“Mind Set”

Mind set   

upon happiness   

delighting in summer rain   

a quiet day   

or numbers adding up   

a gooey piece of cheese pizza   

soothing wine   

or a crazy dance of joy   

or following a rainbow   

Mind set   

upon contentment   

a long, lazy nap   

a canopy of green leaves   

or a perfect rose   

starlit nights of lovemaking   

or a song carried on the wind   

the passion of our love   

or a single, simple promise   

Mind set   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Taboo"

           Movement catches his attention as he passes her door. He pauses, peering through the narrow crack. She stands facing her dresser, her head bent as she searches her drawer, and her blonde hair a curtain protecting her face from his scrutiny. His eyes fixate on her private dressing. His pulse kicks up its pace as he finally steps back in embarrassment. He creeps soundlessly down the hallway to his own room.

           Weeks later, she stands at the pool’s edge, dipping her toe into the water to test its coolness against the fever of summer. Swiftly, she pulls her tight t-shirt over her head, slips out of her denim shorts, and then tosses her underclothes carelessly into the messy pile. Her dark tan, which covers every inch of her lithe body, proves her worship of the sun. She dives smoothly into the coolness, surfacing midway in the pool, her long hair drifting in golden tendrils around her shoulders. She tilts backward, trusting the water to hold her afloat.

           Upstairs, he watches her peaceful moonlit swim for only a moment. Then, before the rules of society bind him in place, he dashes down the stairs, shedding his clothing in haste. He hits the back door at a full run, bare feet pounding on grass and patio. Airborne for only a second, his muscles constrict in anticipation.

           Startled by the splash, she whips her legs downward, treading water as she spins to locate her predator. His hands snag her right leg, and he tugs her under, using the cover of play to skim his hands over her thighs and whisper them across her breasts. She surfaces, exploding with irritation at his surprise attack, pleased that she lured him into the pool. She bats his hands away, squawking in mock indignation as they play their childhood game in adult bodies, the undercurrents hot with each brush of skin.

           Feeling powerful and cruel, she slips out of his reach and swims to the ladder. She pulls herself up, pausing for effect with her head thrown back, neck kissed by moonlight. His scalding gaze burns her skin, and suddenly shame flames her cheeks. She gathers her clothing clumsily, clutching the t-shirt and shorts tightly to her chest as she quickly runs to the back door. She flies up the stairs, mortified by this sibling skinny dipping. With resolution, she slams and locks her bedroom door, thwarting all temptation.

from Swimming Pool Series by Dmitriy Kedrin

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

The challenge for the writer, to create reality from imagination, means taking on different themes and pushing beyond personal experiences. I challenged myself to do daily blog entries and often rely upon my own life for inspiration. Sometimes, though, I want to sharpen my skills by heading in a different direction.

"In the Box"

           The two towheads leaned over the drawing, smiling broadly at their cartoon creation. The magical hero bore a resemblance to the boy with his broad toothy smile and spiked halo of hair. The champion’s steed, a winged Pegasus, carried the graceful lines of the girl’s art. The background art, a collage of trees, blossoms and lopsided huts, represented the best efforts of the pair. So similar their styles that even they couldn’t discern whose hand sketched which object.

           “I’m gonna draw when I grow up,” the girl declared with certainty as she colored a petal.

           “No. You can’t. You gotta be a mommy,” the boy challenged as he knocked her hand way.

           “Don’t!” she screamed, anger and frustration painted her face with red splotches.

           He wrestled her crayon from her tight fist, broke it smartly into two chunks, and threw the pieces hotly onto the floor, “You’re going to be nothin’ cuz you’re a gir—el!” he proclaimed in superiority.

           She punched his smug face and ran from the room, slamming the door behind her in a vain attempt to keep him from chasing her down and pounding into her.

           Golden hair fanned out from the teen’s face as she sunned in the sand. The ocean lulled her into a doze, made her slack with relaxation after a grueling final week of school. High school diploma tucked up into her closet, she relished the idea of holding still. She longed for lazy afternoons on the beach and late parties with her friends. She wanted to step away from making decisions about her future, and instead longed to enjoy every moment of “Now.”

