I belong to a writing group set up by an awesome librarian and friend of mine by the name of Holly. She runs the library on the Vogelweh base and back in February she asked me to join. It's called the Writer's Emporium and I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from the experience but was very happy I chose to attend the first meeting. I was newly published and very excited to go and talk about my new book and share with the group the things I'd learned from self publishing.
We decided that our first writing assignment would be about the month of March. A lot of things happen for me in March...it's kind of a big month for me, but I chose to take a fanciful path with this prompt. I thought I'd share it here. Hooray for spring! I'd love to hear your comments. Please leave one for me if you're so inclined.
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The young
woman’s arm, outstretched and hanging over the shining metal of the car in
which she rode bucked gently in the wind, her fingers pressed together in a
mock salute and her hand riding the air currents rushing past the open window. Clouds
were forming in the sky looking like swollen dirty cotton balls as they rolled
in and began spitting cold rain that dotted the pale protruding limb. The only
color she could see was the shiny, bright, neon pink polish she’d picked up on
sale a few days ago at the mall that covered her short oval nails like
enthusiastic little flags moving in the chilly wind. March comes in like a lion
so the old saying goes, and that was the truth of it. What used to be the first
month of the year many years ago in Rome was arriving quickly on the coat
tails of winter, full of boisterous bluster much like the growling and
grumbling in the back of a big cat’s throat.
Brown eyes raised upward and squinted
against the oncoming rain to watch the clouds that now looked like thick plumes
of smoke rising from the ruins of a city demolished in heated dusty battle.
From within the amorphous swirls of darkening silver and gray, the girl almost
believed she could see the figure of a man, tall and broad shouldered carrying
a spear in one meaty fist, the weapon wrapped in a thick vine of laurel. Mars,
the Roman god of war looked to be treading upon an unstable ground of moving
gray with a pair of large bare feet and hairy unclothed legs beneath a skirt
that looked surprisingly masculine while motioning time itself to move forward
with a wave of his powerful arm. The thirty-one days of this unpredictable
month boasted the name of this esteemed mythological deity who was said to have
used his military power to secure peace, and each minute ticked by like an
attentive and patient soldier in his army as the rain continued to fall and
slowly obliterate from view the swirling clouds that moved above the speeding
car.
With a turn of the head and a pair of
raised eyebrows from the front passenger seat the girl acquiesced to the
silent maternal request, first tossing a temperamental roll of her eyes before
moving her wet arm into the warmth of the vehicle as the window whirred
silently upward and locked itself into the frame. Almost instantly the glass
was covered in a countless array of dots of cool rain, each one a round wet orb
that splintered and multiplied her view of the outside world. If there had been
a question of the god of war’s existence just moments before it was all but
obliterated now as the sleek lines of the car moved quickly above wet pavement,
throwing up a pair of plumes the color of ice behind the rear tires. The clouds
above continued to move and churn as the chill in the interior of the car was
chased away by the warm air spewing from the vents in the dash board. The change
in temperature and the weather stubbornly limited her view and encouraged the
teen to relax in her seat, her blond head pressed against the soft pliable
leather as the film of limitless road and soft-edged scenery rushed past in a
watery colorless blur.
Like the rhythmic beat of the windshield
wipers that cleared the driver’s view in the front seat, the words in the ten
syllable pattern of Shakespeare’s iambic pentameter telling the tale of Julius
Ceasar marched silently into her memory. She thought of her English class situated teasingly before the forty minutes of freedom that was lunch period
and the steady, not completely unpleasant drone of her teacher’s voice as he
recited the dying words of the Roman dictator uttered while he is being
brutally murdered by a pack of conspirators at the Senate. “Et tu, Brute?” the
dying man whispers as he falls dead upon the ground on the ill-fated day now
remembered as the Ides of March. As the girl slowly drifts to sleep, a
thoughtful smile plays along the line of her lips. A soothsayer’s warning and a
wife’s premonition be damned. Sometimes it just doesn’t pay to be stubborn. Behind
her now closed eyes she sees a vision before her; one of many a teen girl’s
dreams in the shape of a handsome hulking vampire with a very unsexy moniker
that hardly matches the body seen beneath the Calvin Klein underwear campaign
he modelled for. The fifteenth day of March hadn’t been lucky for old Ceasar,
she thought, but that was way back in 44 BC. It was so hard to mourn the death
of someone she never even knew when more than 2,000 years later God saw fit to
bring Kellan Lutz into the world on that very same day. Her smile widened just
for a moment with the thought that the Ides of March was not entirely bad before
she allowed the thump of the wipers and the movement of the car to lull her
into the land of dreams.
It felt as though winter had shown up,
liked the surroundings and settled itself for an interminable amount of time
with its sharp claws imbedded firmly into the very fabric of the young woman’s
being. The grayness and bitter temperatures seemed more like permanent
residents instead of seasonal visitors and the twitch beneath her skin that
felt like spring time had grown into an uncontrollable itch that no amount of
scratching could diminish. She was no snow bunny and the bleak white canvas
filled with nothing but shadows of screeching, dark winged birds and tall
scraggly arms of bare trees reaching eerily up into the dense milky sky had her
inner beach bum screaming to be heard. The girl longed for March’s lions, their
eyes dark green with spots of red the color of bloodstones to stalk across the
sky on big padded paws and pull from behind their muscled backs the wide warm
banners of crisp aquamarine like bright Mardi Gras flags brightening up the sky
to usher in the first day of spring. Nothing could bring out the drama queen in
this sun worshipping girl more than winter’s never ending cold and snow, and no
doubt the Old Bard himself would have happily awarded her over enthusiastic
mental rumblings a well-deserved round of applause.
