Detour

The Tenth Daughter of Memory is having a contest. There are nine muses (prompts) and you write something for each. All nine make up one whole story.

The Muses so far and my contributions:

1. "A Random Memory" - Dark
2. "Fear of Writing" - Dismal
3. "An Ambiance of Technology" - Dam
4. "Omitting Your Mistakes"  - Design
5. "Of Feral Mind and Carnal Heart" - Desires
6. "Earnest Mockery" – Doodle
7. "Shattered Mirrors" – Detour
8. "This Business of Jupiter" - Delight
9. "Infinite Possibility" – Dream

Detour


When she was three, she spent hours writing in the sand. Bees buzzed around her head as she sat under the tall, thin pines. She swirled her stick in the white grains, creating dark furrows of meaningful patterns.


< DETOUR AHEAD >


When she was four, she made mud pies. Wet dirt squished between her fingers and toes. She smoothed the surface of the brown liquid earth. She sat the confections on rocks to dry in the warm sun.


At nineteen, she learned how to make pottery. She threw clay onto a spinning wheel, fingers and hands molding and shaping to produce a balance, graceful container. She used wires, sponges, ribs and boxwood tools to finish and decorate each piece. She painted each piece with mysterious glazes that added depth and shine once they were cooked in the kiln.


When she was six, she learned to dance the hula. Her hands spoke as she swayed her grass skirted hips. She danced with other girls in a snaking line on a spotlighted stage.


At twenty-four, she managed a gentlemen’s club. She hired dancers, listened to their Pretty Woman stories and watched as the reality of their lives melted the celluloid dreams they chased.


When she was nine, she took apart her brother’s toy cars. She removed the wheels from the axles, slid the doors from their pins and took out the back seats.


At twenty-five, she rebuilt carburetors on a 1963 corvette redesigned for drag racing. She beaded brushed aluminum for interior panels. She rolled extra wide tires onto racks built into the trailer used to haul the car to the track.


When she was twelve, she drove the family car around the mall parking lot. She cruised wide open spaces on Sunday afternoons when the stores were closed. She negotiated the vehicle between two shopping carts.


At twenty-seven, she drove a tractor and trailer across the country. She spoke on the CB Radio, good buddy, and was serenaded by big rig cowboys singing Sinatra. She froze in Wichita and brazened a hurricane in New York City.


When she was fifteen, she took in a stray cat. She brought the cat into her home and begged it to stay. She tolerated the scratches and bites of the semi-feral feline. She accepted the gifted dead mice left under her bed.


At twenty-nine, she had a child. She gestated a planned surprise. She created her greatest joy and her anchor in life. She birthed her salvation.


When she was sixteen, she took her first job. She went to work because that's what you did.  She joined the paycheck chasers. She became one more cog in the machine.


At thirty, she settled down to one career. She joined a firm and stayed and stayed and stayed. She stayed through the different and she stayed through the same. She stayed through the mind sucking boredom. She stayed until she knew she could stay no longer and live.


< DETOUR OVER >


At forty-seven, she started a blog and wrote.

Flash 55 @ The “other” Chrysalis Stage