Category Archives: Daily Prompt

The Good Seats Aren’t Reserved for Me

Posted on by
Reply
screen-shot-2016-12-29-at-1-41-22-pm

Cono Dennis

My ears focus on the Sound of the train’s idling, but eager-to-go engines. Where the hell would I be today if I didn’t have those railroad memories chugging along with me, some good and some anything but?

Just as I’m feeling comfortable that I won’t be crowded, I feel something settling into that worn seat next to me, making itself comfortable but making me anything but. It nudges me. I ignore it and then tell it to go away. It doesn’t listen. The memories want me to pay them a little attention. I know this train is about to pull out. I know this train is taking me to Temple. But my mind and my uninvited seat companion start to take me somewhere else, somewhere I’ve already been before, somewhere I don’t care to go back to. It starts speeding me down the track a lot faster than this train is accustomed and a whole lot faster than I can put a stop to.

The first memory is safe. It makes me wish, “If only it could have all been this easy.”     But past wishes were reserved for the other folks with good seats.

Not for me.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper

The Madam’s Worry

Posted on by
Reply

lit-lantern-on-black.jpg

Another one-two-three whiskey slam, and Reba retired to her room. The house quiet, I poured another shot, placed the poker chips back in their slots, and settled my weary bones in the parlor.

I flicked off the chandelier and closed the curtains, indications the bordello was closed for business. Now, only a small flame flickered from the lantern beside my settee. A beautiful house, a beautiful room. The thought of being forced out terrified me and left me queasy. Perhaps the whiskey was talking, making me somber and heavy-hearted. What if city officials dropped my grand establishment from the city’s Blue Book, and Madam Volvino’s House of Disgust remained open?

The room, empty of anyone with predetermined Expectations of me, I slouched on the red velvet settee and took another sip. I remembered that one perfect night with John and then dismissed the memory. Years ago, others saved me. This time, I’d do it on my own.

Excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

 

How do you shake hands?

Posted on by
12

Funny, how a word prompt will remind you of something. A long time ago, when I was fourteen, the pastor leading our confirmation class, talked about shaking hands. He said, “Shake hands as if you mean it. Who wants to shake a limp fish?” We called him P.F. and, for many reasons, he was one of the best individual’s I’d ever met.

For some reason, his unexpected comments about shaking hands stuck with me. Shake firm. Show your strength. Show  your character.

So, I began shaking with confidence even if I didn’t feel any. That’s when I noticed the different kinds of handshakes on my receiving end. The limp fish. The Lukewarm I-don’t-really-want-to-meet you kind; the one’s with, egads, two fingers.

Decades later, I realize I have formed my own version of a handshake. The main difference is that I don’t do the pump up and down. I grab hold, look in the person’s eyes as if they are worthy, and don’t let go until I feel as if I’ve truly “met” them. Sometimes, I will put my other hand on top for good “measure.”

How do you shake hands? (Or do you just fist-bump? 🙂 )

Oh, and if you are shaking a paw, always do it gently!

Don’t criticize those who are “different”

Posted on by
1

I don’t want to answer any more of her all-the-time questions. So I ask, “Where’s Scooter?”

“Behind on his school work. No surprise there.” She laughs, but I know her son lagging behind in this world rubs blisters of worry under her skin. “He’s home with Leonard,” she continues. “I’ll swannee, my poor husband doesn’t have much hair left from the strands he pulls out trying to help Scooter.”

“Hmm,” I say, looking at Choppers.

Kids at school say Scooter’s grain elevator doesn’t reach the top of the silo. That he acts more like a six-year-old than a thirteen-year-old. They don’t know Scooter like I do. He might not be the brightest penny in the cash box, but I’ve known him all my life. He has more grain than most of the numbskulls in Holly Gap, Texas and Scooter’s worth more than the whole lot of them. Wherever Scoot skips, bounces or walks, goodness sprouts in the footsteps he leaves behind. Without Scooter, everything would grow dead.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

Daily word prompt: Criticize

“Boys that age get a little carried away”

Posted on by
1

I muster up Miss Brave. “Daddy? Can an almost twelve-year-old have a friend that’s almost fourteen?”

“Of course, Sugar Pea.”

“Even if it’s a boy?”

