Felicia Denise's Blog, page 51
January 27, 2018
Writing and Ballet Dancing
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January 26, 2018
From Coffee to Cocktails!
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January 25, 2018
You know you’re a writer when…
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Anderson Bell and His Dead Lobsters
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Anderson is my protagonist for a proposed full-length romance novel. This is not a story excerpt, but more character development.
How many seafood wholesalers does it take to sell five hundred dead lobsters? Just one. One slimy, sleazy, lying bag of garbage! Rage still coursed through Anderson Bell. Focusing on the road, he took deep breaths trying to calm down.
This was a rare feeling for the forty-seven-year-old restaurateur. Running an upscale restaurant with as many as one hundred employees during the summer months had its own unique stressors. Overbooked reservations, rude dinner guests, sick employees and late supply deliveries were weekly issues Anderson had long ago put in their proper place…deal with it and move on.
He’d learned this as a child from his father.
But the lobsters. The dead lobsters. The five hundred. Dead. Lobsters.
A sense of foreboding swept over Anderson when the delivery truck driver rang the exterior bell for entrance to the back lot.
He was six hours early.
Anderson immediately headed for the delivery bay. Falling into step behind Vance and Eric, two members of his stock crew, the three men silently approached the bay doors. Eric threw the release lever, and the doors began to rise. Anderson couldn’t wait. Just as the doors reached waist height, he bent over and went under them, walking out to the end of the dock.
The driver was already at the rear of the semi, releasing chains and keying in codes to get to his precious cargo. However, before he was finished Anderson could smell it. Spoiled food. Decay. Rot.
The driver smelled it too. He frowned as he caught hold of the door latch and swung the door open.
Simultaneously, the four men took several steps back and turned away. The odor was indescribable. During a special assignment, back in his Air Force days, Anderson’s unit had stumbled upon the decomposing bodies of murdered locals. The fumes coming from the truck were ten times worse.
Vance suddenly ran to the truck, slamming the door closed.
Eric fell to his knees and gagged.
Feeling a wave of nausea, Anderson took a few more steps away from the bay and tried to inhale fresh air in through his nose. Turning back to the truck, he saw Vance advancing on the driver.
“Man, what the hell is this? You got shit for brains or something? Those lobsters have been dead for days!”
“I-I…I didn’t know. I just picked the trailer up less than an hour ago!” He backed away as Vance approached, his hands raised in front of his face.
Returning to the edge of the bay, their words replayed in Anderson’s head. Dead for days. Picked up the trailer less than an hour ago. He didn’t like where this was leading.
Jumping off the dock, Anderson’s face didn’t reflect the pain that shot through his recently repaired ACL. Gesturing for Vance to stop, Anderson questioned the driver.
“What’s your name?”
“Dell. Dell Hanks.”
“Was this a scheduled run for you, Dell?”
“N-No, sir. I just got in this morning with a load of coffee from Georgia. I was ahead of schedule and my boss will get every damn second out of you he can. Anyone else would have let me go home to sleep. But Paul said he’d just got a call for a local run I had to do before my shift timed out. He gave me two addresses. I was to show up at the first one, and they would hook up the trailer, then take the load to the second one—here—and it would be unloaded.”
“Son of a bitch!”
Anderson glanced at Eric who had figured out what Anderson was already thinking.
He’d been scammed.
Anderson Galen Bell had been a mild-mannered, easy-going person all his life…much like his father. A successful and well-respected dentist, Arthur Bell believed life was far too short to spend it angry and vengeful. He and his wife, Sara, had taught their boys it wasn’t so much about turning the other cheek, as it was deciding their own path and who they allowed to control them. His line of thinking didn’t always work, but it had served Anderson well for most of his life.
Now was not one of those times.
“Eric. Vance. You guys get the protective gloves and masks out of storage. And bring some for Mr. Hanks, here.” The driver tried to protest, but Anderson cut him off. “This goes above and beyond anyone’s job description. You, as well as my men over there, will be well compensated for disposing of this nightmare.”
