Your Face Will Freeze That Way (Penny Rader)

I took this picture two summers ago when I was visiting my baby sister, Anna, in Colorado. She was participating in The Children's Hospital Courage Classic bike ride in memory of my granddaughter, Lexi. The Children's Hospital Courage Classic invades Copper Mountain and Leadville for three days, along 157 miles of mountain routes. We stayed in a cozy little house in Frisco. On our way back to Aurora we visited a few towns. I think I took this pic in Dillon, CO.

Did anyone ever tell you that if you crossed your eyes your face would freeze that way?

Yeah? Me too. Only my face is frozen this way because I fell in love with Carlotta. It wasn’t her fault though. It was her grandmother. Her grandmother wanted to marry my grandfather, but he chose another. She never forgave him.

One year ago tomorrow, after Carlotta told her family we were going to marry, her grandmother lured me out to their yard. I thought she was going to give us her blessing. Instead, she cast a spell on me and turned me into a tree. And, well, you can see the expression that froze on my face.

Carlotta doesn’t even know I’m me. I mean she sees me as a tree, but she thinks me, the person, Marcus, abandoned her. She sits beside me nearly every day. Sometimes she cries. Other times she leans against me, her silent grief almost more than I can bear. I watch over her the best I can, shielding her from the sun, the rain, the snow. I bend with the wind to keep her safe, to offer comfort. If only I could wrap myself around her and give her a hug.

Every time she weeps I sprout more leaves. Maybe if she wrapped her arms around me and kissed me…yeah, I know that’s fairy tale stuff.

I don’t know how to break the spell. Several months ago Carlotta’s grandmother had a stroke. She’s stuck in bed, all withered and mute, staring into space. Guess you could say her face is frozen, too.

What goes around comes around.

It's Not The Size That Matters

It’s Not The Size That Matters


Ariana had come to Florence, Italy for a breather, for a break from the frustrating reality of her life. She’d been here over a week and far too soon she would return to Kansas. Her heart was heavy with the depression of having to go home and face the lonely apartment she’d recently moved into, of surviving for another year at her secretarial job until her next vacation, and of forcing smiles for all of her happily married friends. Only nine months ago she’d thought she’d been happily married. Until Super Jerk, a.k.a. Jacob Whittaker, had found a barely twenty-something club singer who “rocked his world”…or so he’d eloquently put it one morning at breakfast as he told her he was filing for divorce.

She tugged the strap of her shoulder bag higher and stepped off the double-decker tour bus at Michaelangelo’s Piazza. Sucking in a breath of the early morning cool air, she glanced around before deciding which way to go. She’d been here several times before. The view overlooking Florence from here was breathtaking. Her gaze landed on the statue of David and his amazing taut butt. Yes, it had a slight green tinge to it, but so what. That butt, okay all of him, was pretty darn impressive. There was nothing like a well-put-together man, in her biased opinion.

Super Jerk did not qualify for that status. Maybe years ago he had. But an extra fifty pounds and thinning hair had turned him from a semi-hunk to yet another so-so man. Still, she would have held to that whole “until death do us part” thing if…

“Are you all right, signorina?”

She blinked in surprise at the deep, curl-her-toes-sexy male voice. She glanced at the man who had walked up beside her. Oh. My. God! Every one of her dreams of the perfect Italian man had come to life! Here stood six-foot-plus of tanned, toned, perfectly sculpted male. Thick, raven-colored hair brushed the collar of a cream button-down shirt with the top three buttons deliciously undone to tease her with a light sprinkling of dark hair and the promise of pecs that would make most women drool. And chocolate brown eyes surrounded by long black eyelashes that made her sick with envy watched her carefully.

He touched her arm in concern. “Signorina?”

Ariana felt her face heating. She’d been savoring every luscious inch of him; at least she hadn’t actually drooled. Had she? She reached up to casually wipe at the corners of her mouth. No, not drooling. She breathed a small sigh of relief and gave the Italian God a smile.

