10:32 PM

            The ride in the ambulance was bumpy to say the least. I was thrown about while the veteran EMT was focused on the stretcher. His balance was really amazing.

When we got to the hospital everything was a blur. They rolled her to the ER and a flutter of hands was upon her. Some first responded to the obviously wound. Pressure placed to stop the bleeding, gauze, some sort of tape. One speaks to her as if she’s deaf, trying to say what is happening.

I stood overlooking the scene. It’s like when a fight breaks out and school and everyone circles around to watch. I’m the kid on the outermost edge, who shows up too late to see anything good.

“What’s going on?” I asked but no one answered. No one heard me. One of the coats said “We need an ER stat!”

They rolled her away and now I’m here, in a mundane whitewashed waiting room. There are several others of us. The ones who tagged along in the ambulance. Everything smells like Lysol and the magazines are old. I flip through a copy of Reader’s Digest from last September. Nothing really captures my attention. A few of the jokes are clever for once but I can’t delve into any article. Not even the one that asks me if I want to really know what’s in my tap water.

I thumb through the leaves when I see the coat that took Charlotte away. She comes to me. Charlotte has lost a lot of blood, they patched her back up. Good I think, but there’s a caveat to the Coat’s tone. They assumed in the crash Charlotte hit her head, it wasn’t obvious when they set to work on her but she had a significant bleed in her brain. She’s not waking up and the vital signs aren’t strong. The Coat thinks it best if I were with her now.

So the Coat leads on to a room where Charlotte is, or what’s left of Charlotte. Her hair is gone and her head is wrapped in gauze. There are machines and wires everywhere. It’s like Charlotte is a fly caught in a spider’s web. There’s a beep that repeats with long pauses. The green line is Charlotte’s heart, this much I know from all those crappy hospital shows. There’s a single angry crest that comes back with the beep again and again.

The Coat stands to the side looking down as if it makes her invisible. She has to be here I know. It’s necessary for her to be, I don’t know why she thinks I should have come. Charlotte won’t wake up and there isn’t anything I’m doing standing here other than converting oxygen to carbon dioxide.

Charlotte is already dead. I don’t need a flat line to tell me that. She looks dead, pale and wan. I can’t even see the rise of her chest as she breathes whatever breaths she has left. It all seems so surreal, hours ago Charlotte was fine now Charlotte is dying and besides the Coat and her minions, I’m the only one who knows it. I’ll be the one who will have to take back her personal affects. I’ll have to start the chain of phone calls; all with the message Charlotte is dead.

The beep gets more infrequent then there’s a high pitch continuous beep. The flat line. The green line keeps going. The Coat walks over and turns of the machine.

“Time of death, 10:32 pm.”

Prompt: Dumping you on graduation day was the worst mistake of my life. Terry and I didn’t work out—Terry—was the second worst mistake.  I will be at La Petite tonight at eight.  I asked the chef to prepare a lemon soufflé, and to put white tulips—your favorites—on the table.  Please, please, come.  Write what happens next.

I’m so exhausted that I almost collapse behind my apartment door. Everything went wrong today. I came to work late, the meeting lasted too long and afterwards the client threw out all our ideas. This meant starting at square one again, coming up with something original and new. It also meant staying after five.

I drop my briefcase and yank off my shoes, I didn’t have time for laces. The knot of my tie is too tight so I pull at the half-windsor till it comes loose. I need a scotch. In the kitchen there’s a half empty bottle of Scorseby. It’s been that kind of week.

As I bring out the bottle and a glass to the counter, I see the phone is blinking. I have a message. I press play and start pouring the bottle.

“Dumping you on graduation day was the worst mistake of my life. Terry and I didn’t work out—Terry—was the second worst mistake.  I will be at La Petite tonight at eight.  I asked the chef to prepare a lemon soufflé, and to put white tulips—your favorites—on the table.  Please, please, come.”

I had stopped pouring the bottle the second I heard her voice. I hadn’t spoken to Lena since graduation, not really anyways. I had asked her to marry me a week before that day. I never imagined that she would say she needed time to think about it. I was worried she say no, but I didn’t think she end it all then. We had started dating our sophomore year. I knew from the first month I could be with her for the rest of my life. I guess she didn’t think so.

A year later she got engaged to Terry. Up until then I had hoped Lena would come back to me. I remember the call; she left a message saying she had met someone. Terry. She was getting married to this Terry; she hoped I could come to the wedding.

