TINY TUESDAY (m)
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TINY TUESDAY (m)
| Tue, 12-04-2001 - 9:44am |
TINY TUESDAY (m)
In rounding up the writing with our senses series, let's write a scene or short story that concentrates on touch/skin.
Happy writing,
Mac

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Here's mine...
I was dreaming, or was I? I bolted upright in my bed. It was pitch black except for the clock’s bright red numbers.
“Wake up. Honey, wake up! WAKE UP!†I said, trying to wake up my husband, Paul.
“What? What do you want? I’m trying to sleep.†He looked at the clock. “It’s after three in the morning.†Then he looked at me and was sprung from his grogginess.
“Breathe!†He was screaming and running around the house like the proverbial chicken.
I was trying to breathe. Hee hee hoo hoo… who are those Lamaze people kidding? I slipped some maternity jeans on under my gargantuan sleep shirt and put on my flip-flops.
“Suitcase, where is the suitcase?†said Paul as he was pulling his shirt over his head.
“I have it. Are you ready?â€
“Ready? Ready to go or ready to be a father?â€
“Maybe you better take over the breathing exercises,†I said. “Should I drive as well?â€
Paul took some deep breaths and pulled himself together. “No, I’ll be Ok. It’s time, huh? You’re sure?â€
“Yes, it’s time. Now, can we go or do I have to have the baby right here to prove it to you?â€
The contractions were coming faster and faster as we sped down the shadowy highway.
By the time we got to the hospital, I was begging for an epidural.
“It’s too late for an epidural. I’m sorry, but the baby is coming,†said the doctor after examining me.
It all happened so fast. I remember people telling me, almost screaming, to push and to breathe. Paul kept trying to put ice chips in my mouth and I remember I wanted to smack his hand away. I was spent and knew I could push no more when I heard the cry.
“Congratulations,†said the doctor. “You have a son.â€
I started wailing just like my baby boy. Then, I looked at Paul and realized that he too was crying.
I waited with anticipation as they cleaned him up and checked his vitals. Then, after forty-three weeks, two days, four hours and eighteen seconds of waiting, I got to hold my newborn son. My fingers tingled at the touch of him. I counted his fingers and toes, caressing each one of them. I stroked his peach down hair. I traced his facial features with my index finger, his eyebrows, nose, mouth, and his sweet little ears. He felt soft and delicate. I kissed every bare inch of him. I cuddled him in my arms and resolved to never let him go.
My TT: Slick and cold (m)
This exercise isn't so "tiny", but here goes...
Eyewrite
*********
Slick and Cold
“If you catch a fish, you’ve gotta clean the fish.†Dad’s rule kept running through my head in a continuous loop. I look at the headless fish in the yellow plastic basin. Scales and slime cover the basin, the floor of the boat, our knees, and the knife blade and knife handle. It’s easier to work with the fish when it has no head, no eye to watch you.
I pick up the sharp, black-handled knife in my right hand. The hard plastic handle fits the curve of my hand, and the ridges under my fingers keep my grip sure despite the slippery coating of fresh slime.
I reach for the fish, my six-pound Coho, with my left hand. Fresh scales and cold salt water embed my fingers as I try to lift the salmon onto its back. I insert the knife into the fish belly near the tail and push and pull the knife blade up and down through the fish belly like a saw blade cutting wood. I lay the knife down and sheath it quickly. Then I insert my left thumb into the fish belly and open the flesh.
Two sacks of pink roe lie side by side; my Coho had been female. I scoop out the slippery entrails – the spaghetti-like intestines, the roe, the stomach and other organs, and waste matter – into the basin. Each new scoop makes a slick sucking as it arrives in the basin. The headless fish now lies in a basin beside the former contents of its belly.
One more step – clean the backbone. Dad says if we don’t do this part the blood will cause the fish meat to spoil. I use the knife to slice open the spinal column of the fish. The tiny rib-like bones protect the spine from the rest of the internal organs. They make a click-clicking sound when the knife slices. My nearly numb right index finger reaches into the exposed red spinal goo and rubs to release the contents. The bones I severed are sharp and snag my finger as I work.
I transfer the fish into another beat up basin half-filled with ocean water. I wash out the fish belly with the far-from-tepid water and rub the water into the spinal column. I have no feeling in my hands so I’m clumsy now – the fish slops around in the basin – and I’m glad I don’t need to use a knife anymore.
My TT
Kneeling down upon the frozen ground he pulls off his leather gloves. He touches the raised, cold, marble stone. Placing his index finger Blake traces the blunt grooves of the script. A north wind chills his cheeks and ruffles his dark hair as he continues to feel the words engraved in the heavy, rectangular headstone. Grandpa, beloved father, born Dec.12, died Nov.27, he reads as a sprinkle of snow falls. A stock of wheat, a horse and a business logo etchings signify parts of the deceased life and brings back the memories of that fateful evening. His father’s life was taken in a tragic car accident.
Blake’s mind recalls the scent of his dad’s favorite beer and feels warmth spread throughout his body as he imagines his father is hugging him. He shuts out the sound of the rushing traffic and an occasional honk along the highway near the area. The frigid air numbs ,chaps and turns the exposed skin red on his hands and shakes him out of his trance.
Blake looks down and notices a long stemmed red rose, he picks it up and frowns. He plucks off the petals as the fire of hatred spurs him. He wonders how that bitch, his dad’s mistress could leave the flower. Didn’t she realize the pain she brings by her actions?
He puts his gloves back on, stands up and exits the cemetery.
They say it's like a marathon (m)
Except you get a baby at the end!
How sweet! Why do the men seem to "get it" right at the end, when a clear head and haste are in order, and start to panic?
Have a good day, Eyewrite
Great job (m)
I loved her sarcasm and thought she should've slapped Paul. Just kidding. You expressed his panic nicely. The last paragraph when she holds the baby was very sweet!
Mac
Good job......I enjoyed this n/t
Loved the descriptions (m)
You made a nasty task like cleaning fish very interesting. Now, that's great writing. Your details were fabulous. I'm so happy to have you posting with us.
Mac
I'm impressed (m)
I love to fish but you wouldn't find me ever cleaning one. I even make hubby bait the hook for me, I know I'm a wimp. LOL
I enjoyed your story and felt the cold and slime.
good job!!
Maria
Wow, Maria (m)
What a twister. I didn't expect that "bitch" part-LOL. Your TT has all the right ingredients: finely-crafted details, emotional memories, vivid scenery, and a little scandal to top it out.
Great job, wonderful writing.
Mac
Here's mine (m)
I kiss my index finger and place it to his lips, holding it there a moment before I explore the rest of his sculptured features. My eyes focus on his sandy-brown hair and I smile at the hints of gray near his temples. For a moment, I close my eyes and allow my mind drift back to when I first met my husband.
Watching him play shortstop for our high school baseball team was the first time I’d seen him. His body wasn’t that well-built, in fact he was lean, but had muscles in all the right places. I loved the way he looked in his uniform, the way the nylon fit snug to his athletic legs. Even with strawberry bruises and smelling of sweat, he attracted my attention and kept it.
Fourteen years later, I still see that teenage boy winking at me with his crystal-blue eyes, although Brian’s eyes are closed now. Behind me I hear the preacher say to someone that we should begin but I don’t move. I slowly open my eyes and grab my husband’s frigid hands in mine. Even though our vows said until death do we part, I don’t want to let go.
I feel someone pry my fingers from his and others whisper behind my back. My brother clutches my shoulder and nudges me gently.
“Come on, honey. We need to start the service now,” my sister says.
The room begins to spin as I walk from the casket saying, “It’s too soon. I’m too young to be a widow.”
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