Day #1 – The Lifeguard

Short Writings from Silly Prompts,

Chaz was hot. He wasn’t 2026 hot, though. His was more that sort of 1956 beach movie hot with the blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryan sensibility favored during that era. He was buff and tan and wore the oddly fitting men’s short bathing suit trunks that were all straight lines as though his nether region had been redacted by a beige swatch of fabric. The redaction, as it were, did contain one oddly placed pocket that was also starkly rectangular. In that pocket, he kept a gold, heart-shaped locket and didn’t care one iota that this was cliché. The locket didn’t contain a picture of an old flame (in keeping with 1950s vernacular). And there was no secretly stored image of a clandestine boyfriend. No, in a weirdly Freudian twist, it was a picture of his mother nestled neatly into its chamber.

His mother had always been his greatest inspiration. She was an Olympic swimmer. She hadn’t technically ever competed in the Olympics, but she swam in an Olympic-sized pool at their community center. To Chaz, this qualified her as an Olympic swimmer. When he was quite young, he would go with her and watch in awe as she either chopped through the water with total abandon, or swam swiftly and gracefully, like an aqueous gazelle. His mother would invite young Chaz to jump in and join her. She would stand near the edge of the pool and hold out her arms, promising to catch him if he jumped. He waved her away, though, preferring to watch her. He always claimed it was because he didn’t wish to break that reverie.

So the years passed.

Then one day, his mother went into the ocean and disappeared. Just like that. Gone. It was then that Chaz knew he must do the unthinkable. He must become a lifeguard. So he used his dashing good looks and physique to charm his way into a job at a beach resort. As luck would have it, the two people in charge of hiring were shallow and empty-headed, which worked to Chaz’s advantage because he had no formal training to be a lifeguard. He couldn’t even swim. But he believed that if he stayed long enough in one spot on one beach, his mother would someday emerge from the water like a phoenix rising. Except without the fire and all that other pomp. And so he kept watch, his hand always placed gently on that pocket, knowing there was no danger that he would ever lose that locket to the sea as he had his mother. He was far too afraid of water to ever go near it.

PROMPT: Write about a lifeguard at a beach resort who’s afraid of water.

Thrift Store Find

Think About It, , , , , ,

Any way you cut it, the vase was a true find.

Not that Katie was looking for a vase. She’d entered the thrift store on a mission to find a replacement carafe for their old coffeemaker, George. They didn’t make ’em like George anymore. Of course, she knew there were much better coffee pots on the market. Those that could be set to run themselves, to grind the beans, to maybe change your socks, if so inclined. But she loved George. His simplicity. His rustic charm. His smile. Yes. She believed that George smiled at her every morning. No. She knew it.

“Let’s see your fancy coffeemakers do that,” Katie said to her boyfriend each time George smiled. Her boyfriend rolled his eyes. She knew that he longed to banish George to a landfill. This was not a quality she liked in her boyfriend. Along with his overuse of the word ‘dude.’ There was a time and place.

She was having no luck finding a new carafe for George. Although she knew she would eventually, Katie was left momentarily bereft at this admission of failure. Thus, the vase.

It was ‘tall glass of water’ of a vase. Long and slender with smooth, beguiling shoulders. Even if you weren’t into shoulders, you couldn’t deny that this vase had a winning pair. Katie ran her fingers along the right shoulder and felt she may be bordering on violating it. Which was a weird thought. Even for her. She stared at it awhile, pulled in by its cerulean glaze that sent her adrift on an imaginary sea. She blinked a few times and then noticed there were patches of imperfections in spotted browns and greens that brought to mind algae growth. She touched it again.

“George would love you,” she said, if more to convince herself that she would need to bring it home. That way, if her boyfriend questioned her, she could throw George under the bus. She wasn’t above doing such a thing. Chances are, the dude wouldn’t even notice the vase. He wasn’t much of a noticer.

And so she purchased the vase and promptly named it Louise. Louise was only $11. A steal. Especially given Louise’s pedigree.