I returned her call, but Lena didn’t answer. I forget what I said in my message. Something about how happy I was for her. Maybe I could make it, I had no intention of going but that’s not what you’re supposed to say when you’re over someone.

I got the invitation. White stationary with lavender print, lavender was Lena’s favorite color. Terry Donaldson, Lena’s last name would be Donaldson. Lena Donaldson. It sounded hideous to me.

Now within an instant Lena was back. Lena could be mine again. I flipped my wrist to look down at my Rolex. Its 7:45 and La Petite is way downtown.

I half run back to my shoes and force them on. I have no time for laces. I book it out the apartment to my car. I don’t even think I bothered to lock my door. I get to the parking lot in seconds.

I start the car, hoping I will make it on time. I ignored the speed limits and pressed it on yellow lights. I got stuck behind a couple of red lights though.

As my Camry was humming along I thought back to the night I proposed to Lena. We were at a French restaurant, Lena loved French food. I had the chef make a lemon soufflé that night. That night was one of the worst nights of my life, second only to the night of graduation.

I pull up to La Petite, and toss my keys to the nearest valet. I didn’t need to waste anytime parking. My hands went up to fix my tie as  I entered the restaurant.

“Monsieur can I help you?” The host asks.

“I.. I’m looking for someone,” I said as my eyes scanned the room. I couldn’t see Lena anywhere.

“Can I have a name Monsieur, of the person you are looking for?”

“Lena, Lena Donaldson…wait maybe Lena Rizzuto?”

“Ah the mademoiselle just left monsieur. You must be Monsieur Hallmann? She left a note for you in case you came. Here monsieur.” The host handed me a paper folded in half.

I turned around hearing nothing but the pound of blood as it circulated in my skull. I made it out of the restaurant and sat on a bench next to the entrance.

I opened the note and looked down to see the neat small print. Lena’s print.

I understand John, but I couldn’t wait anymore. Its 8:40 now and I figured it’s time to call it. If by some chance you get this note, and came as I have hoped you would, I want you to know I’m sorry. Terry was a mistake, and so was not saying yes to you at Aux Petits Plats. Please don’t make me pay for that mistake much longer.

I looked down at my watch; I missed her by ten minutes. When I get home tonight, I’ll call Lena. Hopefully I won’t have to leave a message this time.  

Burroway pg 12 free write prompt: “The house we lived in…”

The house we lived in was smaller. I remember it had popcorn ceilings where cobwebs would collect. At night as I lay in bed I would look up at my ceiling and try to make patterns out of the popcorn. I looked at my ceiling until fuzzy dots and after images of my bedroom lights would pollute my vision.

I had to share my room with my little sister molly. I had to share my room with her when we moved to Virginia too so that wasn’t too different. I can’t for the life of me remember what my first bedroom looked like. All I know for sure is that it had a tacky popcorn ceiling. What I really remember about my old house in California is the pool.

In the backyard we had a pool, and I wouldn’t say we really had a backyard or at least it wasn’t very yard-y. The ground was completely patio concrete; there was an area with an awning, and maybe a patch of dirt somewhere. The pool was excellent though. It didn’t have a heater so it was always cold. But that was fine, especially in the summer’s dry heat.

I was maybe 6 years old when we left California. I still hadn’t learned to swim yet. I would stay in the shallow end of the pool, supervised by my mother or father. Maybe I was given a floatation device of some kind as well.

I remember when my parents told me and my siblings that we were moving. They had gathered us in our dining/living room. It had glossy wood floors I loved to run on. It also had the old sofas my parents finally ditched in the dump just recently. Maybe they gave them to Goodwill or Salvation Army, either way the couches are gone now.

The couches were a sort of light brown color with some sort of flora design on the fabric. They weren’t the most comfortable of sofas either but this is where my parents held family meetings and other such nonsense. They sat us down and basically said that we would be moving to some place called Virginia.

I was 6 years old and my concept of geography was fairly limited. I knew that there were other states but I didn’t know most of their names. Or how far away they were from each other. I know on my last day of kindergarten in Ms. O’Day’s class we stayed in a hotel in a state called Nevada. Ms. O’Day tried to make my last day special. She pulled down the map and pointed to the state of Virginia to indicate to my classmates how far I would be traveling. I remember thinking “Oh, so that’s Virginia. Why is it so green and California is so orange?”

