All Grown Up and No Place to Go

Stories Without Words (again)

Stories Without Words. An Endless source of inspiration (Check the links).

Gently, she placed the phone back in its holster. She didn’t want him bothering her anymore. Every day, without fail, she would get a call from the same number. The same old, tired voice on the other end of the line would tell her that she would only mess her life up again, and he would have to bail her out. Two hundred dollars, maybe, or a trip to AA. A Weight Watchers membership. A loan. A lawyer.

She didn’t need him, even. Sure, he gave her money. But he shouldn’t, really. He was just clinging to the last vestiges of her infancy, clutching at the baby he still thought her to be. Her feet were jabbed into the floor as they carried her to the old ’70s couch that sat dismally across from her small TV. He had given it to her. She could have bought her own furniture. Or found some, by the side of the road. Someone else’s reject. She hurled herself down on top of it, hoping for something dramatic–a spring breaking loose, maybe, or a cushion ripping. Her red dress echoed the screaming color of her brain, throbbing with anger. Her head was swelling, it really was. She pictured it inflating, a giant red balloon, floating away from her. Her forehead whined its discomfort.

She stood up, lay down, and slid herself below the couch. She was six again, staring up at the bare metal, the yellowing polyester batting poking out from the gaps like fungus.

She didn’t need him. “I’m a grownup”, she told herself. “I am.”

The Spectator

This one isn't from SWW. It's a painting by Gustave Caillebotte

The man pushed himself out of his chair, stumbling to the balcony’s edge. He gripped the banister for a moment, steadied himself, then stood straight, staring out at the street below him.

I sat, just out of eyeshot, watching him. His face turned away, I caught only the back of his head and his hunched, sloping shoulders. I stayed still, just watching him watch.

He didn’t seem to be paying much attention, gazing listlessly over the Parisian boulevard. Suddenly, his head dropped. It was as if it had been attached to a hinge, so quick and mechanical was the motion. The man let out a sigh, moving his head along as if following someone walking on the street under him. He snapped his head back up again, and, turning to hobble back to his flame-colored seat, allowed his pallid face to be seen for a moment.

A single teardrop traced a river down his cheek.

Broken

Stories Without Words (See sidebar links)

Lily ran upstairs and crumpled into her bedroom door. She carefully curled herself into a ball and sat there, on the hard wood floor, rocking back and forth. She sharply drew air in, then expelled it with a hiss in time with her rocking.

She pressed her hands tightly to her ears, blocking out the tiniest fragment of sound.

Bang. Scream. A loud, low shout. The sound her jump-rope made when she swung it in the air. Sobbing. Another jump-rope sound. Silence.

Lily swung her arm sideways, groping for the marionette her father had given her for her 8th birthday. Standing, she raised the wooden pinocchio in the air and hurled it to the ground as hard as she could. Lily glared at the thing as it lay there, broken.

The Clerk

Taken from Stories Without Words. The idea is to write a story based on the picture.

William Hardwicke bent low over the cigars he was placing in the display, fat, greedy brown fingers luring the customers into his little shop. His back was stiff and crooked, but he stayed as he was, spine curved, until every cigar was in place. Straightening up, he surveyed his handiwork, sighed, and exited the window. Climbing through the little doorway, he swung his shriveled legs through the opening and slowly eased himself back onto the floor. He walked to the counter.

Raising the chunk of countertop that moved to allow people in and out, he slipped behind the long granite slab and perched on his leather-seated stool. William gazed around the shop, regarding each alcove with a melancholy look. The hand-carved pipes were placed just so under a glass case. Cigar and cigarette boxes were stacked high, in multitudes of sizes and colors. He let his eyes drift back to the ancient brass cash register in front of him, running his greyish fingers along the ornate spirals carved into its surface. His whole hand quaked as he pushed down the DRAWER key, and a black rectangle slid out with a tired clang. A much louder tinkling followed the sound, like an overbearing mother-in-law.

The bell startled William. It was rare to have many customers at all these days. What with all the KPD or LCD or whatever the kids are smoking now, who needs good old-fashioned cigars anymore? he thought. The man who had entered the shop walked briskly up to the counter and began tapping his fingers on the black stone.

“Do you have any electronic cigarettes?” He asked, his tone cold and unfriendly.

“Electronic cigarettes?” William repeated, curiously. “I’ve never heard of those. I can have them sent over, though, if you’ll just–”

“No, no. No need,” said the man. He smoothed his whitish-blonde hair back, stuck out his oxford-clad foot, and promptly left the shop, letting the door bang carelessly behind him.

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