LJ Idol 10 - Week 4 - Break Week
This was a break week but there were 4 optional prompts.
I really struggled with these but want to keep pushing myself especially when I don't feel like writing.
The prompts were:
Kummerspeck
Jantelagen
Sangfroid
Possum ran over my grave
Kummerspeck
The whisk is familiar in my hands, the smell of melted butter, garlic and flour. The burn in my arm as I mix in the milk. I don't need a recipe anymore, haven’t done for years, this I can make without thinking.
Another heart bruise (I hesitate to say break) has brought me here. A glass of wine sits on the side, condensation beading down the curve of the glass. I take a sip of the ice cold liquid and feel it cool on the inside. Next is the grated cheese. That gets whisked in as well and taken off the heat. Whilst it's melting I check the bacon, cut it into strips and stir it into the sauce.
Finally it's poured over pasta and added to the oven to grill. The glass of wine is taken to the couch and I sit cross legged, wine in one hand, cigarette in the other and wonder what independant woman movie to watch this time.
This one had hurt a little more. He had been the first since the serious bruise, the internal fracture that set me back for months, and there had been promise. We got on well, laughed easily, but that had all changed in a second and now I’m back making mac and cheese like all the other times.
I have always struggled with my weight. I am lucky enough to carry it relatively well though, being tall ish with an hourglass figure. But the hips, arms, thighs...all slightly too big.
In school I was a UK size 10-12. For those not sure of what that means, its small ish. Not those tiny girls you see in American High School movies but normal.
The old adage, I wish I was a thin as I was when I first thought I was fat is so true.
I struggle because I eat my feelings. I have been heart-bruised before and always fall into a bowl of homemade mac and cheese rather than run to the gym. Food is my comfort.
I have been on diets and they have worked for a while but I lack the discipline to stick to them until I am where I want to be.
I find it easier to eat healthily when I am happy. And I am, most of the time. The odd moment of grief, or heartbreak, frustration, a bad day and I fall into a pizza and a glass of wine. But when I’m happy, newly dating, have the attention of someone, doing well at work, contented its the salads, soups for lunch, the filling healthy breakfasts that pass my lips.
On Wednesday I am going to a new group, with my best friend and my sister. I know when I start seeing results I will be happy and keep going. But I am dating at the moment and the risk of getting hurt is great, it always is. Maybe though, this time, if there is hurt, it will be salads and soups waiting for me, not pizza and mac and cheese!
Jantelagen
Cal takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the bar. Its a bar he’d been into many times before, one he’d been kicked out of when he was nearly 18, the manager knowing he wasn’t 21 yet. He was 21 now, older before his time and world weary.
A hush falls over the bar as the patrons turn to look at him. He knows every face in here and they know him. That’s the reason for their distrust, their...he hesitates to think hatred but its there, just below the surface.
“Oh look, the college boy is back from the big city,” Lou, the manager says and Cal raises his eyebrows briefly in greeting as he slides onto a stool. He just wants a drink, his parents had been too suffocating, too overwhelming. It was meant to be a short visit, his mother had put too much pressure on him for too long to come home. He’d reluctantly packed an overnight bag and driven the hours back to his home. The home that holds far too many memories. Everywhere he turns he sees Dyl. He sees Dyl on his bed, school books open in front of his crossed legs, hand tugging at his hair. He sees Dyl when he looks at the bleachers of his old High School, stealing kisses beneath them, hurried and frantic. He sees Dyl as he drives past his old house, standing on the porch with a hand raised in greeting as Cal pulls his car into the drive. He sees Dyl leaving and never coming back in the hallway of his own childhood home.
“Gracing us with your presence,” Lou says and Cal presses a finger to his temple.
“Can I get a Crown Royal, Lou,” Cal says and Lou nods and slides a glass in front of him. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble has a way of finding you,” Lou says as Cal slides a note across the bar. He leaves then, to tend someone else and Cal feels eyes burning in the back of his neck. He hears the whispers as he walks around town and he hears them now. Too good for us now, big city college boy, always did think he was better than us.
It’s a curse of coming from a small town and being different. People can resent your success and Cal has moved on, moved out and tried to make something of his life away from the damning gazes and the judgemental eyes.
He wants to spin on his chair, to face the bar but he runs his fingers around the rim of the glass instead and keeps an eye on the mirror in front of him.
Its always been the way in this town, the masses hate the one that tries to better themselves. They’re afraid of difference, they always have been. That was evident when the poor different boy was beaten half to death back when he was still in High School.
Cal sighs again as one of the patrons whispers a little too loud, and downs the rest of his drink before pushing himself away from the bar.
Be the same, the rules of this town state, achieve...but not too much.