Dell’s eyes widened at the thought of making a few bucks.
“You’re not going to call my boss, are you?”
“As far as I’m concerned, Dell, you made your delivery and went on your way.”
The long-distance trucker relaxed.
“Now, do me a favor, and pull the rig around to the incinerator. It’s to your right over there, down a small incline. Eric and Vance will meet you over there and you can give these poor crustaceans a…proper cremation. Don’t dump the water. God only knows if it’s toxic or not. I’ll go call the water treatment plant.”
Trying not to visibly limp, Anderson returned to his office. Placing a call to the water treatment plant, he wrote down the instructions for getting rid of the tainted water. He then made out three checks, each for five hundred dollars and sealed them in individual envelopes. Turning to his computer monitor, Anderson scrolled through his recent invoices until he found what he was looking for, and made several notes.
Satisfied, Anderson attempted to stand. Pain shot through his knee, causing him to cry out and fall back into his chair.
Dammit! Dr. El-Kass had warned him about doing too much too soon. He had not been happy when Anderson cut his physical therapy short and returned to work. The doctor told him one wrong move could not only undo the repair but also do additional damage.
Anderson Bell had grown tired of sitting around at home with his leg up.
He had an efficient staff and good managers. Luminarias did good business whether he was there or not, and the customer feedback box was always full of compliments for food and staff. But the summer months were special to Anderson. As a child growing up just outside Detroit, Anderson’s family made several day trips to Bayview during the summer, and always spent the first two weeks of July there, without fail. Those trips were the best times of his life, and Anderson couldn’t miss out on another chance to try to recapture the simplicity and innocence of his youth.
Bayview was gearing up for the arrival of tourists and no less than ten festivals before the cool breezes of fall swept in off the water.
Anderson had to be a part of it. It was all he had to look forward to. The restaurant and the days of summer.
Not much of a life, but it was his.
He’d lost his dad to bone cancer six years ago. Sara Bell died less than a year after her husband from a heart attack. Anderson’s brother, Lawrence, lived in northern California. His parents each had one brother and neither had ever left Pennsylvania as his parents did. Anderson knew little or nothing about them or his cousins.
He was alone.
Taking a deep breath, Anderson slowly rose from his seat. The pain was subsiding, his knee almost numb. He knew that meant swelling.
Dammit!
He didn’t have time for this.
Anderson grabbed the bottle of anti-inflammatory pills and swallowed two without water.
Taking a few steps toward his office door, Anderson tried not to limp. He didn’t want to stress his knee or appear weak in front of his staff.
He also couldn’t appear weak during the errand he was about to run.
Clutching the envelopes in his hand Anderson Bell went in search of his day manager, Gayle Norman. He frowned finding her office empty. Passing the banquet rooms, Anderson heard Gayle’s deep throaty laugh. Following the sound, he found Gayle at the beverage counter instructing the newest member of his summer staff on the proper way to change the filters in the ice maker.
“Did I demote you?”
Gayle turned at the sound of Anderson’s voice, already laughing at his comment.
“Bennie’s wife went into labor, Nina had a flat tire on Old Highway 14, and Willie fell off his porch this morning. Broke his wrist. I am the wait staff now.” Laughing at her own words, Gayle gestured at the young woman next to her. “This is Donna, the new hire I told you about a couple of days ago. She wasn’t supposed to start until next week, but she has prior experience, which I need today. Donna, this is Anderson Bell, the owner.”
Anderson shook hands and exchanged greetings with the pretty African-American young woman, and turned back to Gayle.
“Vance and Eric are doing a disposal job at the incinerator. A delivery driver is helping them. When they’re done, give them each one of these.” He handed her the envelopes. “And give this to Vance—I have a quick errand to run.” Giving her the instructions to dispose of the near toxic water, Anderson was already thinking about his next stop.