Louise had travelled only a short way before landing on this Goodwill shelf in East Texas. Her former gig was at the Parkerson Funeral Home, just six miles up the highway. There she had dutifully held a variety of flowers; mostly white lilies, blue hydrangea, and yellow roses. All flowers associated with death; though the yellow rose is also a Texas thing. Whatever the case, the journey to the funeral home had also not been a long one. The funeral home had actually been gifted Louise by an eccentric woman twenty years before who’d insisted that the funeral home was too drab and needed a spot of color. Unclear on the vibe most funeral homes were trying to achieve, she also suggested kerchiefs in every hue be draped over the lamps. The owners felt this gave it a boudoir feel that was wholly inappropriate for a funeral home. So she relented.

Now, how the eccentric woman came to acquire Louise is not entirely known. Sometimes objects travel on haphazard trajectories that defy reason or logic. The eccentric woman defied these as well. So perhaps it was kismet that brought them together. More than likely though, an older relative of the eccentric woman had had Louise in his/her possession before handing it off to her. One thing was known for certain. Louise was born in a small French town in the 1920s at the hands of a young ceramicist. And one of some repute, though no one at the Crockett Goodwill was familiar with her name. Thus, by the time Louise landed on that shelf and drew Katie’s attention, nobody knew of her true monetary value.

Nobody also knew that she’d been purchased by royalty at one point and held poppies and peonies in a palace. Or that she’d found her way to Poland in the hands of a trader, where she adorned the shelf of a small kitchen that smelled of boiled potatoes and sauerkraut and where the flowers she held softened the earthy, dirty foot scent of the cabbage. And certainly no one knew she had been smuggled out of Poland in the late 1930s with the family that fled to the United States.. just in time. Or that she would then settle in Teaneck, New Jersey, until a series of meandering events would land her in the eccentric woman’s home just outside Crockett in East Texas and then the Parkerson Funeral Home. Thus, when the eldest Parkerson passed, and none of the younger Parkersons wanted the too-morose family business, Louise ended up on a shelf at the Goodwill.

But Katie knew nothing of this. Nor did she care. The value of the Louise was apparent to her in her smooth lines, her soothing color, and just how delightful a sister she would be to George.

#5 – What If All Christians Acted Truly Christian?

What If?, ,

The other day, I was hanging out with Jesus at a coffee shop. Yes, the Jesus. I can’t disclose all the details that made the encounter possible, but hallucinogens may or may not have had some role. It’s hard to say.

Whatever the case, I was sipping on a decaf oat milk pumpkin spice latte because I believe in being seasonally appropriate. I’d nestled myself into my favorite corner of the café where I love to sit. On occasion, I will wear a pointed hat and pretend that I’ve been bad and am being punished. This was not one of those days though. I’d positioned myself there mostly because I wanted to be left alone. Then wouldn’t you know it, in walks Jesus (known to some as ‘The Savior’). 

“You seem troubled, my child,” he said as he sat down next to me. 

For a second, I thought it was my actual Earth dad talking to me. But he’s never referred to me as ‘my child,’ despite the high forehead we share. Nor has he noticed when I am troubled or asked about this possibility since the Reagan administration. So it’s been a while. 

I glanced over at the guy. He didn’t appear in the manner I’d always seen Jesus depicted so I didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t wearing sandals or a toga or a golden laurel that made his dreamy blue eyes sparkle. In fact, he didn’t even have blue eyes. He was a well-tanned man with deep brown eyes and an obsidian black beard accented by long flowing locks. Plus, he was wearing a plaid flannel shirt over a Hello Kitty t-shirt. The ensemble was very metrosexual. 

“I guess I’m troubled, yeah,” I said. “The world’s a little scary right now.”

He nodded and sat down next to me. 

Now, I normally don’t care for skeevy weirdo guys I don’t know sitting down next to me like that. But there was something about him that I trusted. (Plus, the effects of some funny fungus may or may not have been kicking in for me.) And the thing is, the guy looked pretty troubled himself. 

“I am Jesus,” he said.

I squinted my eyes and just stared at him a moment. “You mean of bible fame?”

He nodded. “The one.”

I drew a long sip of my seasonally appropriate drink, then sighed. “You don’t look like Jesus,” I said, waving my hand up and down in front of him to indicate his appearance.