“I’m fine, thank you.” He hadn’t moved his fingers away from her arm and tingles of awareness moved steadily from that spot to her heart, which began that foolish-woman kind of racing. “Every time I come up here, I’m overwhelmed by the beauty of the view.”

She smiled again and he gave her one in return, a smile that lifted one corner of his mouth and revealed a dimple. Her fingers ached to reach up and stroke the side of his lightly beard-stubbled face, to whisper the pad of her thumb over his full lips. Get a grip! Yes, he’s beyond gorgeous. Yes, you’ve never come within ten feet of such a tempting stud, and probably never will again. But really, get a grip!

“There’s a little coffee shop across the street with an amazing view,” he said, nodding the other way. His gaze captured hers and his eyes heated. “Would you like to get a cup of coffee with me?”

She hesitated, all her mother’s long ago warnings rolling through her thoughts. “Don’t go off with strange men.” “Don’t give away your virginity or your heart too easily.” There were more warnings tumbling around, but she pushed them back into that special spot in her brain for those “not now” thoughts. Her virginity was a thing of the past and Super Jerk had trampled all over her heart already. Besides, they were only going across the road for coffee.

“Mia bella signorina? I only wish your company for a short while.” He stroked a finger lightly over the bare skin of her forearm and she shivered. Clearly noticing his effect on her, his smile grew, reaching his warm eyes. “Unless you’d allow me the pleasure of showing my city to you instead. I have a car just down the road.”

“I’m not sure.” She stopped to worry her lower lip. She wanted to go with him. Seeing the city on a tour bus with a couple of dozen other tourists was okay, but seeing Florence with a strikingly handsome native… Option A, boring. Option B, daring but with potential.

He reached up to cup her face and her heart nearly pounded its way out of her chest. “I will not hurt you, mia bella. Although I can see from the pain haunting your eyes that someone else has. Whoever the man was, he was a fool.”

She made a spur of the moment decision, took a leap of faith, and every other clichéd action that allowed her to take a chance on him. Option B it was. She looked him boldly in the eye. “You’re right, he was a fool. And, yes, I’d love to see the city with you.”

The smile he gifted her with touched all the wounded parts of her soul. If they only had today together, it would be enough. This amazing man was taking time out of his life to make her feel special and it had been far too long since anyone had done that.

Taking her hand, he led her down the sidewalk toward a spot where a pair of sleek black sports cars were parked next to a silver Alpha Romeo and a tiny red car with three wheels. The little car was so cute. She giggled in delight.

They walked past the three sporty vehicles and right to the red one. She gaped at him, shocked. “Really?”

That sexy smile of his turned up several notches. He went around to open the passenger door. “Really, mia bella signorgina. There are times when I like to have a bit of fun. This car gives me that.”

Ariana eased down onto the seat. There was only room for two people, but being inside the small car made her giggle again. It really was a fun little thing. “Size really doesn’t matter, does it?” she said quietly.

He slid into the driver’s seat, looking at her with eyes gone dark with desire. A hint of amusement etched his face. “Don’t worry, mia bella. Should we decide to end our day together with more than sightseeing and a glass of wine, you will not be disappointed.”

“Hmmm, let me think about that.” And, oh my, she was thinking about it.

He leaned over to buckle her seatbelt and brushed a gentle kiss over her lips before moving away. “I ask no more than that you spend the day with me.”

Her heart raced with more excitement than she’d felt in days, months really. “So, just how fast can this baby go?”

He laughed and the sound of it was so sensual, so filled with true joy that she was pretty sure how the night would end. If not in real life, at least in her dreams. Daring woman that she’d suddenly become, she was pulling for that “in real life” thing.

The Garden Bench Joan Vincent

What follows is a short story I wrote after I looked at the photo to the right for a few moments. How this “world building” happens is unclear to me. I started typing with a physical visualization and the story veered off onto its own track. This is called writing "by the seat of your pants." It's like someone else is telling your fingers what to key. I've had this happen often with a really stubborn character intent on taking a story a different direction than I may have outlines. If I try to go "my" way words just won't come. When I go his or her way, it's like someone is dictating. Strange even weird at times.
Think a moment or two before you read my story. What story did you think of?