Shaking her head, Gayle pointed at Anderson’s leg. “That knee says otherwise.”
“I’ll be fine, Gayle, and this won’t take long”, bowing as he backed away, “thank you, ma’am!”
Anderson almost believed he would be fine until he reached the doorway and turned. The jolt of pain caused him to freeze in his tracks. Checking over his shoulder, he saw the two women were back to work and hadn’t noticed his misstep.
Exiting his restaurant, Anderson quickly made his way to his late-model Chevy Tahoe. Taking one more look at the address he’d scribbled down, his anger easily reared its head again as he pulled out of the parking lot.
©2017 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved
January 24, 2018
Retta
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This is unedited excerpt from my 2017 NaNoWriMo project, Sacrificial Daughter.
She brushed her long, dark tresses without thought, mesmerized by own her gaze.
The dark brown eyes, once vibrant and alluring, were now dull and lifeless, witnesses to her lifetime of abuse and excess.
The lines which used to appear around her eyes when she laughed were now permanent fixtures her best makeup couldn’t conceal.
To be seen, her thin lips needed the deep red lipstick tones she favored, or she always appeared cross and sullen.
At fifty-seven-years of age, Margaretta Marie Sellers was still an attractive woman.
But she no longer met her own standard of beauty.
Retta’s looks made her stand out among her contemporaries, which was a point of contention for more than three decades.
But it wasn’t enough for Retta. She wanted to be a standout, regardless of age.
She wanted… needed to be admired and envied by younger women.
Retta wanted to be an icon.
That desire was her downfall.
Blessed with a perfect mezzo-soprano voice, Retta longed to perform in the spotlight like her idols, Marian Anderson and Leontyne Price.
While her parents, Mae and Albert Sellers had the means to finance a music education for their daughter, neither thought it a practical career and pushed Retta towards a business or teaching degree.
Headstrong and determined, seventeen-year-old Retta ran away to find her destiny.
All the sheltered, naive teen found instead were men with little interest in her natural vocal talent and more interest in her shapely, young body and exotic looks.
With promises of fame and lucrative contracts, Retta bounced from party to party on the arm of different men who plied her with alcohol and drugs.
Less than three years after leaving home, Retta returned an alcoholic junkie.
Albert Sellers rushed his baby girl into rehab.
Mae was less welcoming and had little to do with her daughter. During Retta’s absence, her younger brother, sixteen-year-old Joseph, succumbed to rheumatic fever. Mae was devastated. Her gifted and studious son had a bright future ahead of him before illness took him. Yet, her selfish, narcissistic daughter ruined her voice and her life abusing anything she could get her hands on and she still lived… and manipulated her father.
Albert tried to be the cushion between the two women but never got to see them reconcile.
A week before Retta was discharged from the rehab center, Mae dropped dead from a coronary embolism.
Retta came home drug-free and sober but her partying ways were still with her.
Craving the attention of men, Retta put her appearance first and abstained from liquor and drugs.
During a south side party for a local city commission candidate, Retta connected with her first love, Ham Burford.
Now a college graduate working for the city’s finance department, Hamilton Charles Burford fell in love with Retta Sellers when they were fifteen-years-old.
But despite the above average living Albert Sellers made from his co-op farming business, Ham’s parents considered Retta socially unacceptable and forbade Ham from seeing her.
The smitten couple sneak around and get together when they can, but after Retta learned her parents wouldn’t support her music career, she changed, becoming depressed and more withdrawn.
It was bad enough she’d never get a life with Ham, but to also not have a life in music was more than she could bear, and she left on a morning train bound for Chicago.
Now they were both back in Corwin, but any dreams Retta had about being with her first love were snatched away when Ham introduced Retta to Belinda Foley, his fiancé.
Retta Sellers has no time to mourn her broken heart when Albert is injured in a farming accident and dies two days later.
