Davee Jones's Blog

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "gray".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~










“I very recently found out my father had at least one affair, probably more.” She nodded her head, prodding me forward. Obviously, I hadn’t said anything out of line yet. “I don’t really think mom and dad loved each other very long after they got married. They had separate beds, which later evolved into separate beds in separate rooms. He had at least one child from his skirting around.”“Only one? I can’t imagine how his insatiable appetite for strange yielded only one kiddo.”“Wow, you really have my father pegged. How long did you have his number?”“He was sleeping around as soon as he hit puberty. Somehow, he possessed the charm to drop panties. Surely, he wasn’t careful enough to always use protection. He was never worried about the end game.”“Did you ever talk with my mom about any of this? Maybe try to warn her?” Stuck in the middle between guarding my mother’s honor and allowing her free will pinned me into a corner. “Did he ever love my mom?”“Absolutely! He loved your mom. They married with the best of intentions and made great business partners. I thought possibly she might tame his savage ways. He was loyal longer than I thought he would be.”“What happened?”“Dammit, this is gonna be a tough delivery, so bear with me. When your mom became pregnant with you, apparently, she didn’t feel very…frisky, if you know what I mean.”“He couldn’t keep it holstered nine months?”“She came to me crying one day with a stereotypical tale. While doing laundry, she found a matchbook in his pocket with a phone number written on it. He didn’t do a very good job of hiding it. I think he knew she wouldn’t leave while pregnant, so, he tested the waters. Your father learned how far he could push boundaries. Eventually, he pushed her right out of the bedroom.”Anger, shame, guilt all boiled like a responsive stew from the bottoms of my feet to the top of my head. “It was my fault, her life turned to a gray area. Does my mom blame me?”

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.









A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we write to a photo.  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.








“Yes, you can come with me, let’s go get some chow.  An après-ski cheeseburger sounds amazing.”  Matthew’s mouth began to water as Laurel took off her own goggles and shook her hair loose from the Under Armour beanie. He wondered if it was all about the thought of a juicy cheeseburger, or if her long blonde locks had anything to do with it.
“Cheeseburger? Are you high?”  Laurel teased Matthew with a ridiculous assumption. 
“What do you mean, Miss Health Nut, you having a baked potato, broiled chicken, and salad-again?”
Laurel socked Matthew in the shoulder with a padded gloved fist.  “I’m not that bad, old man,  I am in training after all.”  She used one ski pole to snap down on the back of her bindings as she clicked her ski boots out of their tight hold.  She moved quickly, having perfected the act hundreds, if not thousands, of times. 
Matthew pushed forward a short distance before he began to unclick his own bindings.  He pretended hurt feelings as he worked. He then hoisted his skis onto his shoulder and began walking toward the parking lot calling out behind him as she tried to catch up.  “You are only a few years younger, little girl, and I always train.  In fact, I plan to work on my double fisted beer mug clutch as soon as we get back to town.”  Matthew raised an eyebrow as Laurel caught up to him.
“Ugh, you are such a guy.  Cheeseburgers and beer? Might as well throw in some hot wings and French fries and represent all the junk food groups.”  Laurel laughed at her own joke. 
“We could just begin the celebration of your future Olympic successes early with some nice champagne.” Matthew nodded self-assuredly, almost knowingly. “I know you have it in you.”

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "gift".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~








Matthew smiled and Laurel breathed a sigh of contentment.  The world as it should be.  Snow falling from the sky, powder on the ski runs, warm heat blowing on her frozen toes, and Matthew by her side.  Whoa, did I just think that? This guy is my friend and coach.  Laurel ran her fingers through her hair thoughtfully, a move not lost on Matthew.  I would love to touch your hair.  I bet it’s as soft as the fallen snow.  Matthew felt like a complete dork.  How corny his thoughts became around Laurel.  Once again, he focused on something else, like the road ahead and made small talk.  “Wow, the snow is really beginning to fly, I bet we pick up a few inches before practice tomorrow.”  Once her attention turned to the falling snow, Laurel lost any other train of thought.  “Yes, nice fresh powder, nothing better in the world.”  She turned and faced Matthew squarely as he drove.  “Not even a big, fat cheeseburger.”  As Matthew opened his mouth in rebuttal, he realized Laurel told the foremost truth for both of them.  Nothing topped the thrill and fulfillment of a full day on fresh powder. Champagne powder gifted the lucky ones.  Serious skiers lived for more than a day on the lifts. Skiing encompassed a lifestyle.Matthew found himself in the middle of this dilemma at the crossroads between vicarious and responsible.  He longed to discover what destiny life intended for him. Even if ski instructing paid the bills, was he living the life God intended? Was he holding on to this life out of fear or laziness? Very heavy questions for a random weeknight and he chose not to share his internal conflict with Laurel.

