A handwritten note.

Chaos swirled about me as I woke up on the hospital gurney, my head fuzzy and my vision obscured by the noisy oxygen mask on my face.  Nurses in green floated around my body, poking and prodding, in a well practiced waltz all orchestrated by the doctor standing at the foot of the bed. The tempo changes and the energy in the small steel colored room drops to a less frantic pace. The doctor well satisfied with his performance rattles off a list of instructions to his dancing companions standing beside me and leaves to lead another performance behind another curtain. 

“What happened”, I asked as a friendly faced nurse as she pulled the mask from my face. “I don’t remember anything”.

My question was answered by my sergeant who walked in. A man who felt more like my dad than my supervisor. A pissed off look on his face didn’t give away the relief that I can see in his yes. 

“Amanda, you were shot in the arm”. 

“Doctor says you are one lucky gal and you are going to be okay. The bullet grazed your upper arm in such a way that it just caused a bloody mess but no permanent  damage done. Only harm done is that you will have a scar about the size of a quarter to brag about”.  

The happy juice dripping from the IV bag into my arm was starting to chase away logic as I fought to keep my eyes open. Using my good arm I pointed to the hook on the wall where my kevlar vest hung next to my bloody shirt gross in contrast to my gold badge shining bright. With slurred speech I asked him to give me the letter tucked in the inside pocket of the vest . All cops keep something there to protect them if the gun and bullet proof vest can’t. Some have pictures of their families or dog. Rosary beads and prayer cards are popular. I have my mama. 

“Get some rest, that is a direct order. I’ll be back and please don’t get into any trouble”, Sarge barked.  He squeezed my foot on the way out. “Good job kid” he mumbled in a controlled voice shaken with relief and pride. 

I opened the letter written to me a month before I graduated from Police Academy. My mother had written it the night before the cancer robbed her of seeing her only daughter graduate. 

Amanda, 

As you go out to serve and protect your job is to treat everyone you meet with kindness and fairness. Do justice right. My job as your guardian angel is to protect you from harms way. I have your back so don’t ever be afraid. Now girl, go out there and be the best you can be. 

Love, Mom... your guardian angel. 

I clutched the letter as I drifted off in a vicoden induced slumber knowing that mama is watching out for her little girl. 


This post inspired by Write On Edge 
- A stand-alone scene, fiction or memoir, in 500 words or less, involving a handwritten letter

Taking a leap

Everyone expects me to play ball. Colleges begging me to play for them.

“Don’t disappoint the person that matters most” my mama says. “Do what’s right”.

Therefore I am going to art school.  

This post inspired by the great folks at www.trifectawritingchallenge.com

Sweet Chilling Thrill

Men were talking in voices lowered to a whisper as women with ashen faces silently started to break down camp and prepare the covered wagons for our westward journey to a new home land. Not quite a man but beyond being a boy I am tasked to tie down the tarps for the traveling party using the tying hook to secure down the flaps. Everyone felt the uneasiness in the air save the children and the pretty old daft lady who rambles to herself. 

A sweet chilling thrill went through me as I overheard two leaders talking. They had discovered the bones I left behind. They couldn’t keep the screams of pain and barking mad howls heard in the night a secret but they will the bones. The men spoke of how unusually clean the bones were on the newly killed game. What spooked them most were the footprints. Prints of a human barefoot that transformed into what looked like a large paws similar to a large dog. When the men walked away I hopped down from the wagon and washed the mud from my bare feet in the stream wondering if the moon was full again tonight.

This post inspired by Cara Michael's #menagemonday and by www.creativecopychallenge.com ! 

My friend, Raggedy Ann

“Doodads” was labeled on the side of the brown box stored way in the back corner. I pulled the box out having no recollection of what was in it, or what possibly could doodads be. I tugged at the top flap and the box opened easily under the yellowed tape revealing my blue and gold high school yearbooks that were lying on top. My maiden name stamped on the cover seems so unfamiliar to me. I lift the books out and underneath were other mementos of long ago. Dance tickets, a couple of horse-show ribbons, and a small softball trophy. Underneath is an old ratty sweatshirt from middle school.  Junk really. I start to put it all back in the box when I see the orange yarn peeking out from underneath the sweatshirt. I pull the sweatshirt aside and there she is. My oldest friend that I had abandoned years ago. Raggedy Ann.

I throw everything back in the box and bring the old doll inside from the garage. We sit down on the couch as I struggle with waves of excitement of finding my childhood treasure of guilt for leaving such a memory forgotten in a box. 

I look at her as she stares back at me with black button eyes and that permanent smile stenciled on her face. The type of smile that you can’t help but smile back.  I start to examine her as one does with a newborn. Her orange moppy yarn hair is still in tact attached to her dusty face her pink cheeks mostly faded. Her flowered flannel dress is faded but still in good shape covered by her now gray apron. I look closer at the hem of the apron and find the chocolate milk stain from a long ago mishap. I pull her dress up and find what I am looking for. The words “I love you” stamped on her chest outlined with a heart. I trace my finger along the heart just like I did many times. A heart that soothed many fears and gave a little girl many nights of comfort. A heart that reminded me every day that I have a friend no matter what. 

Feeling a little foolish at the age of forty I start to hug my old friend. My face in her dusty hair, while holding onto her cotton filled hand. The years of comfort and friendship in such a well-loved doll came back to me instantly. “I love you too” I whispered to my dearest friend. 

Today's post is inspired by Sandra's Writing Workshop. Please visit her blog and read some wonderful writing!