The sole survivor of her family, Retta feels cheated by life and closes off her heart.
She continues to stare at her reflection, her jaws tight and as hard as her heart.
Her hand shakes as she lowers the brush. Her chest burns with anger for the betrayals by those closest to her.
The man she loved.
And the daughter she didn’t.
Retta launched the brush into the mirror, not bothering to shield her face or body from the glass shards.
Satisfied, she stood and left the room.
©2017 Felicia Denise
January 23, 2018
The Last Medal
Image from NCO Journal
Word prompt: ambush
She didn’t need a shrink to tell her she had PTSD.
Virgie Hudson knew of the price she’d paid for thirty-two years of military service – twenty-two of those years… on the front lines.
The day after passage and ratification of SB 1200 allowing women into combat, Virgie left behind ten years of desk and training duties. Like her father and brothers, she would now get to serve on the front lines.
As one of only four women who would lead combat forces, Virginia’s service was legendary. She had numerous medals and awards. She also had numerous scars… on her body and her mind. Virgie remembered all too well how and when she’d received each scar – physical and mental.
For every inch of ground taken, every hill won, every town liberated, there was a memory attached.
The good memories made Virginia smile.
The day her unit entered the town of Ras al-Ayn, the grateful Kurdish women’s militia cheered. After fighting ISIS forces for days, the exhausted women thanked the Americans’ for their help… and for some relief. With American support, ISIS guerrillas made a hasty retreat.
The memories of losing team members played on repeat in her mind often. Pfc. Jeff Ollenbeck – lost to a land mine. Pfc. David Jencks and LCpl. Donald Morgan – killed in an ambush attack. 2ndLt. Shelley Cooper – taken down by a sniper. There were more. So many more.
Why did she survive?
Virgie squeezed her eyes shut and yanked at her thick, black curls attempting to block out the faces of those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
She grabbed the tumbler of bourbon from the table in front of her, gulping it down in one breath. Even in those brief periods when fallen Marines didn’t cloud her thoughts, there was always the children.
The children Virgie couldn’t save.
It took several days to get into the small isolated town east of Mosul. When a ten-thousand member Iraqi counter-terrorism force arrived, militants soon scattered over the borders into the mountains of Turkey and Iran.
Villagers wept as Col. Virginia Holman Hudson’s team set up aid stations. It was obvious many of the town’s residents survived severe beatings and torture. Virgie knew one young woman wrapped in a thread-bare blanket and shielded by an older woman was a rape victim.
A silent signal to her senior officers was acknowledged only by their scattering to inspect the village. One of her team interpreters called out to Virgie.
“Col. Hudson, the children!”
“What about them, Lance Corporal?”
Accompanied by two female villagers, LCpl. Dirks approached her. “A man took the children yesterday morning.”
In rapid speech and dialect Virgie didn’t understand, she did recognize the word for ‘hill’. The woman gestured and pointed at something behind Virgie.
Virgie looked over her shoulder and saw a small, flat, mud-brick building sitting on a low hill about four hundred meters away. With one movement of her hand, the strike team fell into formation, heading for the building. Virgie led them until her second-in-command, 1st Lieutenant Reynolds pulled her back.
“Excuse me, Colonel, but you know I can’t let you do that.”
She nodded once. “Dammit, Rey… find those children!”
Led by Reynolds, the strike team moved forward up the small incline to the building. Virgie fell into step behind them.
They had traveled half the distance to the building when a man threw open the building’s only door. His maniacal laughter was rife with anger and madness.
“Hold fire!” Virgie held up her hand while glaring at the insurgent.
Stepping forward, Virgie questioned the man in flawless Arabic. “اين الاطفال?” Where are the children?
Not getting any response other than wild-eyed mania, Virgie switched to Kurdish. بچوں کی کہاں ہیں?
Recognition dawned in the mad man’s eyes. He lifted his arms and yelled, “کان کے بچے ہیں!” The children are mine!
