a story

the inspiration for a story I wrote for a collaborative art journal with my friend, Robin

He smoked Gitanes one after the other, and she fell in love with him anyway.  Maybe it was the pea coat and skinny jeans with loafers.  Maybe it was that he was French and leaning on the rail of a bridge over the Seine.  Maybe it was the sparkle in his eyes.  But, probably it was that he grinned and caught her eye when she walked by with her sister.  She was used to being invisible when her sister was near.  Choosing her was like choosing the serviceable beige raincoat instead of the red dress with a skirt cut for dancing.

One glance.  One grin. One "tres jolie", and he changed everything.

Maybe she wasn't a beige raincoat.  Maybe she was a pale blue sundress with tiny mother of pearl buttons.  Not made for dancing.  Made instead for everyday beauty.

Oh, she would love that French man for always.

  the original artwork by Robin Laws in an art journal we are creating together

a happy house

It was her favorite house; the one she dreamed of owning some day. Megan wasn't sure exactly why she loved it so much. She guessed it just looked like a happy house. Like a house where mothers sang their children to sleep and woke them up with kisses. Like a house where birthdays were never forgotten and the walls were happy colors—the pale yellow of the early morning sun and the soft lilac of an evening sky.

When the house was hers she would add a brass mailbox and lace curtains. She'd plant roses and hydrangeas along the foundation. She would paper the sloping attic ceiling with rosebud wallpaper and find two iron beds that just fit underneath. She'd let her daughters share that magic space. She would fill that house with children. Happy children. Children whose mother wouldn't walk away to chase a dream. Children who were their mother's dream. Children who would never know a day without love. Children who would have a better life than hers. It was fierce, this need she had.

And this small, solid house seemed somehow just elastic enough to hold all her dreams.

Brave in Lace

This is the painting I bought at Art Walk back in December. Jeffrey asked me why I loved this simple painting so much. I said, "It whispers a hundred stories." He said, "Tell me one."

She lives at the cliff's edge in a house miles from town. It's just a small house. Really not much more than a bunch of old boards hammered together. It seems to hunch over in the cold light of dawn like a girl with a too-meager shawl. Aside from the view, the only remarkable thing about this place she's called home for so long is the curtains. Lace. Beautiful lace. Those curtains always remind her of Mr. Dicken's description of the female Cratchits "brave in ribbons." Her house was brave in lace.
She was going to miss that lace. And the view. And the sound of the surf that is so much a part of her, she breathes in time to it. How can she leave?

How can she stay?
It's 1928. Her father is in jail for bootlegging. Each night her mother coughs blood into a lace-edged handkerchief. Her brother has taken over the family business and spends most of his time in the woods. Or on the run. The government men often come around, asking questions. A young, good looking one tried flirting with her the other evening. As though big brown eyes and a nice smile could make her forget herself. Forget what she owes her family.

... It was a nice smile, though. A little dimple at one corner. Never mind.

She has dreams. Big dreams. And no time to waste. She knows this is the moment. She knows that if she doesn't leave now, she never will. If she doesn't leave now, that editor will give her job to someone else. Her mama will grow weaker and she'll find more and more reasons to stay. She'll end up breaking the only promise her mama ever asked her to make. And so she must go.

She places her father's old fedora on her head. No jaunty angle - she's too nervous for that. But the old hat warms her and somehow lends a bit of courage. Her mother is sleeping peacefully for once. Better not to wake her. A gentle kiss on the brow and the goodbyes are finished. She closes the door quietly behind her.

Without looking back, she walks away.

Eric Vaughn called this painting "The Last Happy Painting." I wonder why?
This is my first time to participate in Gigi's Freewrite Fridays. I hope you'll join us. It's great fun.