The Garden Bench

There was a chill in the air despite the brilliant sunshine. Brilliant sunshine that should have brightened the heart of the slim young woman hurrying down the garden path. Her posture bespoke quite the opposite. Hunched shoulders, lowered head, and an occasional swipe at her cheeks told of an unbearable weight.

Halting in the middle of the stone-paved path, Allison Worley blinked back tears. She took her bearings. Saw to her right the neatly trimmed privet hedge that bordered two sides of the garden. The neatly laid geometric beds framed by it were alight with the different colors of spring blooms. Red tulips blazed here, golden daffodils glowed there. Her gaze went automatically to the more serene colors and halted on the toss up of blue hyacinths and pink tulips.

The blues and pinks jumbled as if tossed by a careless hand. They probably had been tossed but there was not a careless notion in any part of its design. If one looked carefully and adjusted for one or two tulips out of line, Allison saw a capital A on the larger corner. Framing three corners of the pale blue trellis was an “L.” A half sob escaped and Allison bolted for the garden seat angled within the sides of the trellis on the paving stones.

Sinking onto the wrought iron bench Allison gasped for a quieting breath. She clenched her fingers on the edge of the seat. The iron was cold despite the sun. It spoke to the chill numbing her heart. “It’s wrong that the iron is cold,” was all Allison could think. “It glowed red gold and white with heat when Davin forged the pieces of this bench. It should be warm still with the love he used to create it.”

But it’s cold. Cold as his body, Reason twitted.

“No. No,” Allison repeated dumbly. She twisted about on the bench and desperately drank in the blues and pinks of the blooms, the greens of stems, leaves, grass and hedge. They shouted “Life!” and with heart, mind, and soul, Allison echoed them. “Life! We were to have a long long life together. We were to see these flowers, this trellis, the hedge year after year. No,” she whispered as the flare of energy drained from her. “I won’t believe it. Never, Davin. Never.”

Allison closed her eyes. She made her mind’s eye dart from the sight of those two military officers on her door step two weeks ago; from the dreadful news they brought of Davin’s death in Afghanistan. She fled to the memory of Davin’s arms about her as they sat on this bench. He had promised that pink tulips would spell an A and L if only she looked carefully. Allison had hugged him fiercely after Davin explained their pink color would bespeak of his gratitude and appreciation for her love and as a pledge of his.

“Davin,” Allison cried, eyes still tightly squeezed shut, as she clung to her belief that he still lived. They had refused to tell her what had happened; told her it was better she remember her husband as she’s last seen him, not as the IED had left him and his fellow soldiers. She shuddered at the scenes that filled her nightmares. How could it be better not to know?

“Allie,” a voice croaked softly. “Allie?”

Blinking back tears Allison braced herself to present a braver face for Davin’s father. She owed Davin that much. Both hands to her cheeks, she brushed back tears and forced her eyes open. The figure before her blurred in her tears’ sheen. Allison growled angrily at the mirage and knuckled her eyes fiercely. “Please go inside, Dad,” she said with iron willed resolve not to upset this dear man anymore than he was. “I’ll come inside in a moment. Why don’t you set the kettle on?”

“Give me a smile and I’ll go do that,” the familiar voice urged.

If only Dad didn’t sound so much like Davin. I’ve got to get past that . . . and so much else. With a last swipe of her eyes Allison said, “I’ll come with you, Dad. We’ll have a cup together.” She stood and took a step forward and then froze in place.

“I’ve aged,” Davin croaked, “and am a tad worse for wear but really, Alli—”

“Dear God,” Allison gasped, her eyes wide, searching. A thick bandage covered half of his face and another his throat, his left arm was in a cast but it was Davin. Eyes overflowing with tears and heart flooded with gratitude, Allison gently took him into her arms and laid her head on his chest. Explanations could wait. She didn’t care what they were. The assuring steady thump beat of his heart brought a huge lump to her throat. Acknowledging her miracle Allison said a silent prayer for the woman whose man would not return.