Craving Freedom

Freedom threw her favorite sweater into her suitcase at the last minute. She hurriedly closed the lid, but was careful not to make a sound. She was sitting on top, trying to make it close that last half inch when the alarm went off.

“CRAP!” she hissed. She had totally forgotten about the automatic setting on her alarm clock. Sweat dotted her upper lip as she frantically worked to close the case.

“Freedom! Time to get up!” her mother yelled from down the hallway.

She sighed with relief as it finally clicked. Grabbing the case, she ran toward the window.





Write up to 100 words, fact or fiction….

This is a themed writing meme hosted by The Head’s Office. The goal is to write something that does not exceed 100 words. The prompt this week is in italic.

Fiction: A Bump in the Road

“This is the first bad thing I’ve ever done in my life,” Blanche giggled as she looked at the other three women with her in the van. “I swear, any time I do anything bad, even just a little naughty, I get caught. Never fails.”

“When have you ever done anything bad? You’re like … perfect,” Cecile muttered from the passenger seat while squinting to read her iPhone in the dark interior.

“Perfect?” Blanche sputtered in surprise. “Hardly. Would a perfect woman lose her husband to a co-ed? I don’t think so.” She could feel her good mood deflating as an image of her husband having sex with the perky redhead from his sociology class popped into her head. Her shoulders hunched forward in defeat and without being aware of it, she slumped over the steering wheel as if trying to ward off any more disturbing thoughts. Her knuckles whitened as her grip tightened. Bastard.

“Hey now,” Erin said from the back of the van. She leaned forward to place a comforting hand on Blanche’s shoulder. “Remember our agreement? No talking about the ‘jerk who shall not be named.’” She turned slightly to give Cecil a warning look.

Cecile shrugged and issued a huge yawn. “I can’t believe you guys talked me into this. It’s,” she squinted at her phone again, “almost three in the morning. I have to get up in like, three hours!”

“Then don’t go to bed,” Erin said and sat back in her seat. “Just because you’re almost 40 years old doesn’t mean you have to act like it.”

Whitney snorted in amusement next to Erin.

“All right, ladies,” Blanche warned. She reached up to rub her forehead. She shouldn’t have had that fifth (or was it sixth? She honestly lost count) apple martini. She didn’t usually drink at all, but her girlfriends had talked her into going out and once out, it felt so good to dunk her depression into a pretty glass of liquor, at least for a little while. She could feel just a hint of that depression inching back into her mood, its icy fingers leaving cold streaks against her heat-infused cheeks. “There’s no need to pick on Cecile. At least one of us is acting our age tonight.”

Cecile sighed and ran a hand through her short, spiky hair. “I’m sorry. I had a tough week and there’s this new hotshot that thinks he can do my job better than me,” she balled her hands into fists and her entire body tensed.

Blanche shrugged and softened her voice to try and diffuse her friend. Cecile had a terrible temper and she didn’t feel like talking her off the edge at the moment. “Forget it, Cecile. We all have our problems. You girls were nice enough to help me with mine, I’ll return the favor this weekend. In the meantime …” her voice ground to a stop as the van suddenly jostled, swayed and jerked. All four women were rendered speechless for long seconds.

“What the … did I just run over something?” Blanche asked. “There wouldn’t be a speed bump on this stretch of road, would there?” She slowed down and glanced in her side mirror to try and see what she might have hit, but it was too dark to see anything.

“That didn’t feel like a speed bump to me,” Whitney said, her body twisted around so she could see out of the back windows. “I think it was an animal.”

Blanche pulled over to the side of the road and all three women looked at Erin.

Erin was staring out of the side window. “Maybe it was just a log or something,” she said in a very small voice.

“Should I turn around?” Blanche asked.

All of the women were silent as they mulled it over.

Cecile thought: “Great. This is going to take forever and I really need to get some sleep so I can make that jerk look like an idiot to my boss tomorrow.”

Erin thought: “Please, PLEASE don’t be an animal. I can’t handle that right now.”

Whitney thought: “Wouldn’t it be cool if it were a dead body?” She smiled at her thoughts and was thankful no one could see her expression.

Blanche thought: “I’m going to puke and everyone is going to watch. Swell.”

“We better make sure it’s not an animal or anything,” Erin said. “I couldn’t live with myself if we left an injured animal on the side of the road.”

“Right,” Blanche said, swallowing a dollop of bile back down her throat. “Let’s check it out.” She carefully maneuvered the car into a U-turn and slowly made her way back to the spot. She flipped her brights on to help them see. “I hate these country roads,” she mumbled.

“You were the one who wanted to stay off the main roads,” Cecile said.

“Well yeah,” Blanche snapped back. “I don’t want to get a DUI, thank you very much.”

“There!” Erin said while leaning forward and pointing to a dark shape in the road. “That must be what we ran over.”

Blanche’s foot eased off the accelerator and the van inched forward. The shape began to slowly materialize before their eyes as the headlights exposed it.

“Oh my God,” Cecile gasped. “Is that a …” she clapped a hand over her mouth in horror and Whitney finished her sentence for her.

“… a body?!”

Blanche’s foot jumped to the brake and the van jolted to a halt causing all three women to jerk forward in their seats. The vehicle was now only a few feet away from the object in the road. The bright headlights illuminated the shadowy object and all four women sat transfixed as they stared at a tuft of reddish-blonde hair caressing one thin, bare shoulder.

It was definitely a body.

The three words to use in a story this week are:

  • Bump
  • Knuckle
  • Transfix

Thanks for reading.

The Perfect Couple

The three words to use in a story this week are:

  • Grace
  • Jitter
  • Thin

Thanks for reading.

Most people would be embarrassed to go to Disney World with their parents, but not me.

I had snorted a line of coke before my parents had picked me up. I felt invincible. I felt happy and confident. And I definitely felt like I could handle my parents and their sick, happy lives.

“Grace, you look so thin, are you eating enough?” my mother gently pushed a tendril of hair behind my ear as we waited for my dad to park the car.

I smiled. “Yes, mom. I’m definitely eating enough.”

“Well, I hope you’re ready to eat today because they have all kinds of scrumptious foods to eat here.”

I squelched a chuckle – only my mother would say the word “scrumptious.”

My slightly overweight dad came jogging toward us. I squelched another chuckle as I watched his belly quiver and roll against his waistband. “Looks like dad put on a little weight,” I said, my affection softening the blow.

“Oh poo,” my mother waved her hand and smiled at my father. “He’s like a big roll of squeezable Charmin.”

I couldn’t help it, I laughed.

“All right, ladies,” my dad huffed as he joined us. “Ready to get this party started?”

“Of course!” my mom chimed up.

All I could manage was a smile. I was feeling jittery and I noticed my hands were shaking. I always got the shakes after I did drugs. But I wasn’t worried, it usually only lasted a few hours. I figured I could distract them once we got into the park –they’d never notice a thing, they were too wrapped up on being perfect.

I smirked at my thoughts.

They clasped hands and led the way to the gate. I rolled my eyes behind them. I loved my parents, don’t get me wrong, but their public affection for one another always sickened me.

For I knew what they were really like behind closed doors.

“Honey, are you coming?” my mother asked over her shoulder as she dug in her purse for the passes.

“Right behind you,” I murmured. I began running possible scenarios through my mind on how I could get rid of my parents in the Happiest Place on Earth.


Inspired by this Post Secret.

Flash Fiction: In the Path

The three words to use in a story this week are:

  • Foolish
  • Mercy
  • Relish

Thanks for reading.

Molly relished the thought of getting off work and unpacking the numerous boxes at her new house.

“I know what you’re thinking about,” her co-worker said in a sing-song voice and with a laugh.

Molly grinned. “I can’t help it. I’ve never been a homeowner before, I’m excited.” She shrugged. “I spent hours shopping for just the right numbers to put on my house at Lowe’s last night. I know it’s foolish but …”

Her words were cut off by a shrill siren.

“Oh my God, look.” Her co-worker nodded toward the window.

Molly’s brow furrowed as she saw the ominous clouds and flashes of lightening. A boom of thunder suddenly sounded overhead and both women jumped in response.

“Let’s go, everyone! Don’t worry about shutting off your computers, we don’t have time! They’re saying it’s an F3 tornado and it’s about five miles away!” Their boss, a man not normally known for being excitable, was flushed and disheveled. His appearance alone was enough to propel people into action.

Both women shot out of their seats as if someone had yanked their chairs out from under them.

“Five miles? Molly gasped. Her house was five miles from the office. “What direction!” She yelled. She was surprised her boss heard her over the rising panic.


Molly shot a look at her co-worker. “Oh no, my house is over there!” She felt like crying. “Please God, have mercy,” she mumbled as everyone stumbled down the stairs and into the basement.


This was, of course, inspired by all the tornado activity the south saw yesterday. May God help and heal those affected by the storms.


Fiction under 250 words.

3WW: We’re Married Now

The three words to use in a story this week are:

  • Cleanse
  • Knead
  • Melt

Thanks for reading.

My new wife kneaded my shoulders. Her fingers were strong and capable. It felt good. It felt really good. I began imagining those fingers on other parts of my body.

“Hey, why don’t we stay in tonight and …” I turned around, waggled my brows and gave her what I hope was a charming and persuasive smile.

She huffed out an irritated breath and stopped the massage.

“What? No! This is our honeymoon, we’ve got to live it up. I want to take that night tour we’ve been talking about and did you see the food buffet when we came up? To DIE for. I can’t wait to stuff my face. We can,” she fluttered her hand in front of her face and frowned, “do that other stuff later. Hell, we have our whole lives to do that – we’ll never be in Barbados again.”

An image of my obese mother-in-law suddenly popped into my head. Her dress had been so tight at the wedding, I was seriously afraid she would rip a seam and flash the entire church. I swallowed. Surely my size eight wife wouldn’t look like that someday, would she?

I got up from the side of the bed and turned to help Connie off the fluffy mattress. She stumbled and fell into my arms.

I turned on the charm and gently kissed the pulse just behind her earlobe.

“Oh come on,” I coaxed. “We’re going to be here all week. Let’s order room service and watch porn. Maybe we’ll get some ideas.” I again waggled my brows and waited for her to giggle at my pathetic attempts to flirt with her.

“Danny.” She frowned and pushed me away. “Get real. I don’t want to have sex right now.”

“But you always melt when I hug you,” I whined. I knew I sounded pathetic, but I was sort of hurt. Where was my sex kitten?

“Married people don’t melt,” she snapped and grabbed her purse. “I’m going downstairs. Are you coming?”

I blinked, shocked at her coldness. “You seriously don’t want to stick around the hotel room tonight?”

She placed a hand on her hip and looked impatient.

I guess that was my answer.

“It’s already 7:30, Danny. They start closing the buffet table down at 8:00. Look,” she purred and moved closer to me. “I’ll save us a table. Why don’t you freshen up, maybe change into that navy shirt I like so much, and meet me downstairs, okay?”

I looked down at my clothes. What was wrong with what I was wearing?

She gave me a chaste kiss on the cheek and left the room.

I sighed and walked out onto the balcony. I leaned up against the railing and took a cleansing breathe. The reds and oranges from the setting sun was gorgeous. Too bad my new wife had no interest in sharing it with me.

I had a terrible feeling I had just made a huge mistake.

Inspired by this PostSecret:

3WW: How Did it Happen, You Ask? Your Guess is as Good as Mine

I know.

I went long.

It’s what I do.


The three words to use in a story this week are:

  • Affinity
  • Fidget
  • Mention

Thanks for reading.


For years I’ve had an affinity for my closet. I know there are many people who fear their closets, but not me. I like mine. In fact, I prefer its close darkness than that to, say, other people. People are hurtful, confusing, and unpredictable; my closet is small, secure and quite predictable – I know every article of clothing. I can trace every carpet dent made from the heels of my 16 pairs of shoes. I can even tell you the number of dust balls that litter the shadowy corners.

I spend a lot of time in my closet.

I haven’t mentioned anything about my … interest to anyone. Well, except my sister. I made the mistake of letting it slip to her about five years ago. But she ended up telling my mother, who told my father, who then proceeded to blackmail me into either seeing a psychiatrist or to move back home so they could suffocate me with their undying concern.

I opted for the psychiatrist.

I’ve also not spoken to my sister since then.

After 25 pre-paid visits determined that I was not, in fact, crazy, but that I simply liked spending time in my closet because it offered me the comfort I wasn’t receiving from anyone else in my life, I stopped my therapy sessions.

My parents were not pleased with the doctor’s diagnosis. In fact, they tried to talk me into seeking a second opinion. I was quite insulted by their insistence that I was crazy. But I suppose being diagnosed with a mental illness would have spared them the embarrassment of admitting to their friends that they had a quiet, shy, socially retarded oddball for a daughter.

I didn’t see what the big deal was: I simply liked spending time in my closet.

I didn’t do much while I was in there. Often times, I simply curled up into a ball, hugged my knees to my chest, rested my head back on a wall and simply drank in the darkness. The quiet was comforting, the low light was soft on my frazzled nerves and it served to gently squeeze out all of my anxieties so that after about fifteen minutes or so of my “closet therapy”, as my shrink liked to call it, I felt like a new woman. I was calm, I was focused and I was ready to deal with whatever crap life threw at me.

I was content … that is, until I started waking up in my closet and had absolutely no recollection of how I got there.

One minute, I would be curled up on my side, safe and sound in my bed, nestled down into my bedcovers, everything covered save for one half of my face and the next, I would be in my closet, sleepily rubbing my eyes and wondering if I overslept – again.

This went on for two weeks straight, not every night, mind you, but more like five out of seven nights before I started getting worried. How was I getting into my closet without my knowing it? Was I sleep walking? I didn’t recall ever having that problem before but how else could one rationally explain how I got from point A (my bed) to point B (the closet)?

It’s not like I teleported or anything.


(And if you tell me that that’s possible, I know the name of a shrink who would love to talk to you about your “theories.”)

I was tempted to contact my psychiatrist. I wasn’t interested in starting therapy sessions again, but I was curious to hear what sort of theories he might throw out there about my “hypothetical” situation.

But in the end, I chickened out. I was afraid, considering my rather shaky mental history with the man that he would end up committing me to a padded room “for my own good”.

Uh, no thank you.

But not knowing how it was happening was driving me crazy. (Pardon the pun, won’t you?) After agonizing over my, er, strange situation for a few days, I got an idea.

I would set up a video camera and record whatever was happening.

I’m a genius, I know.

It’s alright to be impressed. I was dutifully impressed when it first occurred to me.

I had a moment of anxiety when I bought my video camera – I am quite simply, a technological idiot. I know nothing about electronics, or Play boxes, or X stations, or Wees … or however you spell it. So I was quite out of my league when I finally drummed up the courage to ask the saleswoman for video camera suggestions.

Our conversation went something like this:

“Something small and compact, eh?” the store employee said.

“Yes. Something simple. Just tell me what button to push to turn the thing on and I’m good.”

She gave me a strange look. “What are you going to use it for?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s none of your business,” I said.

The woman gave me another strange look.

I fidgeted a bit and averted her eyes.

Did I mention I wasn’t exactly a people person?

The woman sighed. “I can help you narrow down your search if I know what you plan on using it for,” she explained; I’d say patiently, but she didn’t exactly sound patient to me.

“I want to video tape myself.”

She stared at me.

I stared back.

The silence stretched several seconds before I realized how my answer must have sounded to her.

And I’m quite sure even the roots of my hair turned cherry red with embarrassment. At least, I think they turned red. My head suddenly felt like it was on fire and I remember actually reaching up to touch it to make sure.

“Can I have a glass of water?” I asked. It wasn’t for my head, which wasn’t on fire, but because I was suddenly thirsty.

I’m eccentric, not crazy, sheesh.

After this awkward exchange, the saleswoman no longer cared about making a good sale and thrust a small, compact and simple looking machine into my hands.

Perfect. That’s what I wanted in the first place. Why did everything have to be so complicated?

I went home. I set up the camera.

I went to sleep.


Subconsciously, I must have known about the camera because I woke up, in my bed, like a completely normal person for a solid week.

But every night, I set it up before I went to bed, just in case.

Last night, I hit pay dirt.

(I’ve always wondered what that saying meant – I mean, does dirt really pay anything? Well, I suppose if there were gold nuggets in it or something, but I digress).

I woke up in my closet. And like always, I had no idea how I got there.

Excited, I stumbled out of my closet and checked on the video camera – it was still running.

I nearly hyperventilated as I stopped the recording. I had to stop and catch my breath because my head started to feel as if someone had stuffed cotton into my ears. Once my vision cleared, I fumbled with the camera for a bit before I figured out how to get back to the beginning.

I pushed play.

There I was, quietly sleeping away. My shoulders gently swelled with each breath. I looked so peaceful. I looked like an angel.

Well. I did.

I smiled. I was finally going to get my answer! Who needed a psychiatrist! I was smart enough to figure my own problems out!

After watching me sleep for nearly five minutes, I got bored and fast forwarded it through twenty minutes of footage. I giggled as I watched my shoulders quickly move up and down with each accelerated breath.

My image blinked out and static appeared on the tiny screen. I took the video out of fast forward mode and played it.

The sound of white noise filled the room. My sleeping image disappeared.

“Stupid camera!” I pushed the fast forward button again and a picture of my room suddenly popped back onto the screen.

Only, I wasn’t in bed any longer.

I was no where to be seen.

I pushed the fast forward button again until the closet door opened and I stumbled out, sleepily rubbing my eyes.

The camera was apparently working fine. But for some reason, it refused to record the one thing I wanted to see above all else.

Why would it do that?

I had been curious to find out how I got from my bed to the closet.

Now I was scared.


(By the way, this odd piece of fiction was inspired by the following Post Secret).