The exercise:
Your prompt on this stormy Wednesday night in Vancouver is: the escape artist.
Kat and I are escaping the city this weekend for one last visit to Osoyoos before we make the official move. We'll be hauling some stuff with us that we won't need between now and then, mostly books and winter clothes.
I'll schedule the next few days posts but I might not get them all done before we have to go. Hopefully I'll have net access while I'm away but if I miss a day or two, know that they'll be up when we get back on Monday.
Here's one more picture of Vancouver before I return with more Osoyoos pictures:
Mine:
My hands are tied behind my back, having been secured by a bearded man who smelled strongly of the sea. The blindfold sits snugly around my head, ensconcing me in a darkness deeper than midnight in the countryside. I can feel the eyes of the crowd studying my every move, seeking out the secret to this escape, every one of them wanting to be the one to point it out.
A gust of wind takes me by surprise and sends me teetering to the left, the crowd gasping in appropriate horror, but I manage to maintain my perch atop the telephone poll. It's all good, I've got this.
But then a crow lands on my left shoulder and his buddy lands on my hand. They hold a brief, raucous discussion over the matter at hand before the first one decides to take a lower perch and I can't help but wish that I hadn't agreed to do this trick naked.
Better late than never, right?
ReplyDeleteThat morning she had let a change of clothes in the trunk of the car, had thrown a bag of diapers in the recycling bin outside, and had quietly made a phone call from the laundry room. She whispered into the phone that she needed to be picked up in the middle of the night. She was certain it would be her only way out. These were the thoughts racing through her mind as she diced the tomatoes for the spaghetti dinner expected on the table in half an hour sharp.
She was afraid he would see her hand shake. Her baby was sleeping in the crib just down the hall. Focusing on the sound of his steady breathing, she finished making the sauce and preparing dinner. She knew he would be up soon and everything needed to be on the table before that moment. He, her husband, would be home soon. He deemed it unacceptable not to welcome the man home properly.
A spotless house, the smell of dinner and dessert, and a wife happy to meet his every whim anywhere and in every way was the only way he believed she was being faithful to him. Not doing so or doing so without a smile was disastrous. It was painful and He became reckless, endangering her life..... and last night, the life of her child.
The child's needs must always come last. The child. He never referred to their son as his, even though he undoubtedly was his. She was afraid to make eye contact with the cashier or speak to the police officer who greeted her as she walked home. What opportunity was there to find a lover? So she lay claim and took all responsibility for this child. Her baby. He just had to cry out in the middle of the night.
Her babe would. Her little boy was only two months old. "A good mother would nurse her child," He had instructed her. But, she should be discreet. Therefore, she was expected to nurse her son only in his room with the curtains shut. She would go to her little boy when he cried out, give him some of the Benedryl carefully hidden in the seem of his teddy bear, and then nurse him to sleep. She would gingerly carry him out of the house. If asked where she was going, she would dutifully report the child had a dirty diaper that needed to go out and sheets that needed laundered. "Soiled diapers have no place in the home," He had insisted. She would be dismissed. He would go back to sleep.
They, she and her babe, would walk out the front door, open the lid to retrieve the diapers, pop the trunk for some clothing, and step into the waiting van. He would be left abandoned. She would provide her child a life free of worry and keep other women from being victimized by a child raised to be a monster if left in His clutches. They, together, would escape.
I'm late too! It's a good job Marc's away in the orchard, farming instead of writing for a few days.
ReplyDeleteThe escape artist
He tied ropes that looked convincingly tight,
Around arms that were clearly bent
Back, painfully, pulled behind his pigeon chest.
His ribs stood out like a xylophone,
And Hecate lead the Gods in laughter.
Two minutes later and the cask was empty,
Dionysus frowned and muttered something
About making him pay for the loss for of the wine.
Vulcan growled and muttered that the chains
That they'd bound around his ankles
Were expensive.
And the escape artist, already a mile away,
Accelerating across the horizon with his loot,
Had forgotten that the Gods prefer that
Their revenge is served up cold.
Heather - better late than never is like my life philosophy :P
ReplyDeleteI'm so glad that didn't end with Him catching on and stopping them from leaving!
Greg - that xylophone line is fantastic.