo of Mark and me from last Christmas. My sister had taken it from across the room when we weren’t looking at the camera. My eyes were closed and Mark had his hand in my curled blonde hair, kissing my forehead. It was our favorite picture. When I got back into the living room Mark patted his hand on the couch, where I promptly sat down and swung my legs over his. This was our spot. I’d prop a pillow between my back and the armrest, and Mark would lay his arms around my legs. If I got lucky sometimes he’d give me a foot rub. If I got really lucky his hands would slide north of my knees and he’d give me the “I’m in the mood” eyes. Since we’d both seen the movie countless times, and Ferris Bueller was already sprinting home to the final scene, I was disappointed to feel his palm on the arch of my foot.
“How’s Joe doing in D.C.?” Mark asked as he started to knead my right heel.
“Oh same as always. Loves his job, hates the bureaucratic assholes, some girl is jerking him around again,” I said. He nodded and rolled his eyes but didn’t ask any more questions. I had started to scratch my head behind the temples, which he knew meant that I was drained. I was amazed when Mark had been able to pick up on my mood cues after our first few dates. He quickly knew that picking at the fingernails meant bored, playing with the earrings meant nervous, and the very rare squint of the left eye meant he needed to apologize, now.
The movie ended but neither one of us left the couch. We had turned this room into our nesting spot since we’d moved in together a year ago. Everything in it reminded me of us. The dark red walls had taken us two days and five coats of paint to complete, at which point our backs and arms hurt so badly we spent an hour side by side on the floor staring at them, laughing. The debate over keeping the hard wood floors or getting carpet had resulted in a large, cream-colored area rug picked to suit both our tastes. The matching chocolate brown sofa and oversized ottoman had been a remarkable sale find, but cost double after discovering that its only way into the 2nd floor apartment was through the balcony doors. There was a framed picture of our favorite park in Savannah, Georgia, which I later found out conveniently covered the hole left by Mark’s wayward hammer. But the candles in the fireplace had been my surprise for him after work one night. By morning, wax had pooled around the bases of the tall, crimson candles and was still there as a reminder of the night exactly four years after our first date. This room, dimly lit by a small floor lamp in the corner, was most comfortable on nights like these when we had nothing to do but spend time with each other. As we sat listening to the credit music Mark began rubbing his thumb in circles on my knee. I saw his lips move a little, and then nod as if he’d made up his mind about something. I knew what was coming.
“You know it’s Sunday, right?” he asked me too matter-of-factly.
“You’re right, it is Sunday,” I said. “It’s the day that comes immediately after Saturday. And it’s also the one that comes right before Monday. What’s your point, Mark?”
“You know exactly my point, Kate. I’m going to ask it. Just like I’m going to ask it next Sunday. And the Sunday after that.”
“Why don’t you just ask me four times now, and we’ll knock out the whole month of September?” I knew that he wouldn’t like that idea. How could he possibly enjoy this? I started to pull my legs back but he held on to my left ankle. I was afraid to look at him, I knew his dark brown eyes would look straight at my blue ones and the twinge of guilt in my stomach would become shards of glass.
“Kate, will you marry me?” he asked. . . .
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To see what happens to Mark and Kate please email me at sara.theurer@gmail.com. I will send you the full story that way so as to save space on this page!

First Poetry Cont.

Fall Colors

When the leaves begin to change

And put on a new hue

They go out with some style.

In a blaze of glory

They redden the landscape.

The world inside looks out

And sees the Fall palette

Punctuated by bright oranges and yellows.

Some are unwilling to give in to change

Rebel against the new fashion.

Slowly try the mix and match approach

Hesitate at the halfway point

Till eventually they succumb

And embrace the trend before it’s over.

Before they know it,

The monochromed world of winter

Will arrive from the north

Bringing with it clean blankets and shawls

To cover the remnants

Of last season’s fad.

Tanguero

Seduction

A confident tango

Slow and deliberate

Toes dragging

Eyes locked

Close slowly to savor

Skin touches, the softest brush

Hands glide lightly over

Infused skin

Fingertips caress

A bare, extended neck

Sends trembles

Cheeks flushed

Lips red and parted

Hot breath on

Yearning limbs

A taste of skin

The crescendo swells

As violins moan

Notes are strained

Climax then

The dance is done

Samples of My First Poetry

voracious

parasitic ooze envelops

something dead and defenseless,

slowly filling lungs,

calcifying in the ears, nose.

the tomb locks limbs,

arrests movement and expression.

solid.

the insatiable ore devours then desires

more. more but is patient.

satisfied for now.

over time calculates.

after the last digit is consumed

it reaches out

into darkness it searches,

grows hungry teeth

every direction

desiring more

to taste.

Epic on a Waterspout

It was a cold, dreary day.

The clouds hung low in the sky

Heavy and dark with precipitation.

A tiny, lone arachnid made her way home.

As she began her climb up the cold metal pipe

A single bead of water flew past her.

Multiple lenses flashed toward the ground,

Watched as more and more drops pounded the cement.

With a strobe of lightening the sky let loose.

A torrent of rain showered down on the petite heroin

As she was pulled down with the mini monsoon.

She saw the whole 12 days of her life flash before her 8 eyes.

With a splash she found herself in an inch deep lake,

Barely able to stay afloat.

She made her way to the safety of an old tin can.

In time the rain subsided,

And the intrepid little bug made her way back

To the lofty column.

As the sun reemerged and evaporated the residual liquid

The diminutive creepy-crawly begrudgingly resumed her trip

Up the pipe, home to most likely watch her Soaps.

Harvest

They are collected once a year,

The victims of ritual sacrifice.

They are poked, stabbed and gutted.

Ripped apart from the inside,

Their innards splattered thoughtlessly-

Mutilated, violated.

Pieces cut away,

Often devoured.

Transformed into empty lifeless faces,

Menacing, sneering.

Eyes burning in fixed stares.

Fiery, but without passion.

They can never be changed back.

Altered forever, until death,

A slow, rotting, decomposing end.

Shriveling flesh caves in

As a molding, putrid stench

Offends the noses of their captors.

No sympathy, no memory,

They are discarded, forgotten.

The fate of their every generation.