writing prompt

A September Afternoon

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I want to walk hand-in-hand in a forest with you on a late afternoon in September. We’ll wear comfortable shoes and jeans along with light jackets.

 I want to watch the wind scuttle leaves across the path and catch the sighting of deer and teenage fawns;

The golden light is prisming through the trees and the light will catch your eyes like the radiance of a halo, magical and ethereal.

I want to walk along the river in silence stopping now and again to skim a stone or savor your lips.  I want to be wrapped in your arms as the air chills on the shore–and the wind kicks up.

I want to sit with you on a sofa in a cabin, cocooned in blankets and drinking mulled cider with a sliced candied apple on a stoneware plate making our fingers sticky–Mozart’s Jupiter wafting in the air, soft and sweet, rising, falling and then soaring.

I want to wrap you with my naked body and murmur in your ear all my secret longings.

I want you.

The Puppy

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I stared at my beautiful, evil wife and realized the horror had only just begun. 

Sabrina was gorgeous, like her name, in that mid 1960s way — full-bodied, statuesque, thick glossy black hair and impossible blue eyes.  She was what the old folks called Black Irish — that mating of the Spaniards with the Irish during the Spanish Armada.   

I had been woefully unprepared for life with her, having married a scant two weeks after meeting.  I was besotted.  Another old-fashioned word, but it is the only one that will do. 

Photo by Barcs Tamás on Unsplash

Asleep, I had felt that uncomfortable sensation of being examined. I rolled over and she was glaring at me – knife in hand. 

Sabrina!  What the hell!  What are you doing? 

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Hillbilly Risotto

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Growing up, we called it hamburger and rice.  Hamburger browned in a skillet.  Uncle Ben’s Converted Rice made according to the directions on the box.  The two ingredients are mixed together and served with salt, pepper, margarine, and a squeezable plastic lemon full of concentrated juice.

My dad grew up impoverished and hamburger and rice, often without lemon, was a staple.  Once he became a private in the Marine Corps, the meal became standard end-of-the-month fare.  We continued to have it throughout my childhood and early adulthood.

When I left home, I continued to make it.  It’s a favorite.

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Unclaimed Property

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Perhaps you can imagine my surprise.  There I am sitting in the doctor’s office waiting to be called back for my annual exam.  There’s a newspaper on the coffee table and I’m flipping through it.  I haven’t held a newspaper in my hands in years.  They’re such dinosaurs now.  And I can see why.  There is nothing but wire stories that are thinly veiled advertisements for something I don’t want or need. 

Photo by Marcelo Cidrack on Unsplash

I flip the page and there’s a whole page of tiny print.  Legal ad of some sort.  I flip the page but quickly turn it back.  Was that my name? My old name? 

Sure enough.  Maureen D. Jackson and my address from ten years ago.   

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