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "persuade".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~








Paying careful attention to the tracks I made in the glistening, powdery snow, I had a hard time maintaining focus. Carving down the steep mountain, I also wondered where Matthew was.  If I look behind for him, it would cut precious seconds from my time down this run, not to mention I could beef it hard. I wanted to beat Matthew honestly and wished he would give me his genuine best at least once during our many races. He was too much of a gentleman for my own good.

Pushing on, my descent slowed, as my mind wandered even further away from my skis. He is the best coach for me, really for anyone, and I was so lucky.  We first met as fellow ski team members. His infallible intensity mirrored my tenacity, making us one powerhouse team. I felt his gut punch when he finally stopped competing.  It also scared me, that’s for sure.  If he can’t achieve the gold, should I even aspire for myself?  He would yell at me for thinking that way.

Matthew encouraged me every day, pushing success for me, in a place he himself would never go.  How he successfully transitioned from team member to team trainer without permanently damaging his psyche, I’ll never know. I think I’d be in a state of depression for years.  Maybe someday, I can ask him how he copes.

I can make the final lift ride of the day, but, I’ve got to move faster.  The only thing that could take Matthew off my mind was the chair lifts. I’m not a complicated girl.  But the number of people waiting in line made the decision for me.  My legs thanked each of those folks, as well as my grumbling stomach.

Turning, looking up toward the slope, Matthew skidded comically on the packed powder rapidly advancing toward her.  Steadfast, I steeled herself for impact, and for how close he was about to be to me. He wouldn’t persuade me to move with his antics.

Comically, Matthew stopped easily, feigning wobbly legs before abruptly plowing a snow shower over Laurel sport performance skis.  



 

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.







A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. Once per month, we write to a photo.  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~



Laurel Cranmer made tracks down the snow-covered mountain.  Her skis laid curling ribbon trails as she sliced through the freshly fallen snow.  When she increased speed, the whoosh of her motion kicked up puffs of icy residue resembling smoke. This place was her paradise on earth.  Matthew followed closely behind, although he gave her several seconds head start.  He skied faster than she did in head-to-head racing, but he decided to let her have this one.  Lately, his interests involved more things outside the competitive ski racing circuit. He wished Laurel felt the same way, but he knew that would be impossible.  She had potential he never had.Matthew knew his limits, and although a top-notch skier in his own right, he would never see Olympic glory.  Training remained his expertise.  He coached future Olympic champions, and he savored every moment with the young hopefuls. He knew their feelings of intensity and the desire to be the best. He spent almost twenty years in their skis. For all his dedication, he still failed to top the podium.  Long ago, he let go the resentment and accepted his shortcomings. He pushed his energy toward building champions and found his niche. He instituted more success than he ever dreamed watching those rosy-cheeked youngsters beam wearing medals and waving first toward their parents-then he.  He knew he found his place and it satisfied him.  However, he lacked love and for the first time in his life, it saddened him. Laurel skied in that crowd of hopefuls he coached. Matthew met her eight years prior. She was a gangly teenager who almost could not control her long, quickly growing legs. Laurel smiled appropriately, yet remained aloof.  Even as a teenager, she refrained from engaging in silliness. She let nothing or no one detract her from her goals. 

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "fussy".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~



