An Enchanted Evening?

I love romance and romantic musicals, especially from the 40s and 50s. One that I never really took to, though, was South Pacific.  The song, Some Enchanted Evening, sets up unrealistic expectations about love at first sight. (Never mind the hundreds of other musicals that set up unrealistic expectations of love at first sight…) So I rewrote the song for the modern woman which, while maybe more depressing, is a sight more realistic than whatever lovey-dovey bull Rodgers and Hammerstein were slinging back then.
Here is:”A Disenchanted Evening:
Some disenchanted evening, you will see a stranger,
You’ll see many strangers across a crowded bar,
Some tall and some short, rich ones and poor
All trying to chat you up while you try not to snore.

Some disenchanted evening, someone will cop a feel,
Someone will grab your butt, and you will throat punch them
It’s not 1950 anymore and you’re self-actualized, not a toy,
The sound of their whining and gasping, will bring such joy.

Why didn’t you stay home? You’ll ask yourself many times.
Foolish and hopeful, you know you prefer Netflix guys!
Some disenchanted evening, you’ll not find your true love,
He’s not at a crowded pub in a smoke-filled room,
So fly far away, stay at home in your sweats binging TV
It’s better to dream alone than be saddled with a man-baby.
Once you’ve found the perfect series, binge until you’re done,
Once you have found it, you will never be alone!

https://onedailyprompt.wordpress.com/2019/03/03/your-daily-word-prompt-enchant-march-3-2019/

Dry cleaner

 

I wish there were a dry cleaner for the soul

Wait ten minutes, we’ll mend any holes!

Clean out the soot, remove all the stains

Have it back in a flash, free from all pain.

 

But then what would I do with a soul sparkling clean?

While my thoughts are riddled, ugly and mean

This pure soul would take a look at the shell

Who’d housed it in good, yet brought it through hell.

 

It would want to flee, fly far from its home

But knowing to do so would leave me to roam

Without a beacon, some promise of hope

Body without soul is unable to cope

 

Instead of fleeing into the light

My soul would give over with nary a fight

And so I’d be saddled once more with a hole

Which used to be, once, a beautiful soul.

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019

 

Take me Apart

Tickle my toes

Lap over my feet

Lick up my shins

Burn thighs with cold heat

 

Craddle my buttocks

Release all my strain

Peel back my skin

Expose all my pain

 

Dissolve my bones

Take me apart

Stop breath in my lungs

Surround my cold heart

 

Gurgle your way

Through throat and nose

Seep through closed lids

Bring life to a close

 

Quiet the mind

With your soothing song

Take me away

From sorrow too long

 

Lift me on cool, salty waves

Carry the seafoam, the debris

The driftwood

And me

 

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019

Nothing

The decision once made formulated with surprising ease. After a decade and a half of marriage, she had imagined it would have been harder to plan her partner’s demise. Should have been harder. Yet once the idea implanted itself in her mind, it grew with ferocious tenacity, its toxic roots wrapping her in the satisfied flush of suppressed vengeance at last unleashed.  

He grunted, and her single-minded focus slipped, allowing her icy, calm reserve to fracture and reveal the loathing she kept hidden when he was around. As if he noticed. Sipping her wine, she regarded the man she had once loved over the rim of her wine glass. Head lowered over his plate, bald head shining in the yellow glare of their dining room light, he shoved his food into his mouth with single minded intensity, the small grunts he made as mundane as the whole of their marriage. As mundane as the day she realized she no longer loved him.

It was a Tuesday last April. He came home from work like any other Tuesday, threw his coat onto the floor and slumped into his chair. He looked tired, and she noticed for the first time how anger and resentment had warped his once handsome face. Deep lines surrounded his eyes and mouth and he sighed, catching her staring at him.

“What are you looking at?” he had asked, his voice flat and distant. No warmth greeted her in his chocolate gaze. No smile curled his handsome mouth. He was a stranger to her. And then she knew.

“Nothing. I’m looking at nothing.”  

“Then stop standing around and get me something to eat. I’ve had a long day.”

As if she hadn’t. As if she weren’t as tired as him. But it didn’t matter. It never did.

At first, she considered ending her own life, but that only ended her misery while causing him a minor inconvenience. No, he needed to suffer as she had done. She wanted to watch him as he died, to revel in the exact moment he realized his life was ending. No one would blame her. He had long since ceased to resemble the man she had married. His twisted sense of justice and fairness had taken whatever love they had once shared and warped it, choking the air from their marriage like strangle weed in a garden once full of brilliant blooms.

“You look tired,” she said, placing her wine glass on the table. “Maybe you should take a bath tonight.”

He grunted his response. Undeterred, she rose and poured the remainder of the wine into his near-empty glass. She gave him what she hoped was a coy glance from beneath her lashes. ¨I can join you.” The startled lift of his brows emboldened her to continue her role, but she feigned indifference and shrugged a shoulder. ¨If you’d like.”

She lifted her wine glass between thin bloodless fingers and sashayed up the stairs, her pounding heart almost eclipsing the hurried scraping of his chair over the wooden floor. His haste amused her, something of which she little experienced. Yet, she had to bite her tongue to stifle a giggle. Nerves, perhaps, or maybe something more. There was some sort of poetic justice her husband would die with a plan of his own creation, a plan he had suggested with arrogant flippancy in the early days of their marriage when all was starlight and moonbeams.