Not for the first time he wishes Dyl was here, to be an overachieving outcast with him. He can feel it, all around, the resentment that he got out. He needs to go back to the city, back to his little life he’s carved out for himself. He doesn’t believe he’s better than these people, but he believes he’s done better, deserves more. Its taken him a while to believe that, and this town, these people with their judgements are not going to take it away.
Sangfroid
My father gets cross about the silliest things. The peppercorns falling on the floor when he's trying to fill up the grinder. His glasses not being where he remembers leaving them. Not being able to remember his password for a website. We all tease him about it, laugh gently and he takes it most of the time with a long suffering smile.
When the real trouble happens, I’m stuck in snow, when my car breaks down, when I phone him late at night and tell him about my unwanted pregnancy, that’s when he handles it better.
The small things irritate him. The big things? Those he handles with a calmness I’ve not seen in many other people before. He’s always the one I want in those situations.
When I need a cry it’s my mother or my sisters, when I need help it's my father. My papa.
I’m 32 now, rapidly heading towards 33, but I still reach for his hand when I need help, I still want to feel the scratchy solid hand against my arm. A pat that’s verges on the rough side of gentle and then a calm solution, a sigh and a “right…” and I feel calm almost immediately.
Sometimes the calm edges towards indifference but I always know he’s there, and he cares and he’s doing all he can to help me.
My father is ex military and sometimes when I look at him I can see the retired soldier, the man that men followed into war. And more often than not, I see why they followed him.
Possum Ran Over My Grave
I’ve never felt alone.
Sometimes it comforting.
Sometimes it scares the hell out of me.
The whispers in the dark, the sound of my name breathed into my ear, the shudder down my spine. There are always eyes watching, heavy on the back of my neck.
They’re been there as long as I can remember. My mother used to light candles, mutter words under her breath, light sage and brush heady smelling oil across my forehead. Like she knew.
Sometimes I see them, the shadows dancing more than normal in my bed chamber, the flicker of the candle light against the damp stone walls turned to shapes that used to scare me. They would always been gone in the morning.
The comforting feelings came in the day, the gentle hand on my shoulder or lower back. The squeeze of my fingers when potential suitors were paraded in front of me, my mother muttering behind me whilst my father spoke.
I never got the chance to ask mother about them, it was always unspoken between us, her with her apologetic eyes and me with my questioning ones. One day my mother was there, and the next morning she wasn’t. Her spirit gone.
The shadows had danced wilder than before that night.
I’ve never told anyone, afraid of the priests with their well meaning methods.
I feel the cold more than normal and shiver at the slightest draft. I feel things that arent there and one day I know they will get me to.
I really struggled with these but want to keep pushing myself especially when I don't feel like writing.
The prompts were:
Kummerspeck
Jantelagen
Sangfroid
Possum ran over my grave
Kummerspeck
The whisk is familiar in my hands, the smell of melted butter, garlic and flour. The burn in my arm as I mix in the milk. I don't need a recipe anymore, haven’t done for years, this I can make without thinking.
Another heart bruise (I hesitate to say break) has brought me here. A glass of wine sits on the side, condensation beading down the curve of the glass. I take a sip of the ice cold liquid and feel it cool on the inside. Next is the grated cheese. That gets whisked in as well and taken off the heat. Whilst it's melting I check the bacon, cut it into strips and stir it into the sauce.
Finally it's poured over pasta and added to the oven to grill. The glass of wine is taken to the couch and I sit cross legged, wine in one hand, cigarette in the other and wonder what independant woman movie to watch this time.
This one had hurt a little more. He had been the first since the serious bruise, the internal fracture that set me back for months, and there had been promise. We got on well, laughed easily, but that had all changed in a second and now I’m back making mac and cheese like all the other times.
I have always struggled with my weight. I am lucky enough to carry it relatively well though, being tall ish with an hourglass figure. But the hips, arms, thighs...all slightly too big.
In school I was a UK size 10-12. For those not sure of what that means, its small ish. Not those tiny girls you see in American High School movies but normal.
The old adage, I wish I was a thin as I was when I first thought I was fat is so true.
I struggle because I eat my feelings. I have been heart-bruised before and always fall into a bowl of homemade mac and cheese rather than run to the gym. Food is my comfort.
I have been on diets and they have worked for a while but I lack the discipline to stick to them until I am where I want to be.
I find it easier to eat healthily when I am happy. And I am, most of the time. The odd moment of grief, or heartbreak, frustration, a bad day and I fall into a pizza and a glass of wine. But when I’m happy, newly dating, have the attention of someone, doing well at work, contented its the salads, soups for lunch, the filling healthy breakfasts that pass my lips.
On Wednesday I am going to a new group, with my best friend and my sister. I know when I start seeing results I will be happy and keep going. But I am dating at the moment and the risk of getting hurt is great, it always is. Maybe though, this time, if there is hurt, it will be salads and soups waiting for me, not pizza and mac and cheese!