Virgie recognized the small detonator in his hand, attached to a wire feeding into his sleeve. Before she could give the order to fall back, the crazed terrorist yelled out again, “Allah is great!”, and detonated the bomb.
What happened in the next few seconds was an eternity to Virginia Hudson.
The expression on the bomber’s face never changed as the impact of the explosion behind him ripped his body in half, each section set ablaze. Virgie lost sight of him when someone threw her to the ground, covering her body with their own. Except for the monstrous roar of the burning building, silence bathed the area.
Then sounds flooded the area.
Like a chorus, the wails of the villagers pierced the silence. Virgie pushed against the body holding her down, but stopped struggling and listened. She heard a different noise… coming from the burning building.
With one final shove, Virgie pushed the body off her enough to roll from under and to her feet. Reynolds lay a few feet away rubbing his chest from the impact of her blow. Virgie headed for the building but another team member grabbed her.
“Let go or you’re losing a stripe! I don’t care who it is!”
Anger rose inside of Virginia as she spun around and looked up into the face of Cpl. Lawrence.
“Col.… there’s nothing we can do for them.”
Her body sagged, already knowing the truth. The tears streaming down the big Marine’s face caused Virgie to look at the rest of her strike team. They all wept–male and female alike.
Donnelly watched out for Dirks, now on his knees, giving up the contents of his stomach.
Sanchez clutched the cross around his neck.
Though his face was wet with tears, Gilmore’s eyes flared with rage.
“Dirks? How many?”
Without raising his head, Dirks responded, the words causing him physical pain. “T-Thirty four, ma’am.”
Anger and grief warred inside Virgie. Anguish strangled her heart as bile rose in her throat. Closing her eyes, Virgie called upon the false sense of calm needed to do her job. Opening her eyes, Virgie spoke, knowing Reynolds was back at her side.
“Secure the perimeter, Lieutenant.”
Virgie gave the order almost as an afterthought, not moving from where she stood. Only after the cries for help stopped did she turn to look at the building crumbling in the fiery blaze.
Col. Virginia Holman Hudson knew her military career was over.
She’d had enough.
©2017 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved
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January 22, 2018
Hypocrite
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A scene from an ongoing (never-ending!) WIP . Quinn Landon can’t get a break! Determined to divorce the adulterous Oscar Landon, she can find no respite from her family’s judgment and harassment. Quinn draws a line in the sand when older brother, Aaron Clark, shows up at her job.
Aaron held out his hands in front of him. “Quinn, be reasonable. Just because a man has a little fling or two on the side, it does not mean he doesn’t love his wife.”
She froze, willing herself to not throw the stapler on her desk at her brother.
“What does it mean, Aaron?”
Caught off his guard, Aaron scrubbed his hand down his face, “It just a guy-thing, Quinn. Not a big deal.”
Quinn dropped the stack of files she was holding and leaned across her desk.
“What about you, Aaron? Is it just a guy thing for you too?”
Aaron Clark folded his arms across his broad chest again and returned her glare. “This isn’t about me.”
In the span of seconds, Quinn saw the truth in his eyes.
She was crushed.
Quinn covered her gaping mouth with her hand, shaking her head. She stood and walked over to her office windows still reeling from her brother’s non-admission.
Tears formed in the corners of Quinn Landon’s eyes. No. She would not cry. Enough tears were already shed over a situation that didn’t deserve them. Quinn looked over her shoulder at Aaron.
“This isn’t about Oscar’s infidelity, is it? This isn’t about his betrayal of our marriage, or my… what did you call it? Inability to be reasonable?”
She turned and fully faced him.
“This is about male privilege. Guys just being guys, right? Who else, Aaron? Who else gives lip service to their marriage vows? Junior? Clinton? Daddy?”
“Now, sis. If you’d just calm down and think-”
“Oh, I’m calm, Aaron. Probably calmer than I’ve been in the last five years. I’m glad you came here today, Aaron. You’ve given me not only true clarity, but the resolve to follow my heart and my mind. Now, get out.”