“If you ever want to kill me off,” he had purred in her ear, water droplets trickling down the sensitive cord of her neck, “love me in the tub like this and I’ll be so spent you could push me under with a finger.”

Of course it would take a little more than a finger to finish the job, but she had planned each moment with military precision, starting with when he had walked through the door this evening.

She glided into the bathroom and turned her head over her shoulder to gift him with a sultry smile. Despite her open invitation, he hesitated at the threshold. Loosening the belt around her green silk wrap-around dress, the slinky material slide down her shoulders, caressed her buttocks and pooled around her feet.

Turning, she unbound her hair and swung the heavy mass of thick black curls over her bare back. “What are you waiting for?” she purred.

“Nothing,” he said, pulling his shirt from his waistband and shucking his trousers with fumbled haste. “Absolutely nothing.” He closed the door with his foot and pulled her into his familiar embrace.

“I thought that might be your answer,” she said.

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2019

Mom of the Year

15 y/o: Grandma said we can spend the night, and she’ll bring us back tomorrow afternoon sometime. We’re leaving in an hour.

Me: Really? That’s so awesome! You’ll both be gone for a whole day.

15 y/o: Hey! What the heck?

Me: I mean, I’ve got a lot of important stuff to do.

15 y/o: ….

Me: Fine. Imagine I said something that doesn’t make me sound like a complete jerk.

15 y/o: You love us and will miss us.

Me: Sure, let’s go with that.

***

Here’s a picture of my important stuff.

IMG_20180805_185845960.jpg

 

Playing Doctor

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Me: You know, I only need 2 more classes and I’d have another Masters, but in ESL/Bilingual education, not just education.

Hubs: A double Masters. Just think how close you’d be to a doctorate at that point.

Me: I don’t want a PhD.

Hubs: Dr. Sara.

Me: Too much work.

Hubs: Is there a doctor in the house? Why yes there is. Dr. Sara.

Me: Saying my name like that isn’t going to convince me to go for my PhD, unless you’d be my nurse.

Hubs: I don’t have that kind of training to-

Me: (wiggling my eyebrows) Not that kind of nurse, stud.

Hubs: Get the degree and I’ll buy a damned nurse’s uniform off of Amazon.

Me: I look forward to scrubbing in with you.

Hubs: Happy to assist, doctor.

Long story short, I might be getting my doctorate. Oh, and married innuendos are the best.

Aura

I start a lot of stories. Some are to express a feeling in a moment and once the initial need has been itched, I abandon the story. Some stories are left unfinished because of lack of time or ideas. This one was put aside because after writing a descriptive exposition, I had forgotten how I was going to continue. Maybe I will take it up again. If I can determine what is going to happen, that is. 

***

There was a booth set up at the fair one year, a small tent set apart from the others. Its edges were ragged and the stripes, once a brilliant blue and green had faded over time until the blue and green wove in and amongst each other until it was impossible to tell where one color ended and the other began. A small handwritten sign, almost obscured by the large, overgrown bushes which dwarfed the tent, welcomed all those who believed to finally see.

Curious as to what the cryptic sign meant, my friends and I paid the admission and waited within. It was cramped inside the small tent, and despite the heat from the electric fireplace humming in the corner, I remained chilled to the bone while my two friends removed their jackets, hats and gloves, shedding them much as a snake would its skin until the floor was littered with garments. 

While the other girls chatted in hushed voices, I looked around the tent at the meager furnishings, the worn fabrics draping the sides of the tent from floor to ceiling and the various photographs lining the wall and cluttering the tables. From the corner of my eye, I saw a blur of movement, but when I turned there was nothing there but the gentle swish of the fabric as it moved in time to the swaying of the tent.

That’s when I saw it. Off to the corner and almost obscured by a long drape of fabric, a tall, round table stood apart from the rest. In the center stood a single wooden picture frame, devoid of any photo. It was odd, the empty frame, and I reached to examine it in more detail when she walked in.

She was a small woman with deep brown eyes and curling black hair which hung down to the middle of her back.  Faded denim jeans clung to her hips and thighs and she wore a worn, blue, cotton t-shirt which proclaimed ‘I’m psychic. I knew you’d read this.’ When I looked down, I was surprised to find her barefoot in the middle of November.  The small toes which peeked out from the edges of her jeans were painted a startling purple and adorned with small, metal bands, the only jewelry she wore.

Walking past us, she approached the large, circular table dominating the room. From underneath, she rummaged in a storage container of sorts and soon items appeared on the table: a camera, several small fabric bags, a candle and a crystal ball. She arranged her odd assortment of items on the table, and, as a finishing touch, lit the single candle. When the warm glow of the fire flickered and took light, her back stiffened and her arms stilled at her sides.

“We have company,” she whispered. Her eyes scanned the room but seemed to pass right through us. Before any of us could speak, she motioned to the chairs circling the table. “Please. Sit.”

(C) Sara Ackerman, 2018