Jantelagen
Cal takes a deep breath and pushes open the door to the bar. Its a bar he’d been into many times before, one he’d been kicked out of when he was nearly 18, the manager knowing he wasn’t 21 yet. He was 21 now, older before his time and world weary.
A hush falls over the bar as the patrons turn to look at him. He knows every face in here and they know him. That’s the reason for their distrust, their...he hesitates to think hatred but its there, just below the surface.
“Oh look, the college boy is back from the big city,” Lou, the manager says and Cal raises his eyebrows briefly in greeting as he slides onto a stool. He just wants a drink, his parents had been too suffocating, too overwhelming. It was meant to be a short visit, his mother had put too much pressure on him for too long to come home. He’d reluctantly packed an overnight bag and driven the hours back to his home. The home that holds far too many memories. Everywhere he turns he sees Dyl. He sees Dyl on his bed, school books open in front of his crossed legs, hand tugging at his hair. He sees Dyl when he looks at the bleachers of his old High School, stealing kisses beneath them, hurried and frantic. He sees Dyl as he drives past his old house, standing on the porch with a hand raised in greeting as Cal pulls his car into the drive. He sees Dyl leaving and never coming back in the hallway of his own childhood home.
“Gracing us with your presence,” Lou says and Cal presses a finger to his temple.
“Can I get a Crown Royal, Lou,” Cal says and Lou nods and slides a glass in front of him. “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble has a way of finding you,” Lou says as Cal slides a note across the bar. He leaves then, to tend someone else and Cal feels eyes burning in the back of his neck. He hears the whispers as he walks around town and he hears them now. Too good for us now, big city college boy, always did think he was better than us.
It’s a curse of coming from a small town and being different. People can resent your success and Cal has moved on, moved out and tried to make something of his life away from the damning gazes and the judgemental eyes.
He wants to spin on his chair, to face the bar but he runs his fingers around the rim of the glass instead and keeps an eye on the mirror in front of him.
Its always been the way in this town, the masses hate the one that tries to better themselves. They’re afraid of difference, they always have been. That was evident when the poor different boy was beaten half to death back when he was still in High School.
Cal sighs again as one of the patrons whispers a little too loud, and downs the rest of his drink before pushing himself away from the bar.
Be the same, the rules of this town state, achieve...but not too much.
Not for the first time he wishes Dyl was here, to be an overachieving outcast with him. He can feel it, all around, the resentment that he got out. He needs to go back to the city, back to his little life he’s carved out for himself. He doesn’t believe he’s better than these people, but he believes he’s done better, deserves more. Its taken him a while to believe that, and this town, these people with their judgements are not going to take it away.
Sangfroid
My father gets cross about the silliest things. The peppercorns falling on the floor when he's trying to fill up the grinder. His glasses not being where he remembers leaving them. Not being able to remember his password for a website. We all tease him about it, laugh gently and he takes it most of the time with a long suffering smile.
When the real trouble happens, I’m stuck in snow, when my car breaks down, when I phone him late at night and tell him about my unwanted pregnancy, that’s when he handles it better.
The small things irritate him. The big things? Those he handles with a calmness I’ve not seen in many other people before. He’s always the one I want in those situations.
When I need a cry it’s my mother or my sisters, when I need help it's my father. My papa.
I’m 32 now, rapidly heading towards 33, but I still reach for his hand when I need help, I still want to feel the scratchy solid hand against my arm. A pat that’s verges on the rough side of gentle and then a calm solution, a sigh and a “right…” and I feel calm almost immediately.
Sometimes the calm edges towards indifference but I always know he’s there, and he cares and he’s doing all he can to help me.
My father is ex military and sometimes when I look at him I can see the retired soldier, the man that men followed into war. And more often than not, I see why they followed him.
Possum Ran Over My Grave
I’ve never felt alone.
Sometimes it comforting.
Sometimes it scares the hell out of me.
The whispers in the dark, the sound of my name breathed into my ear, the shudder down my spine. There are always eyes watching, heavy on the back of my neck.
They’re been there as long as I can remember. My mother used to light candles, mutter words under her breath, light sage and brush heady smelling oil across my forehead. Like she knew.
Sometimes I see them, the shadows dancing more than normal in my bed chamber, the flicker of the candle light against the damp stone walls turned to shapes that used to scare me. They would always been gone in the morning.
The comforting feelings came in the day, the gentle hand on my shoulder or lower back. The squeeze of my fingers when potential suitors were paraded in front of me, my mother muttering behind me whilst my father spoke.
I never got the chance to ask mother about them, it was always unspoken between us, her with her apologetic eyes and me with my questioning ones. One day my mother was there, and the next morning she wasn’t. Her spirit gone.
The shadows had danced wilder than before that night.
I’ve never told anyone, afraid of the priests with their well meaning methods.
I feel the cold more than normal and shiver at the slightest draft. I feel things that arent there and one day I know they will get me to.