I also didn’t comprehend really the whole idea of Virginia being on the other side of the country until my family packed up in our mini-van and started driving. Everyday started early, and then 12 hours of driving later, the day ended at another hotel in a different state and sometimes the same state if we didn’t get as far as my father had planned.

I remember constantly getting motion sickness and saying I had to go to the bathroom. For some reason I didn’t want my parents to know I felt like I was going to throw up so I thought multiple bathroom stops would help. They didn’t.

Prompt: You’re stuck in an elevator with someone you hate

            “Hold the elevator,” I call as the doors are about to shut. The doors bounce back and I scamper in the near empty elevator. “Thank you so…” I pause making eye contact with none other than Cynthia Clark, the worst she-devil that ever emerged from the depths of hell.

“Oh…you’re welcome. Which floor?” She responds.

“Thirty four,” I say fixing my eyes straight ahead on the silver doors trapping me inside. The familiar ping sounds and I feel the elevator start to ascend. The digital number indicating which floor we are passing changes above the door. Twenty…twenty one….twenty two…twenty three. Then the numbers stop and so does the elevator with an abrupt thud.

Steadying my feet I glance over at Cynthia. “I think we’re stuck,” I say.

“It would appear so.” Cynthia stares down at the floor as if she has found some secret code in the patterns of the carpet. “It’s an old elevator, I’m sure it will start up in no time.”

“Yes…I’m sure it will,” I say as I feel my lips tighten into a polite smile. I rock back and forth on my feet hoping to hear the elevator start up again. The elevator stays put though. Cynthia looks over at me but shifts her eyes back to the carpet within a moment. Mine stay peeled to the neon twenty three.

“Maybe you should use the emergency phone,” Cynthia suggests. She tilts her head forward slightly indicating to the red panel on my side of the elevator. Without responding I walk over and open the panel. I take the receiver and hold it up to my ear.

“Hello?” Cynthia stares at me from her corner of the elevator and I hold her glance. “Yes, hi um the elevator appears to be stuck…somewhere between floors twenty three and twenty floor….yes there is myself and one other person…okay thank you,” I say as I return the phone to the compartment and shut the panel.

“What did they say?” Cynthia asks without waiting for me to turn back to her.

“They said they were working on it and to stay calm. They’ll call back if it takes them longer than expected.”  It wouldn’t take long I hoped, the thought of staying in this elevator with Cynthia for much longer was less than desirable. I should have taken the stairs even though it was more than ten floors up.

Cynthia exhales loudly and makes an exaggerated movement to check her wrist watch. It was a nice watch, it looked gold or at least in color it did. “Nice watch,” I say.

“Thanks,” Cynthia said. “It’s was a gift. It’s Prada.” If it was a gift how can she be sure it wasn’t a knock off?

“Oh,” I say lifting my eyebrows. “From whom may I ask?”

“My boyfriend he’s a pilot, he got it while he was in Milan for my birthday.”

“How nice,” I say not wanting to hear any more of this pilot boyfriend malarkey. However Cynthia did not seem to mind continuing though.

“He’s very generous. He sometimes even takes me up for a ride in his plane, usually you would think flying is the last thing he’d want to do on his time off.”

“That’s interesting; did you know that pilots have a greater risk for cancer because of the increased radiation at higher altitudes?”

“No I did not, but hey everything gives you cancer nowadays doesn’t it?” Cynthia smiles back. Cynthia then returns to looking down at the cryptic carpet. I stare straight ahead mentally congratulating myself. No more of this Mr. Pilot who goes to Milan nonsense.

I stare intently at the twenty three and finally it turns to a twenty four as the elevator starts again.