Behind closed eyes, my mind sees as clearly in the dark as when wrapped in the rays of a sunny day, and everything is in fast forward- these clips keep sliding through so fast I can’t grab onto any single one to keep it stationary. Just like I can’t grab onto you to keep you from moving on, away from me, away from us, away from everything I know as love, as comfort, as home. Of course I can’t sleep, my fussy mind prohibits the respite my body desperately needs.  Could you sleep if you knew you wouldn’t hold those hands again so tightly, gripping fingers sliding into each other like a perfect puzzle. Squeezing tighter every so often, to make sure it’s real. That you’re really there, pressed against me, the ragged breathing of slipping into sleep whispering against my ear, letting me know you aren’t feeling the same desperation as I. I wouldn’t want you to feel this way. I wouldn’t wish this aching on anyone, especially someone I loved. I remain awake, memorizing each movement against me, so when I’m alone in my bed, I will recall the electricity of your skin against mine. You don’t even realize what I’m doing, embracing this last night together to remember it for the rest of my life. To remember it for the rest of my life.Will I compare every other lover to you? God, I hope not. I can’t feel this way for the rest of my days, it’s invisible torture, chipping away at any flickers of joy in the slow rolling hours of the day. You shift, sliding your other hand closer up my tummy, resting on my breast, the way you always did, cupping so gently within your tender grasp. I assume you’re sleeping, otherwise, I don’t believe you’d knowingly do that. Not tonight anyway, the last night we spend together. I welcome your closeness, and your touch, giving me further reminders implanted within every nerve in my tense body. I try to relax, but, it’s so hard when you’re this close, yet light years away from the way I feel. I used to melt into your embrace, protecting me, warming my back, your leg sometimes wrapping over mine. I felt protected, loved, safe, and claimed. Fully aware of your midsection almost fused with mine, we cup in closer, connecting our loins. Your desire behind the heat of my femininity thrusts my mind into a state of fiery recollections. I can’t imagine not connecting with you, making love with you, tasting your skin while our hands slide, finding our passions. You must be sleeping, you wouldn’t do this intentionally, when awake and functioning with restructured emotions that don’t include loving me. Well, not loving me the way a promised one would. We can be friendsis more like a slap in the face than a commitment to casually check in, inquiring about our separate lives, smiling at anything and everything that doesn’t include us every day. It’s worth mourning, or it wouldn’t have been true. In the wee hours of the still darkened morning, I fall asleep against the wishes of my depths to stay awake savoring this time. The physical drag of my sadness exhausted my brain, collapsing me into a short lived nap, before I awaken again. This time alone, clutching a pillow, not your body. An unacceptable substitute, but the only alternative I have. You’re really gone. I’m empty, and the nothingness is sadder than anything I’ve ever known.  

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "hardy".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~



I bought out every fruit tree the local nursery had in stock. I’m sure I made the owners day with the amount of money I spent. Today, money was no object standing in the way of what I wanted to do. Conner and any available work staff helped me load them all into my dad’s truck and trailer.
“Are we going very far?” Eyeing the full load, he appeared to gauge the success rate of getting everything to the site.
“We aren’t going far at all. I’ll drive slowly with the hazard blinkers on. Don’t you worry about me.”
“I’ve never doubted your determination. It’s those trees who have to survive your lead foot.” Smiling, Conner raised an eyebrow, jerked his head toward the load of saplings, and took off the work gloves.
“Aw, hush, get in, we’ve got work to do with these hardy guys.” I tried to think of this as a routine project, I couldn’t think the word memorialwithout losing my shit. With the entire truck full of trees, I almost felt overwhelmed. How the hell would we get them all planted?
I hit the gas and off we went, racing at a turtle’s pace for the few miles to the new orchard. I’d never taken Garrett there, and I was suddenly hesitant to share such a personal place. Not knowing what to say, I chose to stay quiet, pretending to focus on my driving.
“Thank you for trusting me to help you with this.” He spoke so softly, I almost didn’t hear him clearly.
“It’s been a hard year, one of the hardest of my life. You’ve been so good for me, it should be me thanking you.”
“I’m your friend, Rachel, you don’t have to thank me. Shoot, I used to be your best friend.”
Somehow, I did need to thank him, it’s just how I felt. He always showed up, almost at my beck and call. Not many people would do that. “It’s important you know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done.”  
Staying quiet, Conner didn’t say anything further. Out of the corner of my vision, I saw him holding onto the top of the rolled down truck window. He appeared to be holding on for dear life. I hoped he didn’t think I’d crash at thirty miles per hour. Or, was he holding on to his patience with me?
“Are you good with doing this today?” Somehow, the question slipped out. I didn’t even realize I was thinking it.
“Absolutely, I think you chose the perfect way to celebrate Garrett’s life.”
Something in his tone of voice gave me permission to speak frankly. “You would’ve liked him. He was so kind, but, strong too, you know. He sometimes liked to act tough, but, he was really a pushover.”
“I know I would’ve liked him. If you loved him that deeply, he had to be an incredible man.”
“He would make up goofy songs, or his own lyrics to whatever was on the radio. Especially if I was down or in a bad mood. He always tried to cheer me up.” Those memories bubbled behind my sunglasses, readying their fall down my face.
“You were always a sucker for a goofball.”
“I’m scared.” Something else came out of my mouth I didn’t even understand.
“It’s okay. We can do as much as you want today. We don’t have to finish. If you get uncomfortable or sad…you can take a break. I’ll keep working.”
 

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.




A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific prompt each week. Most of the time we write to a certain word. Once per month we write to a picture prompt, and limit our entries to 300 words. I chose lightning. You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my new yet-to-be-named WIP.











