Cass was a nightmare in white silk and pearls. Well half a nightmare. There was nothing to do but be attentive to the child as she enjoyed herself. It was all her father’s fault. He fell asleep on the couch last night watching classic horror movies. Cass came down for water at a pivotal scene as the title character walked down a street slinging mayhem about and a new idea was borne.
Unbeknownst to us parents until the moment she came down the steps she had made a few changes to the costume. Half of the lovely white dress was runny with red food dye and corn syrup – thank you so much internet for telling my child how the original movie did it, by the way. Though the movie character did not wear pearls, Cass being Cass insisted on them for her remake. The tiara was split in two and half hung tangled in her strawberry blond hair. The pearls, tiara and her hair was also spayed with the gooey mixture down half her body. It limited where we went because I could not find enough trash bags to cover the car seats enough to drive to around other neighborhoods, but she deems it worth it – so okay.
I knew it was going to be far from a breeze to get all that goop wash off, but I have to admit she did a fantastic job of it all on her own. Two mornings ago, she was all about the pretty princess: lovely white dress and a tiara and pearls. Only half of that walked the misty streets now as we stepped around the tossed eggs and toilet paper draped tress of the tricksters while we go treating. My creative daughter the very pretty Cassie on one half of her body, the very terrifying Carrie from the movie on the other.
Mindlovemisery’s Menagerie | First Line Friday: October 26th, 2018
We’re given the first line, the rest is up to us. This week’s opening line: Cass was a nightmare in white silk and pearls.
The Sunday Whirl | Wordle 375
Eggs, Breeze, Misty, Attentive, Child, Drive, Movies, Sling, Runny, Find, Corn, Spray
Use at least ten of the words in a poem, prose or story.
There is very little sound at this time of day. The slight wind brushing against the brick my building. The clicks of the changing traffic lights at the corner. The wheels of the passing car on the asphalt. I can even hear the intake of my own breath through my nose before I audibly exhale in a yawn. I look outside again.
The gabled and hip roofs of the Victorian and mini-colonial style houses across the street are all but dwarfed by the raised turrets that mark the roof of the cathedral at one corner of the long street and the flat squat roof line of the multi-storied tenement at the other. It is all but one dark shadowed mass as I peer through glass window of the front door of my building. In this very early dawn there is very little difference in shade between the dark concrete of the sidewalk and the blacktop of the asphalt streets save for the intermittent pools of light from street lamps. The sepia light, a dull gleam off the chrome and glass of the parked cars lining the curb. The lumens providing just enough visibility to guide you from one glowing sphere to the next giving only the simplest of details to keep one from tripping over a crack, or slipping off the curb. It has a film noir vibe. I feel as though I should be in a trench coat, instead of a winter one. The red, yellow, green of the stop light at the near corner is almost garish in comparison. The bright headlight of the sole car passing by, whose owner dares to be up and about even earlier than I, is near blinding in turn.
But this is the block on which I live; I know this block well. Even in the early morning dark I know the car in the driveway of the second Victorian from the left is maroon in color and has not moved in years from the rust I’ve seen on it. On the first floor in the colonial nearest to the corner a light turns on as someone wakes. Standing just inside the front door of the vestibule of my building I am warm in my favorite winter coat. I adjust my hat, scarf and gloves in preparation as I peer through the window yet again, on watch for one light in particular. As I spy the glowing marquee coming forth I open the door to the non-silence that is my street on an early winter’s dawn to catch my bus and head to work.
My day begins.
Written for Mindlovemisery Menagerie’s Tale Weaver
Tale Weaver # 96 – December 15th – What you see out your front door.
Hyacinth steps off the elevator at the appropriate floor. The deep wood paneled, leather seated corporate headquarters looking every inch the ancient ivory tower of old school money she knew it would be. The receptionist was expecting her and escorted her to the boardroom where the meeting was well in progress.
Nearly twenty suited faces turn from the projection screen as she enters the room. No words exchange as Kendrick, the CEO and person who invited her to the meeting, simply nods toward the empty seat across from him at the front of the massive conference table. She nods in return, takes a seat and signals to the moderator to continue speaking. All heads turn to face the screen again, but she knows there are many surreptitious looks in her direction as well. No one knows who she is or why she is at this meeting.
That was the way she and Kendrick wanted it.
The meeting is still in progress when a serving cart arrives with a complete tea service. Again, no speaks other than the moderator still going through the facts, figures, and data necessary for the meeting. She calmly makes a cup of tea, her eyes only on the projection when not on the details of making the tea. As the Kendrick has not acknowledged her presence other than to indicate where to sit, no one else has said anything.
There is a tangible notice of tension rising as the meeting continues.
Greg, the company’s junior CIO finally stops the meeting demanding to know her identity and her purpose here. Hyacinth’s expression is the face of cool composure, while Kendrick’s face twists as he mentally curses at the loss $500. Kendrick just knew the senior CIO Frances would crack first. Hyacinth had bet that it would be Greg. Still, it had taken him almost an hour to do so and that was not good. Kendrick nods at her to begin. Hyacinth calmly sips the remainder of her tea and turns the empty cup over on its saucer.
She makes a small show of displaying the empty tea canister and empty teapot before she stands and faces the group.
“Ladies and gentlemen, your company is in trouble. I’m here to kick ass and drink tea. And I’m all out of tea.”
He stands in front of the floor to ceiling picture window in the living room that faces the water. Being near the apex of the hill gives him a nearly unobstructed view of the river, the bridge and the rest of the city spread out before it. The glittering effect of the sun on the water is as picture perfect as the fluffy cotton candy clouds breaking the monotony of the azure sky above.
He does not see this.
The leaves are mostly green, but you can see the first of fall’s leaves on the lawns and sidewalks. A perfectly shaped, beautifully russet leaf lazily drifts from a tree in front of the brownstone to the street. Even this early in the season you somehow know autumn is going to show off in a blaze of glorious color at its peak.
It does not so much as invite a shrug from him.
Children play on the sidewalk or in front yards enjoying the last vestiges of the day. Their occasional high peals of laughter break the relative silence of the late afternoon. It is a good hour before the streetlights come on and another half hour at least before the sun noticeably sets.
He does not notice.
The gentle swish-swish, swish-swish of leaves brushing against a window is somehow rhythmic. It is the same gentle breeze causing the light curtains to sway in front of open windows as evening approaches. Somewhere down the block just out of the line of vision the happy tunes of an ice cream truck are heard.
But not by him.
He has stood by the picture window long after the brilliant red, gold and indigo of sunset have paved the way for the now diamond studded navy night. The grandfather clock in the front hall again chimes the passing hour. The stereo is just barely audible above the regular sounds of the house.
The only thing he has heard and continues to hear in his mind is click.
In reality, each click is no louder than of that of an old-fashioned typewriter key strike. For him each is as loud as a cannon blast.
The sound of stiletto heels clicking against a marble floor of the foyer as they walk out of the door and his life.
Daily Prompt | What A Twist!