1. Burroway, Warm-Up, page 1., free write on the cover art of the book

The dull muted colors remind me of this quilt my parents own. Or maybe it’s my sister’s. Its old and disgusting. I don’t really like this cover art. The different shapes make me think of some children’s program like Sesame Street, not that I have anything against Sesame Street. Elmo is pretty boss. Do you remember when they tried to make the cookie monster the vegetable monster? That was the most ridiculous politically correct nonsense. If we want to fight childhood obesity and diabetes it would be better if parents actually taught their children nutrition rather than depend on the Sesame Street’s example. Anyways the artwork just makes me think of Sesame Street because children learn shapes from Sesame Street. It’s weird to think that there was a time where I couldn’t recognize most shapes. Just so you know I am referring to my early childhood/infancy. That was when everything was awesome. Childhood, a thing full of mandatory naps and teddy grams. That was the life. No such thing as school yet or work or responsibilities or worries about the inevitable immersion into the real world. It’s not that I don’t like school, I like school because I like to learn things. Although I guess it’s debatable how much learning you do in school.
The shapes also remind me of some old toy I had as a child. It was a clown made of a motley of different patterns, The way the fabric was sown it made the clown’s extremities expand and collapse as you pulled them or applied pressure to them. If I took the clown by both legs in one hand and had both arms in the other, bringing my hands together and apart, the clown would look like an accordion. Or at least its arms and legs would as they were pulled out and brought back in again. I lost that clown doll though. I remember where too. We were driving back home from vacation. We stayed a week in a cabin in the Sierra Nevada Mountains each summer of my early childhood. I remember hoping it would still be there next summer but it wasn’t. I wasn’t terribly disappointed not to find it. It wasn’t really a favorite toy.
It would have been cool to still have it now although I would probably be afraid of it. It’s not that I’m afraid of clowns it’s more or less that I believe this clown would have been creepy in the way old school ventriloquist dummies are creepy. The doll was old fashioned or maybe made to look that way.

In the yard the big black lab circles around the ball
Nudging it with his snout in a canine grin.
The game is soccer and he dribbles well.

The old man mirrors the dog
Knees bending low, stepping side to side.
His joints revolt at such youthful play.

White hair flops along with his rhythm and
Stray strands begin to stick to his skin fresh with sweat.
His arms outstretched to box the dog in,
But he doesn’t go for the steal yet.

The dog barks for him to come, he dares him to
Take the treasured sphere he won’t give up so easily.
A few fakes left, a few fakes right,
The old man tries his best to bob and weave

A sudden snap and the bone gives way,
The opponent falls like a sycamore in a violent storm
Lays there like a puppet without strings.
The canine’s toothy grin transfigured to an exhausted stare
The game is won but it’s not fair.

-Katie Busch, section3

Someday I’ll live in a house by the sea
Where nothing bad will
ever happen to me.

I’ll look out on the ocean
As it storms in perpetual commotion.
Throwing waves upon my shore
Trying to batter down my door
Spitting squalls and hurricane wails
All in vain to no avail.
For safe I will be,
in the house by the sea.

I won’t ever tire
of my home by the sea.
There one day I’ll expire.

Then the ocean can have me at last.
Take my hollow house
in your slippery grasp!
Sweep us away, dowse
This isolated isle until
Peace ensues and all is still.

Leave this lonely shore
A little more lonely
than it was before.

- Katie Busch, Section 3

Dear Diary,
I find little point in donning my green overalls today.
All’s I want to do is be a plumber
That’s all I know
Hunting down rouge mushrooms and battling militant turtles
That’s not for me, that’s Mario’s gig.

 You know our last name is Morretti
Why aren’t we Super Morretti Bros?
Hell why aren’t Super Luigi Bros?
I’ll tell you why, cause Mom always liked him best
Born 19 seconds later and he’s the precious younger spawn
I was old news by 19 seconds

In junior high he stole my girlfriend,
I don’t get it
I’m taller and more distinguished
By then I could perfectly wax my mustache
He had pencil fuzz.
Still Peach is dazzled by him,
Even though he’s not man enough to find
The freakin castle in which she’s confined
I say ask for directions, or hell lets Mapquest it, or get a GPS
But that would be too humbling
For that smug little troll.

Sincerely, Luigi Morretti

- Katie Busch, Section 3

Old and creased
the leather peels away in places
and is faded from brown to grey
wrinkled and worn like an elephant’s skin
beaten smooth and smeared with the smell of denim
Who knows really how ancient it is?

Plastic stacks of forgotten gift cards
wedged in the pocket for bills.
You use bills instead of plastic.
But no bills are there

A couple of IDs
and tickets to movies, concerts, and things
with the ink rubbed off,
make a block of paper sediment.

How many coffees are in that wallet?
Those mermaid cards only flounder there.
Christmas and Birthday gifts
now expired
you fold them away
and they’re sandwiched shut

- Katie Busch, Section 3