           She saw his shadow through her closed eyes, yet she ignored his presence. Impatient for her to open her eyes, he tipped his beer onto her face.

          “You shit!” she bolted upright, wiping at her face with fingers covered in sunscreen, her eyes began to burn and tear. “Why did you do that?” Shifting on her beach towel, she dabbed the corner at her eyes, trying to clear the mix of beer and sunblock.

           “Dad says you need to go to the store to pick up steaks for dinner,” her brother sneered. “Now!” he commanded as he kicked at the sand by her feet.

           “You go,” she insisted. “I just got out here. I spent all morning finishing the wash. You’ve been on the beach all morning.”

           “Not my job, girlie-girl,” he teased. “I took a part-time job for the summer. You made the deal with Dad to take care of the house instead of getting a job. So--,” he dangled car keys in front of her smarting eyes.

           She swung her hand out, snapping up the keys before he decided to play a mean game of keep-away, reached for her t-shirt, and pulled it over her head in a swift movement while her feet slipped into her sandals. “Did Dad give you any money?” She extended her hand to receive a few bills from him.

           “Pick up more beer!” he called after her as she stomped up the beach to the car.

           “All I want this summer is time for my art,” she grumbled as she pulled the car out of its slot and yanked at the wheel to turn it onto the road. “I want to get up at dawn to do photography. I want to capture sunsets on canvas.” She pounded her fists onto the steering wheel, “I want everyone to leave me alone!” She sped down the road, her fury planting her foot on the accelerator. “But, noooooo!” she wailed. “This is the first summer Dad’s ever expected my god’s-gift brother to work. He got three summers to do whatever he wanted. But, noooooo! That’s not for me. Daddy’s little girl’s gotta either ‘earn her keep or find a new place to sleep.’” Hot tears streaked down her face; she let them fall onto her shirt front, mix with her sweat, the beer, and smudges of Coppertone.

           The white veil hid the wild look in her eyes. She ignored her mother’s incessant chatter on the beauty of the gown, on how thankful she should feel that her father paid for such a lovely dress. Her lips pursed into a straight line to hold back the panic that welled in the back of her throat, and that threatened to escape in an unending scream.

           “He’s such a lovely young man,” her mother prattled as she plucked the dress this-way-and-that, “With a wonderful job! You’ll never have to worry a single day!” Her mother stepped back to appraise her work. “Once you have a baby, you’ll settle into marriage, just like I did,” her mother glanced up at their reflection, saw the fear in her daughter’s eyes, and continued, “This is really the best future for you, darling. All that nonsense about being an artist!” she waved her hands in dismissal. “You’re father wasn’t about to support you forever, you know.”

           “Not even through art school,” resentment filled her heart, spilled out in her words. “He paid for college for both of my brothers—,”

          “And not for you, dear, because he knew you’d just end up getting married and raising a family. Just like you are!”

           “I—I can’t go through with it!” she stepped away from the mirror, searching the room for her purse and car keys. “This is a huge mistake. I don’t know how I let everyone pressure me into this. It’s insane! It’s not what I want!”

           “Now, dear,” her mother stated with harsh practicality, “It’s never exactly what we want, but it’s what is expected. You just square your shoulders, march down that aisle, and make a commitment to that fantastic fiancé of yours. All of your life, you’ve wanted to do your own thing, be your own person. You wouldn’t even color within the lines as a child! Always drawing your own little world, never staying in the box.” Her mother grabbed her by both hands, her grip surprisingly firm, “You’re a grown woman, so act like one!”