“This again,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I spent my life wandering around the desert. If I looked like the golden child that those pretty boy16th century Italians painted, I’d have been blind and probably died from,” he paused then lowered his voice, “skin cancer.”

I just stared at him. “Are you doing a Jewish thing right now?”

“I’ve been trying it out. What do you think?”

“I’d lose it.”

He nodded again. 

I took a deep breath. “I’d just like to state for the record that I’m not one of your followers.”

“It’s quite alright,” he said, hanging his head. “I understand.” His long black locks brushed onto the table. “I don’t believe that a lot of my followers are really my followers right now.” 

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah. Well, that’s gotta be tough.” Because what was I supposed to say? I never wanted followers. Most of the time, I just wanted people to go away. By contrast, Jesus was a born leader and clearly liked a certain amount of attention from people. But to each his/her own. 

He picked his head back up and there was something even darker about his eyes. Frankly, it scared me a little. Especially because I was still adjusting to this new brown hue. 

“At one time, Reverend Hershell Bainbridge would passionately preach my gospel of ‘love your enemies, do good to those who hate you, bless those who curse you.’ It was awe-inspiring,” he paused. “Do you know Hershell?”

“I don’t.”

“No, of course not. Why would you? He’s in Iowa.”

I shrugged. 

“I don’t know him either. Not anymore. Now he bows to a man who says, and I quote, ‘When people wrong you, go after those people, because it is a good feeling and because other people will see you doing it. I always get even.’ And this man means every word of this.” Jesus shook his head slowly and began to mumble. “Boy. When my father made that one, he really fucked up.”

He must have sensed some surprise in my face. “Excuse my French,” he said.

I shook it off. “I’m fluent. In that French, at least.”

“And pastor Carolina Rutherford over in Montana once taught her Sunday school children that those who exalt themselves will be humbled, and those who humble themselves will be exalted. Those were my words! You can find them in the bible.”

“I believe you,” I said, batting away a tiny purple giraffe fly that may or may not have been real. 

“But now she subscribes to the viewpoints of this disillusioned soul who has the audacity to utter, ‘Sorry losers and haters, but my I.Q. is one of the highest — and you all know it! Please don’t feel so stupid or insecure, it’s not your fault.’ I mean, come on! It’s absolutely galling!”

“It does suck,” I agreed.

“And let’s not even get into the whole ‘love thy neighbor as yourself’ rhetoric they preach in the praystation, but see no complicity in advocating building a wall or breaking up families or calling human beings ‘illegals.’” 

His eyes were on fire then and I was hoping he was going to start throwing around chairs and tables as he was rumored to have done in the Bible. That seemed like a part of the book I might have enjoyed. Unfortunately, I was required to read the Book of Genesis for high school English and all the begetting did not ‘be getting’ me interested in reading any further beyond that. 

He then calmed down and looked at me with serious eyes. “The hypocrisy is a big pill to swallow.” 

I nodded knowingly, thinking of the folks I’d lost to the current madness. “Would you like some water?” I asked, pushing over a glass in hopes that it would help him feel better and that if he felt better enough, maybe he would turn it into wine. He didn’t.

He took a big gulp and let out a long sigh. “You know what the worst part is?” 

I concentrated really hard and the word ‘hemorrhoids’ popped into my head. That couldn’t be right though. Then I started thinking how cool it would be to give Jesus the right answer. That there would be some sort of reward in a heaven that I didn’t even believe in. Then I recognized that this made no sense.

“They’re all so miserable,” he said. And I wanted to believe him, which, OKAY I SEE IT, isn’t truly Christian of me. “Hate has blinded them. They can’t see that they’ve ultimately lost.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmm-hm. Because they’ve forgotten one of my most important teachings.”

I waited for him to tell me, but I could see I was going to have to ask. Jesus is a nice enough guy, but he clearly has to have the room.

“Which was?” I finally asked.

”Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth,” he said with a smile. And dammit if I didn’t feel better. With that, he got up, bid me farewell with a nod, and may or may not have floated out of the coffee house on a magic carpet named Derek.