Write On Edge: Candles and Iowa Challenge

Red Writing Hood this week gave us 500 words. There was a photo of candles glowing in a church window, or a video of pictures set to Dar Williams's song Iowa. We didn't have to write about candles or Iowa though, unless we felt like it. This week's prompt is more about a juxtaposition of senses...I think...

I was inspired with a myriad of stories, but the song and the picture spoke to me of being on the cold outside of something warm, leaving me with the sensation of being abandoned and wanting. To be fair though, my life is careening beyond my control, so everything makes me feel that way.

Saw my first Salvation Army red bucket of the season today. I gave them a dollar and a smile. Smiles are something I definitely have control over and they don't cost me a penny to pass them out. I felt better and whistled Here Comes Santa Claus like no one was listening.

On a completely separate note, if I counted correctly, this is my 100th post. I wish I had something I could give away, like a contest prize or something to help me celebrate. 100 posts ago, when my editor and good friend told me I needed a blog, I didn't think I'd keep at it this long.

I can safely attribute most of these posts to the wonderful community at Write On Edge. I love all of you, and I don't say that lightly.

So, without further whining or ado, I give the following in response: Exit Stage Right

The overpowering smell of the stage makeup made her gag on the unpleasant recollection of her last performance in the prestigious old theater. Never had she felt so betrayed by her passion. Paul Devereux, her director, the man she thought loved her, he had made his choice, and now her eyes were open.

Until her dressing room was scrubbed from her history, it would keep her trapped in unwanted memories. Dumping its contents into the industrial-strength trash bag was therapeutic, even liberating. Nothing was immune to her endeavor, not even the autographed photos of fellow cast members. Her mother taught her to clean up her own mess, a virtue Sienna wasn’t willing to sacrifice just yet.

“Sienna, I…what are you doing?” Foster asked. He was the forgotten fly-master, the one no one remembered but everyone blamed when marks were missed.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” she replied curtly. For the moment, he was the physical manifestation of what was wrong with the place. “That was unfair, sorry,” she followed up with a degree of automation.

He stood wooden in the doorway, rooted for the first time since she met the man. “Is this about Paul?”

She slammed a bouquet of dead flowers into the trash bag, her cheeks flamed from rage. “It’s about all of it, Foster,” she fumed, a rant beginning to fill the space about her teeth. “Paul’s depravity is his own issue. My complacency was mine. Well, no longer. There’s supposed to be glamour on Broadway. The hard work, long hours, and back-stage drama doesn’t matter because every night, an audience loves you. But this isn’t Camelot, and I’m not living in the ivory tower anymore.”

“You’re giving up?” he asked naively.

She glared at him. “Really? That’s your assessment?” Sienna shook her head. “Oh, I see. The Prima Dona is throwing another tantrum. Well, this isn’t a test of the emergency broadcast system. I’m done, Foster. You understand me? Finished.” She fought to keep her voice under control.

He looked like a wounded puppy. “W-where will you go?”

She tied the drawstrings of the trash bag with an angry and purposeful knot. “I’m going back to that rattrap of a condo, gather up my belongings, and then I’m going home.”

“Home?”

Sienna swallowed in effort to shake the knot from her throat. Iowa didn’t seem like much when she left it for alluring New York. But Iowa at least was honest, steadfast. “I’ve been such a fool. I’m a farmer’s daughter and that should have been enough.”

Tears slipped from his eyes. “Well, break a leg Sienna. I’ll miss you. You’re the only one that’s ever treated me like a human being.”

She approached him, emptiness drowning hope of any pity his comment might have conjured up. “Goodbye, Foster. Do yourself a favor and follow my example. None of these plastic people care about real folk like us.” Unceremoniously, she pushed him aside and marched towards the exit advertised in cheerful neon green.