“Quinn-”
“I said get out. And Aaron… never come here again. If you do, I’ll have you removed by security.”
“Quinn! Listen to what you’re saying! We’re family, for god’s sakes!”
“We’re siblings, Aaron. Something we had no say about. But family?”
Quinn returned to her desk and sat in her chair. With a small, bittersweet smile, she continued.
“Family is always there for you. They support you, lift you up and cheer you on. They love you unconditionally. My family doesn’t do that for me. When I think about it, the Clark family abandoned me and supported Oscar even before we were married.”
“But it all makes sense now. I don’t know why I didn’t see it before. No one was shocked and appalled when I found out about Oscar’s first affair. It was me everyone told to calm down. It was me who was told to not do anything hasty… to think things through.”
The small smile faded from her lips.
“It was me who was shamed because I wanted to end my marriage. All because my family doesn’t see adultery as wrong… for men. They rant and rave about the sanctity of marriage and how it’s ordained by God, and is forever. But adultery… it’s just a little thing. A minor detail. Forget that it’s listed in the Bible as a reason for divorce, or on God’s top ten list. No… no. Men are entitled to a little tail on the side every now and then. God’s a guy, he understands, right?”
“Quinn, you’re-”
“How would you feel if Vanessa had an affair? Or two? Three? How many have you had, Aaron?”
“Vanessa would never-”
“Hypocrite!”
“I take care good care of my wife. I’ve given her everything she’s ever wan-”
Quinn bolted from her seat.
“Except honesty and fidelity!”
“I’ve always been honest with Vanessa.”
“Oh! Well, that’s different. If you tell her up front you’re a lying, cheating asshole, it’s okay.”
“Quinn-”
“I believe you were leaving.”
“Quinn-”
“Goodbye… brother.”
“This isn’t over, Quinn Avery.”
“Yes, Aaron. For me, it is.”
He held her gaze as he backed toward the door.
“No, it isn’t. If you go through with this divorce, you’ll pay a steep price you’ll never recover from.” Aaron left, leaving her office door open.
Stunned, Quinn stood there, her mind replaying her brother’s words.
“… you’ll pay a steep price you’ll never recover from.”
What the hell?
©2017 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved
January 21, 2018
Lottery of Life #52weeks52stories
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Apologies for posting an incomplete story this week, but a death in the family took me away from writing. Get to know Delia Freeman and look for part two of her story later this week.
#52weeks52stories: Week 3
Word prompt: Lottery
Word count: 1376
Delia Freeman stepped over the drunk on the sidewalk, not sure if he was dead or alive.
There was always a drunk or a junkie or some other lost soul invisible to society crouched against the back wall of Tilly’s Quick Stop.
Delia wasn’t heartless or uncaring to their situation… she was one of them. Once a young woman with a promising future, now caught in the vicious grip of poverty and hopelessness. If anyone looked hard enough, they might see the former up-and-coming college-educated accountant hidden beneath the layers of depression, low self-esteem, and self-hate.
If anyone looked.
She reached the front door of Tilly’s and had to push her way through the usual crowd of drug dealers, con-men, and thieves.
“Hey, Miss Delia. You looking mighty tasty today. Girl, we need to do some conversating.”
Delia cringed and took a step back. The mixture of stale beer and poor hygiene wafting off the wide-eyed crackhead turned her stomach.
“Man, she is a nice piece, but back up off ‘dat. You know she Perk’s woman.”
Perk’s woman. She was anything but his woman. That would mean she was loved and cherished… and wanted.
But Delia was none of those things. She was his financial support, cook, cleaning lady, errand girl, and punching bag. And when she was exhausted, longing for peace and sleep, he’d climb on top of her and rut like the greasy pig he was.
No. She was not Grayland Perkins’ woman. She was his prisoner.
