If you followed me back in the olden days 😉 , you might remember that I used to write quite a number of serials. Now I just eat them (cereals). J/K . But I thought, well, we’re smack dab in the holiday season, so why not?
And, again, in them olden days, I would have used WordPress’s daily prompt word as a starting point. Ah, well. Que sera sera. Instead, I’ll be integrating word(s) provided by Word of the day challenge and/or Fandango. And many thanks to both of these bloggers for stepping up. (I still shake my fist at WP for letting us all down on that and I’ll stop here before I go off on a harangue.)
I’m also try to find my writing humor again (presuming I ever had it.) So forgive me if some falls flat. They say the worst thing you can do to write funny is try too hard.
All of the entries will be 500 words or less–one sitting reading! As always, I’m open to comments or suggestions, so just drop a line or two or three…now more than that (kidding).
Here we go!
The Bat Out of Hell Returns!
I flick off the radio. It’s filled with “ho, ho, ho” and I’m filled with “no, no, no.” Where’s Alexa when I need her to give me anti-Christmas songs? Or I’m strong and I will survive songs? Any songs but happy, happy, joy, joy. Old car, old me, old news.
Every bit of stress builds up and finds its way to my right foot, which presses just a little harder on the gas pedal, which in turn results in flashing blue lights and a siren that doesn’t play Christmas music. There’s something appropriate in that even if it leaves a sour taste in my mouth.
I pull over. This won’t be a “welcome home, Madeleine.” After being away for thirteen years, I doubt anyone in the sheriff’s department recognizes me. At least I hope not. Those good times were not good for all. I think they had my picture at the center of a bullseye, although I could never find proof. I have some pretty fond memories of my antics, especially with my cohort, my best friend, my . . . thoughts better left for another day.
Rolling down my window, I wait, eyes forward. I don’t even check out—well, not much—the tall, well-built tan uniform approaching the driver’s side. Of course, I’m not noting the ripple of muscle in his forearms. Oh, the deputies have certainly changed since I left. They were all corpulent or string beans. I chide myself. Eyes front.
“Any idea how fast you were going, Miss?” The timbre of the voice is magical, deep, resonating, and . . . somewhat familiar.
“45?” Yeah. No. I’m thinking 75 but won’t tell.
His laugh is dry. “Broken speedometer?”
“I don’t think so.” Naïve and sweet are not in my nature.
“License and registration, please.”
I hand them both to him. His footsteps begin to walk away, stop, and then approach again. This time he leans down and I can feel his stare.
Slowly I look over. Unforgettable blue gray eyes peer back at me.
Let’s call the next thing I do an out of body (mind) experience. My foot jams on the gas pedal and I am jettisoning back onto the old country road, leaving behind my driver’s license, my registration and the boy/man who I abandoned thirteen years for the greener pastures that have now become as fallow as a desert.
And, despite the fact that I hear the siren wailing behind me, I drive like the proverbial bat-out-of-hell, alas from the person who taught me how to drive like one, toward Great Aunt Killian’s farmhouse where I’d hoped to find something more uplifting than the underwire bras that have been the only uplifting things in my life lately. There, Russ will take me to task or arrest me or kiss me into a coma (I bet he’s married with eight children so that makes the last one pretty unlikely). And, maybe I’m a little turned on by this chase because it reminds me of the wild, happy girl who left Conroy, Virginia and not the broken one who’s returned home. Maybe coming home won’t be so bad after all. A woman can hope, right?
end of 1st installment
All entries for Coming Home.
Categories: Coming Home