View from the Side’s weekend challenge — January 22, 2011

My contribution to The Challenge this weekend:

 

©Kathy Larson
All rights reserved

 

No Pity

 

I am a very proudful person, she said

So much so, that I have lost my sight.

Now, as I stumble in the darkness

I wonder: what good is this silly pride

I cling to?  The bruises on my heart

and on my body are not badges

Of honour, they mark me as a fool.

I, who would not bend

Am broken.  Had only my hearing

also been taken I would

Not have to suffer your pity.

 

Something in the air — View from the side’s weekend challenge for Jan. 14th 2011

The following was supposed to be my entry in last weekend’s challenge.  I got de-railed and now that I’ve come back to this I don’t know how to finish it.  I think it was a good start to something, though.  Anyone want to have a go at it?  Maybe we can tag-team a story out of it?  Could be fun.  Thanks.

 

 

“It’s a little up in the air right now,”  she said, with a hint of Mona Lisa smile.

He gave her a puzzled look, but said nothing.  He was trying to be cool, didn’t want to lose it.  She wasn’t making it easy.

With deliberate slowness she extended her hand — fine-boned, with long, tapered fingers ending in perfectly rounded, pale pink-polished nails — turned it palm up and held it out before him.   She tilted her head as she did this and he had the feeling that he was somehow being reprimanded, though to this point he had behaved with nothing but the utmost calm and courtesy.

 

Alter Ego — Viewfromtheside’s challenge for November 26, 2010

Here it is — this was fun!  Thank you for the challenge.

© 2010 Kathy Larson

All Rights Reserved

 

Alter Ego

 

My alter ego is . . .

. . . tall.  Willowy.

She has a neck like Audrey Hepburn’s.

This other me is afraid of nothing.

Works hard,

so hard

to attain the goals

she sets.

She is driven,

but admired,

not afraid

of success.

Not afraid

that change

might change

her.

life.

My alter ego

keeps a perfect house,

there is

no

such

thing

as dust.

Windows gleam,

countertops shimmer,

tables are perfectly set.

The linens are crisp

clean and white,

they smell of

lavender

and roses.

She wears

high heels

even when

peeling potatoes.

She is well-read,

a scholar,

a sophisticated

conversationalist,

and

a dazzling host.

She

makes love

like a tigress

but curls

domestically and

demurely

into

the protective

curve of ‘his’

shoulder.

She is everything

I think

I

should be.

She

has made my life

unbearable.

The ‘real’ me

pales.

View from the Side’s Weekend Theme — October 8th, 2010

The following is NOT a true story and has absolutely no foundation in truth.  My son Landon did some wild things as a little boy (and even as a bigger one) but, never, ever anything like this.  This is entirely a fabrication made up for this weekend’s challenge.

All rights reserved.  Copyright Kathy Larson 2010

String and Sticky Tape

by Kathy Larson

I sent him to his room for being bad.  All morning he had pestered after me.

“Can you take me to the park? I wanna play at the park.”

“Later,”  I’d said initially,  “I need to get the vacuuming done.”  Then I steered him out of my way to a pile of colouring books.

This scene was doggedly repeated about every five minutes.  “It’s later,” he’d say, “I want to go to the park.”

“I can’t right now.”  I’d just as doggedly reply.  “You need to be patient.  Go play with your cars.”  Eventually, he started to whine.  Then my reply became:  “If you keep that up, we won’t go at all.”   So, he became quiet.  So quiet I thought I’d better check on him.

There was a mural drawn all the way down the hall of kids playing at a park.  He’d used multi-media — wax crayons, pencil crayons and markers.  For a five-year-old it was pretty good.  Still, I thought I was going to have a fit, right then and  there.  To my credit I didn’t yell, I didn’t hit.  I simply took the red marker from his pudgy little hand and said very quietly, “Go to your room.  Now.”

The look on his face told me he wasn’t sorry.  Not one bit.

I stood back to take stock of his ‘artwork’.  There were trees, flowers and grass.  M-birds flew overhead and stick dogs chased after balls thrown by little stick boys.  There were swings, and teeter-totters and jungle-gyms.  He certainly knew what he wanted.  Despite myself I smiled.  I hated that I would have to wash it all off.  But our rented apartment wasn’t a Greek palace and a fresco would not be appreciated by our landlord.  I sighed and turned away, heading for the cupboard where I kept the pail and cleaning supplies.  As I ran warm water into the pail I started thinking about how the morning had gone and how I had disappointed this little boy, my son, who wanted nothing more than to get out of this boring little  box of rooms and find some space to move and run and breathe and live.

To hell with it, I thought, the art could stay there for a few days, it actually brightened the place up.  I’ll make him a surprise  — I’ll pack us a picnic lunch and we’ll go to the park and play and just be.  Out came the peanut butter and some apples, a couple of boxes of raisins and a thermos jug of Koolaid.  I grabbed my novel and a blanket and had everything organized by the front door.  Down the hallway I went to his bedroom.  Knock. Knock.  No answer.  He must be asleep, I thought as I silently turned the handle and gently pushed the door open.

I wasn’t prepared.  Not at all.  He was standing on the top of the dresser one foot poised on the sill of the open window.  There was something hanging from his back, it looked like cloth.  In my surprise I did not comprehend that he had cut up his top sheet and that this was what fluttered gently around him, stirred by the warm breeze coming in from the open window.

“What are you doing?” I asked in a small, still voice.  I was terrified.  I knew exactly what he was doing.  “Don’t move”  Again, the defiance in his eyes, but this time also an accompanying sadness.  “Please.”  I added.

I walked calmly across the room stepping on bits of string and sticky tape that stuck to the bottom of my sandals.  The tape made a soft ripping sound as it tore up from the carpet.  I took hold of his hand and turned him towards me.

His bottom lip trembled as I pulled him close.  “Those are some very fine wings you’ve made,” I said as I opened his arms wide to admire his handiwork.   He jumped forward into my arms his wings surrounding us both.  I breathed, then smiled.

“Come on,”  I said, ” Let’s go.”