Delia wasn’t held captive by weapons or threats, but the cruel icy fingers of fate.
Glaring at the assembly of lowlife, Delia entered Tilly’s and headed for the beer cooler.
“Evenin’, D.”
Turning, Delia saw the tiny great-grandmother with the sparkling eyes seated in a camp chair behind the counter.
“Hey, Miss Myra. You doing okay today? Those idiots outside not bothering you, are they?”
“We have an understanding—do not darken my doorway unless you have cash in hand. End of story. No one wants to cross a gypsy.”
Delia laughed and wondered how the old woman did it. While crime was rampant in the neighborhood, Tilly’s was trouble-free. The liquor store a half-block away had been robbed three times and had three attempts—all in less than a year. But Tilly’s didn’t even have bars on the windows or a front gate.
Myra Tilly shared counter hours with her children and grandchildren. While she didn’t work weekends, the septuagenarian was behind the counter Monday through Friday without fail.
Reaching the cooler, Delia had a moment’s panic when she didn’t see Perk’s favorite brand.
The last time she took another brand home, the man flew into a rage, accused Delia of open defiance, and choked her into unconsciousness.
Delia touched her neck at the memory and said a silent prayer of thanks when she saw the twelve-pack on the bottom shelf.
After grabbing a few other items to make her lunch for work, Delia unloaded her hand-basket on the counter.
“Baby, you’re too young to look so tired and beat down.”
“I know, Miss Myra. Just waiting for the winds of change.”
“Girl, you can’t wait for change. You gotta’ make it for yourself.” She rang up and bagged Delia’s items. “Keep on waiting and you’ll end up old like me… and still waiting.”
Embarrassed, the young woman dropped her head.
“I know you’re right, Miss Myra. I do.”
“Knowing I’m right don’t help you either. Child, how old are you?”
Delia’s body went rigid, amazed at the timing of the old woman’s question.
“Today’s my birthday. I’m thirty.”
Myra’s face brightened.
“Happy Birthday, sugar! Shoot! I don’t have anything in here even close to a cake.” She snapped her fingers. “Hang on a sec.”
Delia watched, amused, as the petite senior citizen scurried to the opposite end of the counter. Removing something from a lower counter, Myra returned to her customer wearing a triumphant grin.
“I keep a box of these on hand for the few people who pass through my door and understand fine chocolate.”
Delia’s eye widened as she watched Myra drop three bars of pricey imported milk chocolate in her bag.
Myra winked, clapping her hands together. “One for each decade.”
Delia was touched by the woman’s gesture. The big box store she worked for gave her a twenty-five-dollar gift card, and her supervisor bought her a super-pretzel from the store’s snack counter. That had been the extent of her day of birth being acknowledged.
“Miss Myra, that is so sweet of you. Thank you!”
“You’re welcome, child.”
She grasped both of Delia’s hands. “I know you’re supposed to make a wish and blow out the candles on your cake,” she shrugged, “but no cake, no candles, so I’m making the wish for you.”
She tightened her grip on Delia’s hands.
“By your next birthday, I wish for you to be happy and healthy and doing something with your life you love. And if you haven’t found that special someone, I at least want you to be free of relationships… and friendships that are squeezing the life out of you today. This is my birthday wish for you.”
Delia averted her eyes, blinking to hold back her tears. She returned her gaze to the spry store owner.
“This is the nicest thing anyone’s done for me since my mom died. Thank you, Miss Myra. And I promise to keep my eyes open for opportunities to get that wish.”
Myra beamed. “Good!”
Delia gave her friend’s hand one last squeeze, then let go, reaching into her bag and retrieving her wallet. She pulled out two bills and handed them to Myra.
After making change, Myra dropped the coins into Delia’s hands.
Delia reached for the bills, but Myra didn’t let go.
“Wanna do something crazy for your birthday, young lady?”
Delia tilted her head and smirked. “With six dollars? What did you have in mind?”
