On Being a Girlfriend

via Daily Prompt: Loop

“Hey do you have any spare change? I’m looking to buy something real nice like your girlfriend… not that you’re something to purchase you’re not something to purchase lady,” she uttered with a slurred, yet quick release of the tongue. She thought she had to get it all out in a single breath if she wanted to be heard at all. I can only assume she has mere seconds to make a lasting impression on passers by.

This woman, this street stranger, called out to us as we briskly walked in the fresh fall of summertime rain. It wasn’t the objectification that caught my ear as we trod hand in hand. It was this single word: girlfriend. My stomach filled with boisterous butterflies; my heartbeat quickened. It had been a long time since the word girlfriend meant something simple and sweet as opposed to a sour aftertaste in the mouth. My mind conjured up daydreams of days past in your arms, and days future still ahead of us. In reality, this was our fourth date. The boyfriend/girlfriend titles were not yet brought up in conversation. We were infants, mere children in terms of getting to know each other, but to me it felt as if you were a lost winter mitten found in the wrong season. Something familiar, and something unexpectedly needed as the coolness of Spring lingered.

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Meeting you was a snap decision, gone right. Your teddy bear hugs, your warm embrace and concern for my comfort and happiness is genuine. The way your soft eyes sparkle behind your dark circular glasses plays on repeat, in an endless loop in my brain. There’s new circuitry carved in sulci and altered white matter pathways from my head to my heart. From my heart, to the tips of my fingers and toes, I can conjure up remnants of your touch.

Xoxo, Micaela

Moments Expanded

via Daily Prompt: Volume
Mary Carol and I met touring a gym in the small town I moved to over the summer. This white haired, rounded woman walked with fervor and grace. She took her time reading the instructions for each cable weighted machine with care, as if her life depended on it, which it might have. The weight of her legs, her protruding voluminous stomach and her barely swaying arms slowed her down, yet the smile on her face remained with each strained movement. Her voice, like honey poured into morning tea, asked questions to the seasoned trainer walking us through the concourse. She was ready for a change in lifestyle, and so was I.
A week went by before I saw Mary Carol again. The sight of this lady caused a nerve-like pang in my heart and as it spread memories of my grandmother deep in my brain back towards that heart of mine, a slow smile crept across my cheeks. The loss of my grandmother hit hard. The first month was like living in a sandstorm, my eyes were constantly filled with gunk, I fell frequently as sudden winds took all the strength I had away, and the volume of my lungs severely reduced. I could still smell her smokey apartment, feel her fragile grasp of my hand in her final moments and hear her dry swallow my name. I can admit, I’m still not over this loss.
One look at Mary Carol and you knew she was close to her neighbors, her family, and her community. She looked as though she were once a traveler of the world, with stories intertwined in the wrinkles on her loving face. This grandmother figure probably gardened, made a stellar batch of chocolate chip oatmeal cookies and owned a sofa chair that made you sink deeply into the cushions the second you placed your bottom on the fabric.
When Mary Carol met my gaze, she smiled back warmly. Her crystal blue eyes read my soul in that moment. As if she heard what my heart needed and my spirit desired. I approached her on the stair climber, mounted the machine next to hers. Here, began an unlikely friendship.
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Thanks for reading today, friends! Little pieces of my thoughts lay in this piece and I present this unedited, unfiltered short fictional read with a heart full of gratitude this morning. Elements are taken from my life, with a twist of exaggeration and imagination. Enjoy your Monday!

On Doubt and Bloody Bits

Yes, sometimes I am a mess. I’m more than anyone can handle, well, more than I want anyone to be capable of handling because I am an independent-fully-functional-adult-female. Hear. Me. Roar. But, don’t ever see me weep (or be vulnerable or in pain or in weakness).
I’ve thrown my beating heart at people, bloody and in bits. Each time hoping and praying to God that I’ve chosen a surgeon with gentle, meticulous strokes of the needle (or scalpel, because we all know sometimes things have to get worse before they get better). Bonus points if the surgeon is a buff single suitor, you know, to repair my teenage lust and wandering eyes.
Mending a Broken Heart♡:
Without doing research, without simply checking myself into the hospital where surgeons are known to be, I desperately throw bloody bits of cardiac tissue in the streets. Someone take it, mend it and return it to be in bandages so that the healing can properly begin.
Have your share of my brokenness busy mom in the grocery store, slender young boy skateboarding the local roads and sun-bathing goddess on the beach. Never mind that you have your own wants and worries, and your own scars and mangled arterial pumps. If I am going down in the rabbit hole of darkness, self-loathing and pity you are more than welcome to join. We can wallow together. The waxing and waning moon will be our solace. We will gather, we will find and one day a surgeon will save us.
Other times I think I can do anything.
Clear the walkway folks, Cheeserella coming through. Princess of the local fair – I have amounted to my true potential. 
Take two steps back and a shot of whiskey and everything becomes clear again. Big picture, I am a mere speck on this earth.
I am not invincible. We are not invincible.

Catapult

“Catapult me to the moon,” cried Aria as her father lifted and thrust her tiny body towards the sky with his chiseled arms.

Aria spread her arms wide and pretended to fly away. Her strawberry blonde hair gracefully danced in harmony with the wind. Seconds past, but to her it felt like hours. She yearned to live in the bright sky, the clouds to be called home, and the sun and moon her playmates. With giggles and gleeful shouts she uttered, “Again, Dad! Again!” She never wanted it to end.
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Without hesitation he tossed her over and over again, higher and higher until the sun began to fall.

The pair grew older together and his elbows groaned under the repetitive weight sooner than ever before. By the time the girl was 6 years old, her aged father spitefully continued their ritual. He came home weary. He went to bed weary – in a state of physical tranquility, his mind turned and raced. He plotted and devised plans no parents should ever make.

He dreamed of tossing his daughter into the heavens. He imagined launching his baby girl up to the atmosphere and having her fail to comply with the laws of gravity. Little did he know that his dreams, were her dreams too.

 

Written via: Daily Prompt: Catapult

As I have, and will always love to do. This piece is unedited, raw and random as heck. Thought it up quickly using the prompt and just ran with it. Hope you enjoy, and it provokes some sort of thoughts or feelings.

Xoxo, Micaela