           Realization flooded through her, resignation weighed her shoulders into a slump. That special piece of her that exploded on each canvas or edged into each photograph suddenly folded into itself. Corner-by-corner, she tucked away the hope of the artist until it became a tiny speck. Her spirit, sensing no future now, walked slowly into the box.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Pearls of Wisdom”

         Georgia impatiently paced across the parlor, pausing at the window to pull back the white lace panel. Anticipation sparked in her green eyes and splashed color across her high cheekbones. A tendril of her brunette hair coiled on her forehead in subtle defiance. She stepped away from the pane, her fingers adjusting the pleat of her lavender gown with nervous energy. She scrutinized the room for the hundredth time, seeking perfection in every detail. Carefully, she lifted a vase of fresh flowers from the center of a table and moved it to a sideboard. Her jewelry box rested on the table alone, showing off its delicate work. She wanted to impress her younger sisters with the treasures her husband showered upon her. She wanted them to envy her for her position as Bruce’s wife.

         At the sound of the bell, Georgia skipped to the settee and arranged her skirt to show off the sheen of the expensive silk. Her lips parted in a genuine smile as she listened to Gwyn’s soft voice ask the butler a question, as she recognized May’s deeper throaty laugh.

         “Georgia!” her sisters chimed in unison as the butler opened the door. In a whirl of cream and rose satin, they swept into the room and hauled Georgia off of the couch, ruining her carefully planned pose by hugging her tightly into their arms.

         “You look so lovely!”

         “Your house is beautiful!”

         “And lavender! Georgia, it’s such a perfect color for you!”

         Unexpected tears smarted Georgia eyes and spilled down her cheeks as she returned her sisters’ enthusiastic embrace.  “Oh, May and Gwyn, I’m so glad you’ve finally come!” She swiped at her tears and looked at her wet fingertips with bemusement. “I don’t know why I’m crying,” she began.

         “Oh, you’re just happy to see us!” May exclaimed. “We’ve missed you so much, too. I don’t know why Mother and Father resisted allowing us to visit you in London.”

         “But you are here—now!” Georgia kissed May’s cheek with affection. “Perhaps they will let you visit more.”

         Gwyn smiled as she sat in a chair, “I believe they didn’t want us annoying Bruce. Honestly, they only agreed to our visit here because you said you were lonely.”

         “Bruce spends most of his time in our London house,” Georgia admitted. “Why don’t I take you to your rooms, and then we can have tea and spend the entire evening catching up?” 

            Georgia worried her lower lip, a remnant of her annoying childhood habit. She straightened the shoulders on her gown one more time as she waited for her sisters to return. A trolley with her finest silver service sat near the loveseat. Cook’s renowned cakes and biscuits sat in decadent temptation. She knew Gwyn wouldn’t resist the sweet treats. She knew May couldn’t refuse accompanying their tea with tidbits of gossip. She wagered with herself that May wouldn’t make it through her first dessert before revealing Bruce’s indiscretions to her older sister.

            With determination, Georgia decided she would open the topic of her husband’s infidelities first. After all, she invited her sisters to her home for two reasons. She wanted to assure her family that she accepted all aspects of her marriage to her older husband. She also needed to know that they would stand by her decision to live with Bruce’s “short-comings.”

            When May and Gwyn appeared in the doorway, Georgia felt relief. As embarrassing as this conversation would prove, at least she would finally have someone to whom she could confide her feelings.

            “May, would you mind pouring?” Georgia moved to a nearby chair. “I want to talk to the two of you. It’s the reason I invited you here.” She paused while May filled the cups. “Mother and Father know, of course, what I’m going to tell you. I wrote them last month.” She sipped the hot tea, buying herself a moment for composure. Then she continued, “I have learned that Bruce engages in affairs with other people.”

            May’s hand fluttered a little, splashing tea onto the saucer she held. Gwyn’s cheeks flamed red as she inhaled deeply, and then held her breath. Neither of her sisters spoke.

            Georgia cocked her head, and narrowing her eyes, asked, “You know? Did Mother tell you?”

            “No,” Gwyn began cautiously, “No one’s told us anything. It’s—,” she shot a desperate look at May. “Well, Bruce did something . . . inappropriate . . .” she floundered to a stop.

            “To you?” Georgia gasped.

            “To both of us,” May carefully set her cup and saucer upon the table. “Remember how I kept trying to talk you out of this marriage?”

