K - Karl

It wasn’t a long date but it was a memorable one. I gauged the timeframe perfectly, with everything ending on a positive note. But as I sit and reflect on the evening, a steady uneasiness builds, founded on no discernable cause, but none the less, a feeling not easily dismissed.

My mother had a sixth sense that proved over time to be rather accurate in its predictions. She could pick out a looser with very little exposure. I remember in particular the young man I dragged home from a hockey game one evening when I was in high school. Although I must admit he was a bit peculiar, I was daft and wouldn’t admit my own concern, just on principle. He was kicked out of school the next week and I never laid eyes on him again – satisfying us both.

“I really don’t want a sixth sense,” I think to myself. “I would rather use logic and reasoning to figure things out.”

Grabbing the remote control, I drop into the wing back chair. “There must be something I can watch to help clear my head. Great! America’s Most Wanted.”

And whose face is plastered all over the screen? Karl’s! My date! As I listen to the list of charges outlining a lengthy bout with crime, I thank God, and mom, for my sixth sense and wish everyone was so gifted.

Written in response to the "K" prompt on ABC Wednesdays.

The Scent

I linger beside Martha’s bed and listen to her shallow breathing as the clock ticks onward. Hour after hour passes and the air in the room becomes stale and pungent, rife with the anticipation of death. With each passing moment my heart bleeds anguish and my soul reels from the eminent loss.

“Where are you Lord? Why does she linger? Are there so many people passing through the pearly gates that she must wait in line? Or is her fate not yet sealed between a judgement of heaven or hell? Are you giving her time?”

The sound of footsteps breaks the silence as a stranger enters the room and moves towards the bed, disturbing my thoughts. A peaceful presence accompanies him; another new nurse, I decide. Laying his palm across her forehead, he takes Martha’s frail hand in his and begins to gently massage it. His soft voice whispers secrets to her dying frame, drawing her focus towards him. I arise from my chair and settle beside her on the bed.

“Will you yet rebel against your Lord and Saviour, Martha?” I hear him inquire. “Will your last breathe bring the hope of heaven or the pain of hell? You know the choice you must make. I am only here to remind you one last time. The decision has always been yours.”

I watch as Martha’s eyes close, forcing tears down her cheeks. Her breathing ceases and her body relaxes in death. Laying her hand gently on the bed, the stranger turns to leave. As if disturbed by his movement, a soft scent fills the air.

“Do you smell the perfume?” Without taking my eyes off of Martha, I reach out and grab his arm, needing him to answer.

“It is the scent of a new Christian,” he rejoices, as the arm held tightly in my hand simply disappears.

This is written in response to a prompt from Magpie Tales.

Clean up your act ...

“There was a time when you would be anxious to slide your feet out from under the covers and place them on the cold, pristine floor of the dormitory, but not this day. Today is your one year anniversary as a recovering alcoholic and you should be celebrating. But it’s also another anniversary isn’t it; one that doesn’t bear commemorating.”

“Do you remember the occasion? Does your mind replay the events over and over or have your hardened your heart against the fray?”

“Wake up! Get out of bed! You need to remember! Let me help you...”

“Twelve months ago to the day you were traveling home from a weekend party at Becky’s, still hung-over and suffering from a lack of sleep. Anxious to get there in time to shower before going to work, you were traveling too fast for conditions, as usual. Think! What did you see when you sailed around the last corner before the flats? Come on! What did you see?”

“Let me help you with a few more clues! It had four feet and a young girl on its back. And what were they doing? They were out for an early morning ride, enjoying life. “

“Look at you. Each day you remember those events as if they were today, crystal clear and poignant, don’t you? When are you going to start living your life again? Get over it. It’s not just about you, you know. “

You stumble out of bed and make your way to the bathroom sink.

“What use are you anyway?” you continue to rail into the mirror. “Clean up your act and get on with it.”

Does this work as an example of 2nd person writing? Written in response to the prompt "clean" from Sunday Scribblings.