Daddy sighs and creases his forehead. He places both hands on my shoulders. The pressure feels like serious is coming. “Emma June. Boys that age get a little, a little, carried away sometimes and don’t always think with their heads. Do you know what I mean?” His eyes beg me to understand.

I think of Frank who got carried away with his need for moonshine money and blackmailed me to get it. I think of the man behind the flea circus tent who told his girl, “We’ve been friends a long time now. Time for something more.” Then Carla and me Heard a loud smack across his face and the man yell, “bitch”.

“Boys want more than a girl might wanna give,” I say.

“That’s right. And a boy hasn’t got any right to take it if a girl says no.”

“But what do I have to take?” I never let Frank take my dollar. And I didn’t let Brandon dance with me at the carnival.

Daddy sighs again. “Maybe, since your Mama is away and all, this is something you should ask Miss Helen. In the meantime, don’t let any boy touch you.”

I don’t tell Daddy, but he’d be proud knowing I didn’t shake Frank’s spitty hand.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

 

The Lone Wolf Trembles

Posted on by
3

Carla falls into my arms. Her pale face is scratched up and whiter than usual. Her dress is ripped at the bottom. When I hold her, she feels like a stranger.

Remembering how Daddy helped me the night I ran home from Frank’s house, I steer her to the kitchen, plunk her on a chair, and hand her a wet rag. She won’t stop crying.

“You going to tell me?” I say.

“Oh, oh, Emma. It was … was just awful …. He.. he…”

“Who?”

Carla blows her nose and looks at me like she remembers us being good friends. “He pinned me down. Said I wanted it. Said I’d been asking for it a long time. But I wasn’t, Emmy. I never asked for that! Never!”

She blows her nose again. Her tears are real, like when we were little girls and Stevie told her she looked like a possum.

“When did this happen?”

“Right after school.” She squeezes my arm. “Sometimes? I feel so lonely without you that I think kissing a boy would take my mind off not being around you and Scooter.”

She’s blaming me for acting like a tart?

“We used to have so much fun. But my parents made me stay away from you.”

I’ll ask her about that later. Right now, I think about jelly-mixing. “What did he do to you? He didn’t, you know …”

She shakes her head and cries again. I count to three. “Then what?” I say.

“He almost did. He pulled up my dress. He, he saw my panties, Emmy, my panties! He would have done more but, but we heard Rachael yelling out for me. She didn’t know I’d gone with him behind the schoolhouse. Anyway, he clamped a hand over my mouth, told me to shut up.” She’s stopped crying, but now she’s shaking like a tornado through a house.

 

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

 

Tremble

Stupid pinwheel, stupid me

Posted on by
Reply

I had motioned Mama away. I was stupid because I had to save my pinwheel. Stupid that I let Brandon pour so much rotgut down my throat that I was too sick to leave with Mama.

What if I had given up the pinwheel? Never let Brandon pour that hooch down my gullet? I know the answer. If I’d been well, I would have made Mama stay. In a red chili second, I would have forced Mama and Daddy together to finish talking, to work out their problems.

I lift my head and see the note Miss Delores read to me. It’s three-quarters folded and right then I know something’s funny. Miss Delores didn’t write down Mama’s words from a telephone conversation. I’d Recognize Mama’s writing a mile away.

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

If the Bordello’s table could talk!

Posted on by
Reply

Madame Fannie Porter’s “soiled doves” give Meta, the bordello’s piano player, a gift.

“Meta,” Lillie said, her voice soft, as usual. “We have something for you, too.” She nudged Sassy Sarah.

“Sorry it’s not wrapped.” Sassy pulled the item from her lap and presented Meta with a comb carved with ivory roses.

“Kinda my idea,” Greta said, and ignored Sassy’s frown.

My girls. Their thoughtfulness overwhelmed me. They remained dry-eyed. Maybe too leather-skinned from hard lives to soften now. Some day, perhaps.

Meta shook her head as she placed the hair ornament inside the box. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“Well, missy.” Reba shook her head. “You sure picked a fine time to come to the big city.”

Meta chuckled. “A doozy.”

“I seen doozies of trouble in my day. Most is harder to pull off than ticks. Best thing? Meeting Fannie Porter. Worst? All them days before.” Reba draped a handmade amulet necklace around Meta’s neck. “For good luck.”

Meta didn’t ask what concoction Reba had put inside the amulet. Instead, she curled her fingers around the necklace then stood to hug Reba.

Reba and I had been worried about Meta after the shooting. Unlike my girls, Meta came from a simple, pleasant life. When she came to San Antone, she had seen the hardscrabble side and had proven herself a survivor.

Meta sat quietly, skimming her fingertips across the tabletop.

“What you thinking, girlie?” Reba said.

Meta let loose a wide grin and glanced at each of us. “So many secrets engrained in this wood. If only it could talk.”

“H’yaw, now.” Greta thumped Meta on the wrist. “Cain’t tell everything.”

We all cackled like a bunch of old women at a quilting bee and that image made me shiver.

unspecified.png

excerpt from The Last Bordello

 

 

Overwhelming

Well, look who showed up.

Posted on by
Reply

Halfway through our first lesson, the door opens in the back of the room. Miss Primrose stops talking about grammar. “Frank, I’m glad to see you made it to school,” she says.

 I hear the whispers before I turn. When I do, my chin drops. This time, I see him in the light. The boy from the thicket. He’s wearing dark circles under his green eyes and the same muddy Keds from last night. But his hair is combed now, parted on the side.

“Students, I would like to introduce you to our newest member of Hilltop School, Frank Sanders.”

 He still has that look. The one where no one can touch him. Like no one’s smarter or braver than him. I know better. He’s scared of dogs—even the three-legged kind.

 He sticks his thumbs in the straps of the suspenders that hold up his Clean breeches then nods to the class like he’s Jesus come to turn sour milk into fresh lemonade.

“Frank lives here now. So let’s make him feel welcome. How old are you, Frank?”

“Almost fourteen, Miss Primrose,” he says like he’s President of Confidence World.

“You may sit down, Frank.”

Frank-Gatsby-Thicket Boy limps to a desk. Without the twisted ankle, he’d sure-fire swagger to his spot like Wild Bill Hickok after catching bandits.

screenshot-2016-08-02-08-55-26

Excerpt from The Moonshine Thicket

photo credit

 

 

 

A Crowd of Resistance

Posted on by
Reply

Mrs. Helen Stoddard of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union speaks to an unruly crowd.

helen-stoddard-175x251

Mrs. Stoddard scanned the crowd. Some listened while others talked among themselves, paying no attention to her whatsoever.

“I grieve with you, citizens of San Antonio. One woman from your San Antonio Women’s Club continues to grieve for her husband, who fell to his death while drunk. Another woman is dead by the hands of her husband, the owner of a saloon. His only defense? ‘I was drunk. I didn’t know what I was doing.’”

Someone yelled, “Drink or not, Carl’s a louse. Never takes me on credit.” The woman next to him punched his arm.

“Who will be next?” Mrs. Stoddard continued. “Will it be your daughter, still in her youth, whose face will feel the wrath of a hand that has held too many whiskeys? Will it be your mother, your sister, or your aunt who will have the misfortune to be associated with a drunkard? Will the man stumble down the stairs of his home and find an innocent target? Point the edge of his knife to her throat? Will she be pummeled by a fist, discarded like a mere piece of garbage?”

“Maybe she weren’t so innocent.” The man, close to the front, laughed. A few others joined his guffaw.

“In the words of the great Elizabeth Cady Stanton, ‘Reformers from all sides claim for themselves a higher position than the church. Our God is a God of justice, mercy, and truth. Their God sanctions violence, oppression, and wine-bibbing, and winks at gross moral delinquencies. Our Bible commands us to love our enemies, to  Resist evil, to break every yoke, and let the oppressed go free…In our creed, it is a sin to hold a slave, to hang a man on the gallows, to make war on defenseless nations, or to sell rum to a weak brother and rob the widow and the orphan of a protector and a home.’”

I turned my back to the bandstand. It was dark now, but the gas lampposts provided enough light to see a shadowy figure behind a cluster of trees twenty feet behind me.

“I’ll be right back, Aunt Amelia. I want to check on something.”

If Sadie was still there, I didn’t want to scare her away. Trying to be inconspicuous, I inched to the left of the tree and then slipped behind it. “Sadie?”

Excerpt from The Last Bordello