            Georgia’s face paled as she leaned forward in her seat. “I thought you were just jealous because of Bruce’s wealth and social standing. I was so hurt.” Her hand rested over her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

            “I tried, but you got so upset. And you insisted that Bruce was absolutely perfect for you.” May faltered. “I didn’t have the heart to tell you.” She looked down to find her hands nervously clenching the fabric of her dress. “I never told anyone. Then when you invited us here, I didn’t even want to come because I feared seeing your husband again.”

            “And I kept bothering her until she told me why,” Gwyn continued. “When she told me, well—he’d done something similar to me. I was so ashamed.” Gwyn’s voice shook. “Oh, Georgia, you cannot stay married to this man!”

Wladyslaw Czachorski's The Little Treasure Chest

            “Yes, I can.” Georgia stood and walked to her jewelry box. “I made a promise, and my vow must be kept.” She sat in a chair by the table, leaning forward to open the box. “Come, look.” She opened to container and began pulling out the pieces her husband gifted to her, probably after each of his escapades. “Come look,” she repeated, “at what a man believes clears his conscience.”

            With her sisters seated at the table, she pulled out a diamond and ruby broach, a glittering flower. She fingered a delicately woven gold chain and toyed with a bracelet of emeralds. “Bruce believes these lovely pieces will buy my submission and my silence.”

            She carefully withdrew a strand of pearls. Their smooth perfection cooled her flushed skin. “My husband brought me these pearls last week,” she draped them over her extended arm. “They have a particularly beautiful luster, don’t you think.” Gwyn leaned against the back of Georgia’s chair to get a closer look as May shifted forward in her seat. A small smile tugged at Georgia’s lips as she tilted her head to appreciate the glow of the pearls against her skin.

            Sighing deeply, she gazed at her prizes. “With all of these other gifts, I didn’t know the truth about Bruce. I didn’t know the guilt he disguised. But these pearls,” she raised the strand and looked first at May and then at Gwyn, “These are pearls of wisdom.”

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Some Chores”

 

         You know them. The chores you must do, but hate to do, so you avoid them until—well, until something goes wrong. Then your evasive maneuvers avalanche into a major problem.

         I could list at least ten household chores I abhor, but recently cleaning the refrigerator climbed onto the top of my list. Usually, I do a “sniff-n-toss” round every Sunday. You know, where I tentatively open every Rubbermaid container, give it a cautious sniff, and toss it if there’s even a hint of spoilage. I do a good job of remembering when I served something and can judge the exact moment when something must meet the garbage disposal. I don’t consider this weekly ritual really cleaning the fridge, though.

         Cleaning the fridge involves taking out every single item from every self and bin, and then scrubbing down the interior. I check for expirations dates, throw out anything that’s resided too long, and reorganize everything into better categories. Currently, I have hot peppers, pickles, relish, and jellies standing next to each other one door cubby. I don’t know why, but it works for me.

         Cleaning the fridge includes emptying the freezer compartment. This task daunts me, so I drag my feet when it comes to doing this. Off-and-on for years, our freezer insists upon dumping water onto the floor. This is the first signal that there’s a clog. If I ignore this warning, the water begins to pool back in the freezer where it becomes a plate of ice, adhering the basket in my freezer to the bottom. Usually, my Type A personality jumps onto this aberration immediately, and I defrost the ice. The cascade of events over the last few months forced me to look the other way, and the thin sheet of ice grew daily until the entire basket filled with ice. Our freezer looked like we’d had a block of ice delivered!

         Last night, armed with heat gun and a pile of towels, David tackled the task of melting our giant ice cube. He added a screw driver to his arsenal and eventually pried the basket from the freezer. While I cleared the basket wires of ice, he cleaned every tube and plug he could find. He muscled the fridge away from the wall and attacked the dusty backside with the vacuum, a chore I’ve neglected for doing for, well—months.

         Now our Admiral sits neatly organized and gleaming inside and out. I tell myself that I’ll keep “on top” of this chore and won’t neglect it again. I promise myself that if I notice a little ice forming on that bottom basked, I’ll flush out the tube and clear out the clog. Yep. That’s my plan.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman