Angie Kinghorn

A beautiful ruin

Jamie breathed in deeply. The air was practically water, the essence of live oak and swamp and everything Lowcountry South Carolina. His shirt stuck to his back under his suit jacket, and he shifted from foot to foot.

David leaned over. “The waiting’s the hardest part, right?”

Jamie looked over the assembled guests, programs fanning like so many butterfly wings.

“Yeah,” he said. Butterflies, he thought. She wanted butterflies.

The first time she’d brought him here, they’d come at night with a blanket and a bottle of wine, looking up through the missing ceiling to the stars. “I love the symbolism of this place,” she said. “It can’t be destroyed.”

Jamie disagreed. “It looks like somebody did one hell of a number on it to me.”

“Oh, no,” she said, turning to face him. “This place is magic. It’s strength itself. The British burned it during the Revolution.”

“Ahh.”

“And then it was rebuilt. And burned again by Sherman. But look around. Listen.”

He drank deeply from his glass and listened to the cicadas.

“See, the altar is still there. All these columns are still there. It’s living, Jamie.”

“Maybe you’ve had enough wine.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s like the ideal marriage. You can torch it, burn it, but it’s going to stand up, even to Sherman himself. It’s beautiful.”

She paused, interwove her fingers with his. “I want to get married here.”

“Nicole, it’s a ruin.”

“It’s a symbol. I want to get married here and have all the guests release butterflies at the end of the ceremony.”

“I like my churches intact, personally,” he said, then kissed her, twining his hands through her hair.

It felt right, whole, smooth as glass, even when he asked her to dance with him there in the dark, barefoot on the grass.

Jamie had come to love Old Sheldon Church as much as Nicole. He could feel the strength of the round brick columns supporting him as he stood, waiting for the day Nicole would walk down the grass of the aisle to him.

She appeared at the end of the aisle now, and he felt it in his gut. Just as strongly as when he’d first kissed her. It was winter on the waterfront, in front of the Beaufort river; she’d tasted of beer and salt and smoke from the oyster pit.

Clutching her father’s arm, she took slow, careful steps toward the altar. He recognized the dress. Her mother’s. She’d tried it on in the attic of her parent’s house one afternoon. He suggested they go right down to the courthouse and find a justice of the peace, but she laughed.

“No, when I wear this dress, it won’t be to a courthouse.” She twined herself around him and nuzzled his neck. “You know where I want to wear this dress.”

She’d added a green sash at the waist.

“Hey, in case I forget to tell you later?” David whispered, not taking his eyes from Nicole, “You’ve been an awesome best man.”

 

This is a fiction piece for the online writers’ workshop Write on Edge. This week’s prompt was to write a piece inspired by the French phrase “La Douleur Exquise” (the heart-wrenching pain of wanting someone you can’t have), and a photograph of Bancroft Tower in Worcester, MA. The combination somehow took me to Beaufort, SC, to the ruins of Old Sheldon Church.

You can’t tell or it won’t come true …

happy birthday cupcake At the keyboard I could lose myself in pages dissecting love. What else, after all, is my job as a wife, mother, daughter, and sister, but to love? We writers cut ourselves apart each time we put pen to paper, searching through the past and the pending for that ultimate point of light, the perfect way to expose the world in just the right way to show our truth.

But to bare all is to risk spilling a trail of white blood as the page itself bleeds with burning words that turn this craft into a betrayal rather than an act of love.

I can still see the candles of this year’s birthday cake, my children’s faces reflected in their glow.

“Make a wish, Mommy!”

I blew out the candles, but didn’t get them all in one breath. And the lighting wasn’t good for the photo.

So the candles were lit again, which was great, because I hadn’t been able to think of a wish the first time. Well, not a real, “I want it with every fiber of my being” kind of wish.

“Make a wish, Mommy!” the twins said again. I looked from their perfect, innocent faces to the candles dripping wax on the cream cheese icing, and I had my wish. A wish I could wish with my whole heart. They helped me blow out the candles, and the second time, between the three of us, we got them.

I wish I could stop being too aware of the pending; to write my truth about the now, without fearing reactions that make me feel silenced. I wish I could feel comfortable writing that the top of the cake was spattered with blue wax and a fair amount of child spittle, and that it was delicious and we all ate it anyway without a second thought. I wish I could pour my soul onto these pages and hit “publish” without fear. Fear of exposing anything too personal about my children, fear of angering people who might not want to be mentioned in my personal writings, fear of more real world consequences like having my primary care doctor fire me from his practice after reading a blog post.

Oh, I wish. I wish I could write about the parts of my children’s education that keep me up at night without wondering if the whole PTA will have read it by the next meeting. I wish certain of my friends in real life weren’t uncomfortable with the fact that I write about depression, anxiety, and postpartum depression.

Sometimes I even wish I’d thought to be guarded enough to make my blog anonymous so that I could say anything.

And yet, I wish for the courage to stay here, to keep my name, and to write it all anyway. I wish for the wisdom to practice this craft responsibly, without recklessness, and yet honestly. And for the strength to withstand the consequences that may bring.

 

 

This piece was written for the online writers’ workshop Write on Edge. This week’s prompt was part of their new challenge to write at the merge of two ideas. For this prompt we were given the word “wish,” and the song “Past and Pending” by The Shins. This new Write at the Merge challenge has a standing 500 word limit.

 

Write at the Merge
Write at the Merge

 

 

The two most famous last words

Stu sat listening to Lola’s breathing. Her skin was ivory wax. Puffs of air escaped through her cracked lips as he strained to hear, adrenaline screaming through him between each inhale and exhale.

Lola woke when the nurse changed out the empty pain pump. Stu grabbed her hand. If he squeezed, surely it would shatter.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, softly.

“What? Who?” Her eyes were glassy, whether with pain or meds, he didn’t know.

“Lola, it’s Stu. You’re in the hospital, honey.” Lord, give me the strength to get through this. For better or worse, I said. This is worse. Give me the strength to give her the peace she needs to get through worse.

“Oh.” Lola looked around, then focused on Stu. She lifted her hand to his face, her wedding band sliding around her emaciated finger.

“Do you remember what Daddy said the night you asked him to marry me?”

Stu smiled. “Hard to forget a night like that. It’s not every day someone tells you you’re too damn young to marry and to get out before they give you a reason to call it a shotgun wedding.”

Lola laughed, then coughed, shattered glass rattling in lungs full of fluid. Stu willed the tears back.

“Was it worth it?” Lola asked.

“What?”

“This,” Lola said. “All of it. Starting with nothing, putting up with me for forty years, and then having my body give out before the warranty was up. You would have done better with Chrissy.”

“It was Catherine, and no. You’re all I ever wanted. I wouldn’t change a thing.” Tears trumped will.

“Not even the dark parts?” Lola asked.

“Especially not the dark parts,” Stu said. “That’s when I learned how strong we are.”

“Not even this?”

“No. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

“Stu, I’m scared.” Lola’s eyelids looked heavier, and he could tell she was fighting to stay awake.

“Lola. Look at me. Don’t be afraid. He won’t leave you, and neither will I.” Stu gripped her hand more tightly, breakage be damned.

“Promise?” Her eyes drifted closed.

“I do.”

 

 

This small scene is part of a larger fictional work in progress. This particular piece was written for Write on Edge, an online writers’ workshop. The prompt: you have 350 words to craft a fiction or creative non-fiction piece inspired by a specific song.

The song I used for inspiration is Andrew Peterson’s “Dancing in the Minefields.” Please, please, please go watch the official video on YouTube. I promise it’s worth it.

Done

When he finally leaves the office, Josh walks out into a clear night and sighs.

“Cig?  You look like you could use one.”  Andrew sits on a bench sheltered from the wind by a marble wall, swaddled in a swath of cashmere that wraps, constrictor-like, from his collarbone to his chin.

“Nah, I quit five years ago,” Josh says.  His iPhone rings, and without glancing at the caller ID, he silences it.

“What the hell, gimme one.”

Their smoke rings mix with fogged breath.  In his pocket, Josh’s iPhone buzzes again and again, a beetle trying to jump out of its shell.

“You gonna ignore it all night?”  Andrew asks.

“Planning on it.  I’m so done for the day.  He wants anything else done, it can wait until–”  Josh checks his watch “–we get in.  Which should be about six hours from now.”

“It’s your funeral.”

They watch the line at The Zebra Room across the street, miniskirts, sequined tops and hair gel corralled behind a velvet rope.

And then she’s there.  A flash of red hair, her green coat.  She’s with someone he’s never seen before.  They move under a streetlight.  He’s tall.  His muscles have muscles and his black turtleneck shows them all.

As Josh watches, squints, she touches Turtleneck’s chest.  Time freezes with the air.  He can see her ring glitter in the light, and as her sleeve falls back, he sees her charm bracelet.  The one she never takes off.  As she laughs, he thinks he can hear the tinkle of the charms from his bench in the shadows.

His phone buzzes.  Across the street, she has her own phone out, and a finger to her lips.

“Hello?”

“Hey, hon!  I just wanted to check and see how late you were going to be.”

Josh watches Turtleneck nuzzle her neck.  Her muffled giggle mixes with the sounds of the others in line.

“Where are you?  It sounds loud.”

“Oh, that’s just the TV.  I’m at home.”

“Well, I …” Josh looks at his fiancé, edging closer to the bouncer.  He reaches for rage but finds only a deep pool of exhaustion.

“I’m gonna be a while.”

“Well, I’ll just go on to bed.  Love you!”

She slips her phone back into her clutch and disappears into the club.  Josh crushes his cigarette and heads back into the building.

“Thought you were done,” Andrew calls.

“Me, too.”

 

This is a fiction piece for the online writers’ group Write On Edge.  The prompt:  In 400 words or less, write a story or memoir which relates to choices and/or consequences. Because of the word limits, you may choose to focus just on the choice, or just on the consequence. Remember to capture a moment using dialogue, action, and reaction.

I love feedback, but I really love constructive criticism!  Tell me what you think.