She barely heard the noise at first, so
immersed in her silent diatribe against the bleakness of the first two months
of the year that it took her mind a handful of minutes to register the tapping
somewhere near the vicinity of her right elbow. She slit one eye open and
focused on the culprit; one small and rather dirty troll strapped tightly into
a heavy duty car seat next to her. There were square shaped books with hard
unbendable pages and a cup with a supposedly spill proof lid leaking a
suspicious honey colored liquid that smelled like sweet white grapes lying
across a pair of rather chubby denim-clad legs. On the ends of those legs were
two kicking feet keeping time with the almost lyrical gibberish flowing out of
the toddler’s graham cracker encrusted mouth, and hair several shades darker
than his older sister’s stuck out at wild angles giving him the look of a very
young but energetic rock star. The girl wanted to be annoyed by the
interruption of her nap but upon resting her eyes on her baby brother’s chubby
pink tinted cheeks she found herself smiling at him instead. Okay, he wasn’t a
troll she silently conceded. A pixie, maybe, or perhaps a leprechaun. Yes, she
thought with a nod of her head, that’s what he is. He’s a leprechaun though
cuter than most she’d seen depicted in books or movies but still as short and
unruly. The stripes in his long sleeved shirt were the bright green color of
the three-leaved shamrocks that St. Patrick used to teach the Trinity to the
pagan Irish. The little imp grinned as he twisted in his chair to look at his
sister and the smile on her face widened in return. The only rainbow he was
liable to lead her to was perhaps a pilfered package of Skittles candy broken
open and spilled on the floor, or a bright array of building blocks that hurt
the tender insteps of her feet when she tried to traverse the messy landscape
of the child’s room in the dark.
She reached for the upended cup and felt
the stickiness of the juice coat the pads of her fingers. Score another point
for false advertising, she thought. The lid was definitely not spill proof but
who in the world would notice after looking at the mess her brother had become
since he’d climbed into the car seat more than an hour before?
“Be like the Irish, little man,” she
said quietly handing the cup over to him. The little sprite reached over with a
pudgy hand and took it from her exchanging the juice for a wide gap-toothed
smile. “Drink up.” When he wrapped his lips around the spout and took a pull
from it the girl laughed. With that diaper of his bowing his short little legs he walked a bit like a drunkard much like any other toddler she’d ever seen,
and without a nap he was nearly as surly and cantankerous as a few of the
drunks she’d encountered.
With a shake of her head she turned and
peered out of her window once more to find that the thick veil of clouds had
begun to part. The rain was still spitting at her window but with much less
intensity and the drone of the windshield wipers had slowed to a sluggish beat.
She had to squint to see it but she was sure that the tiny little triangle of
sky she saw behind the gray curtain was actually blue. Her eyes held fast to it
as if they were daring it to change but she remained hopeful that it wouldn’t.
It was the pale soft color of a robin’s egg nestled in a nest and the shell
grew a little bit bigger as she focused on it, the cars and highway signs a
blur in her peripheral vision.
Gradually the rain let up altogether and
what remained was a world left shiny and clean if not still a bit chilled by
the cool air. It looked reborn, almost fragile in its new state and as the
clouds loosened the threads of their fabric and the weave became looser and
looser, more of the pale blue sky was revealed. The girl silently coaxed the
sun out of its den like she would a baby bird out of its shell. “Come on out,”
she thought, the voice in her head gentle and soothing. “Come out and meet this
cold winter world that needs your heat and light.” As if it had actually been
listening to her the soft rays of sun peeked through, rays as warm and soft as
thick creamy butter burned off more of the clouds and ever so faintly there
appeared to be the smallest hint of a rainbow, the streams barely creating the
merest suggestion of pastel colors reflected in the moisture that still hung in
the air.
The car slowed and veered right off of
the highway and the quiet clicking sound of the blinker faintly filled the warm
air. Smoothly the girl’s father turned left and the scenery from the other
side of the window moved but not on high speed as before. The girl caught
glimpses of shiny rain washed windows glinting in the increasingly courageous
rays of the sun above and the bare limbs of the trees were showing small
tightly folded buds dotted along the wooden sleeves like little decorative
buttons. Dirt as dark as coal filled planters and roadside gardens, the brave
thick stalks pushing up through it the color of emeralds and sporting long
wrapped hats the shade of downy feathers on a newly hatched chick.
A smile floated across the teen’s glossy
lips once more as she peered up and watched the movement of the clouds, their
shape rounded and snowy white now and moving across the sky like a herd of lazily
grazing sheep. These were March’s lambs quietly following the thunderous noise
of the lions and she decided she liked them just fine. Yes, she liked them very
much indeed.
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