Fiction Friday: Lemonade with Aunt Sandra, Part 1

(Inspired by this picture writing prompt from the Hedgebrook Twitter feed.)

Bart snapped a picture with his phone, his overactive mind already weighing the benefits and limitations of Clarendon vs. Sienna. This was not a #nofilter moment. The setting was as dreary as his mood. He wanted to be at Aunt Sandra's house as much as he wanted a hole in the head. He contemplated the origin of that archaic phrase as he swiped at his phone.

"You kids and your phones," his Aunt Sandra said as she approached. "I brought you out here to see your face, not the top of your head."

Bart didn't look up, defiantly protesting that he was summoned at all. "I'll just be a second."

She held out her hand. "Just for ten minutes so I can tell you something. Come on."

Her tone left no room for argument. Bart abandoned his picture posting and locked his phone before placing it in her palm. "Thank you," she said as she sat in the opposite patio chair.

Bart stared at her matching melamine pitcher and tumblers as she poured them lemonade. "If this is about what I did to my mom's car, you don't have to -"

"I have cancer."

Bart's head snapped up. Aunt Sandra was still pouring herself lemonade. "What?!" he sputtered.

His mother's hippie sister sipped her beverage, then said simply, "It's stage four pancreatic. They caught it too late. And we all know what happened to Patrick Swayze."

Bart had no idea who Patrick Swayze was, but his eyes began to well up immediately, all his hip 15-year-old bravado gone.  "No...no...Aunt Sandra..."

"I'm throwing a party next weekend and I was wondering if you could DJ. Your mom says you're getting pretty good."

Bart broke down into tears. "What are you talking about? I...I can't..." He sobbed, choking on the smell of aging plants from her brownish yard.

His aunt got up from her plastic chair and went over to him, pulling his hunched body close to her. "It's okay, buddy. I've had a great life, really. I just want to go out in style."

She let him cry for another stretch before slapping him on the back and saying, "You can finish crying when you get home. This is my time now and I want to hear about what you did to your mom's car."

(To be continued...)

Diving Into That First Line

52 weeks of writing prompts in Barbara Abercrombie's A Year of Writing Dangerously: 365 Days of Inspiration and Encouragementand I'm tackling them all!

Week 1: What is your own metaphor for fear of writing that first line?

Writing is like skydiving.

(Or at least what I imagine the act of skydiving feels like. I haven't done it myself - perhaps out of indifference but more likely because of fear and an aversion to the high price tag - but let's not get into that now. This is about the metaphor.)

Writing is like skydiving. You have an idea - a concept that you think you'll enjoy writing. The desire to explore that idea is strong enough to get you onto the plane. Maybe you've even hopped on before, so you have a bit of bravado. In any case, before you can have a second thought, you're on board. Pen in hand, blank page open.

The plane takes off, and that is the moment it starts - the panic, the doubt, the fear. It doesn't creep in slowly as you lift off the ground. It hits you instantly and forcefully in the chest, like the boot of an MMA fighter on steroids. What the hell am I doing? Why did I ever in a million years think I could do this? How do I get off this God forsaken plane and back on the ground where it's calm and safe?!

A plane ride to the proper skydiving altitude probably takes at least thirty minutes, but for a writer, these feelings come in powerfully and at a terrifying decibel in the nanoseconds after grasping a pen or opening a laptop. It's instantaneous and debilitating.

And just like in skydiving, the brave ones dive. They breathe in the fear and jump anyway. It doesn't matter why they jump - everyone finds their own reason for bravery. Some have a passion that outshines their fear. Others turn off their brains and just go, go, go.

Me? I hold on to my faith. Faith in myself, faith in my ability, and faith that I learn every time I write. I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. I've jumped before and survived. I can certainly dive off one more time. Why should this be the day that stops me?

I stuff down the fear and I write. I let go of needing it to be elegant and graceful and I just do it. My penmanship is atrocious and there are scribbles everywhere, but I don't care.

I dive.

I write.