Myra’s smile grew as she pointed toward the sign next to the register.
“The lottery? Are you kidding me?”
“C’mon, baby girl, take a chance. It’s up to fifty million!”
Delia scoffed.
“I’ve never bought a lottery ticket in my life, Miss Myra. I don’t even know how to play or what’s involved.”
Myra handed Delia a Lottery form. “Most people play their six favorite numbers and add a random number. Or, you can do quick picks and allow the machine to pick the numbers. One dollar a ticket.”
Delia rocked against the counter, staring at the lottery form. What did she have to lose besides six dollars?
“Fine. I’ll do it. Give me six of those quickies.”
Laughing, Myra turned on the machine. “Quick picks. They’re called quick picks.”
Before Myra could press the first button, Delia yelped. “No, wait! Make it five.” She grabbed the pen on the counter and filled in six circles on the form.
She paused, chewing the inside of her lip. She needed a random number.
Myra watched her and chirped in. “Today’s your birthday. Go with that.”
Delia considered the suggestion.
“Miss Myra, when is your birthday?”
The old woman’s eyes sparkled.
“Tomorrow.”
“No way! We’re birthday sisters? Now I have to use your birth date.”
Delia filled in the last circle and gave the form to Myra. She marveled at the brisk pace Myra keyed in numbers as she went through the process. So much for the argument senior citizens didn’t get modern technology.
“Here you go.”
Delia took the single slip of paper, confused.
“There are six rows of numbers on that slip. Each row is a ticket. Your chosen numbers are the first row, followed by five quick picks.”
“Look at me, turning thirty and playing the Lottery.”
Delia dropped the ticket with her wallet into her handbag and gathered up her purchases.
“Miss Myra, I walked in here tired and grumpy, feeling sorry for myself, but you made my entire day. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, child.”
“I’ll stop by tomorrow to wish you happy birthday.”
“I look forward to it.”
Delia left Tilly’s feeling better than she had in any recent year. She didn’t even hear the catcalls and lewd suggestions from the corner crew.
Nothing could taint her mood. She was happy.
©2018 Felicia Denise, All Rights Reserved
Song Lyric Sunday | “The Comfort Zone” by Vanessa Williams
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Song Lyric Sunday is sponsored by Helen Vahdati. For more info or to join the fun, start here.
This week’s prompt is ‘Comfort’.
For me, The Comfort Zone by Vanessa Williams was an obvious choice.
The song peaked at #62 on the Billboard Hot 100, #2 on Billboard’s Hot R&B Singles chart and #25 on Billboard’s Hot Dance Music\Club Play Singles chart between 1991 & 1992.
It was also nominated for a Grammy Award for “Best R&B Vocal Performance, Female.”
See the #SongLyricSunday pick for my blog, Nesie’s Place.
Disclaimer: I have no copyrights to the song and/or video and/or hyperlinks to songs and/or videos and/or gifs above. No copyright infringement intended.
“The Comfort Zone”
Written by Reggie Stewart and Kipper Jones
Where do we go
When there’s a need to be loved
Like you need to be loved
Oh, I’ll let you know
Just what to do and where to go
Hey welcome to the comfort zone
When you need to be loved like you need to be loved
Welcome to the comfort zone
Do whatever feels right and turns you on
After a hard day’s work
There’s one thing to be certain of
This ol’ familiar love
It’s not unusual to find that it’s sensual
It’s all you need to let go
There’s no need to try
Or compromise
Or settle for another outside of my love
The thing to do
When you get through
Heed the message seek the comfort of my zone
Hey welcome to the comfort zone
When you need to be loved like you need to be loved
Welcome to the comfort zone
Do whatever feels right and turns you on
Hey let me make you comfortable
Let me take control
And give your mind a break from the day you made
Let’s turn the lights down low
And oh the rest you know
I’ll be here for you
’cause you just stepped into the comfort zone