“I’m not sure when I can make it through a storm without wanting to throw up.” Rubbing my clammy palms down my shorts, I tried unsuccessfully to rid my body of the horrible waves of rocking sensations.
“I promise you won’t feel that way forever.” Connor’s voice took on that deep reassuring tone when he truly wanted to get a point across.
All I wanted to do was hold my son- my baby sleeping soundly in his crib- completely unaware of his mother’s impending meltdown. “How can I raise him to be self-assured and confident if I’m a ball of nerves all the time?”
“Oh, now…”
“Stop it, don’t dismiss me, Connor. I’m not some drama mama. I’ve got a serious job ahead of me raising a boy not to be scared of the world.” My chest caught on something imaginary, and the room dimmed in my vision. “I’m a damn chicken.”
Connor’s hands balled into fists beside him briefly before he released them again. Shaking his  head, he finally looked at me. “You’ve been through trauma, but, you’re the toughest person I’ve met. You’ll make it through this, I promise. You’ll learn how to maneuver past the triggers, and how to handle them. You’re no wimp, so I really wish you’d stop acting like one.”
Nausea turned to defensive ire. “Really? What a good, sensitive friend you are.”
“I never treated you with kid gloves and I won’t start now. I would be a crappy friend if I let you get away with feeling sorry for yourself.” Turning away from me, shaking his head, he walked toward the door. “I’ll see you later. I better get home.”
“Thanks a lot, you’re just leaving?”
“Your mom is here. She can hold your hand.”
“You’re a friggin asshole, you know that?”

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.






A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific word prompt each week. This week we share the prompt "flower".  You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my brand new yet-to-be-named WIP.

Enjoy!~


 
“I remember your favorite flower.” Connor’s words floated through the air as he bent forward, plucking a tall proud Indian Paint Brush from the ground.

When I was a child, I imagined Native Americans actually using these flowers to paint. Those lush red petals spreading some naturally made paint across buffalo hides and peace pipes. As a knowledged adult, I’m sure they couldn’t have used those flowers as a brush, although it’s magic to believe they did.

Connor used to pick these for me every late spring. Even at an early age, he was learning how to be simply romantic, the best kind of gesture came from his heart, not his wallet. I appreciated his kindness. Some guys in their teenage years perform gestures expecting some type of physical gratuity- not Connor. He was always my best friend first, respecting me to the core.

“I’m not surprised you remembered. You have a super impressive memory.” Accepting the flower from his outstretched hand, I actually wanted to move in closer and breathe him in. My face would meet his chest, the perfect location to take him all in.

“Of course I remember, it’s you we’re talking about.” Laughing, he tweaked my nose. “I bet I know more about you than you know about me, or even yourself for that matter.”

Yep, he spoke the truth and I loved him deeply for it, I never stopped. Anyone who says teenage love can never be real, well, they aren’t true romantics. I grew up loving this human. Time apart may have changed our circumstances, but, would never change how I felt about him. My heart made room for two men, now three, counting the littlest member of our tribe.

Ahoy Fellow Fathomers! It's time for Tuesday Tales.




A group of writers gather together and give our interpretation of a specific prompt each week. Most of the time we write to a certain word. Once per month we write to a picture prompt, and limit our entries to 300 words. I chose this cute kitchen shelf. You never know what you might encounter when you get inside our minds.  This will be an excerpt from my new yet-to-be-named WIP.






The decision to eat more went round and round in my brain, while the scrambled eggs cooled to room temperature. Soon, it would be even less appetizing, so, I needed to decide fast. The baby kicked just in time, giving me the cue to make a happy plate. I’d give it my best effort, taking another challenging swallow. My mind reversed to a mealtime far far away in our cozy country kitchen. Garrett’s voice softly drifted into my mind. “This looks good, I’ll fix you some.” Surveying the pans on the stove, I could still see the game plan brewing on his face for perfect food plating .

He used to make a plate for me. It’s those tiny gestures I took for granted, sometimes I didn’t even think about it. How many times had he doled out the perfect amount of scoops for me to eat. He even knew I liked extra ketchup on my meatloaf, and the biscuit in the middle of the pan. Who remembers that kind of stuff? “Is this enough?” Holding my plate out just enough for me to see, in case he needed to pull back for another spoonful of mac and cheese, gravy or ranch style beans, Garrett asked patiently, forever smiling, ready to fill er up more if I wanted it.

Sometimes I’d even tease him, especially if he was really hungry, delaying my decisions as he continued holding my plate. “I’m not sure…maybe I don’t need that second spoonful of mashed potatoes.” Garrett usually shut the game down pretty quickly. “If you don’t make up your mind, I’ll just take yours.” Pulling that hot plate in toward his chest, he pretended to take ownership. “Okay, Okay,” I’d relent, grabbing my meal out of his hands. “Thank you baby, I appreciate it.”