I'm regressing a day because yesterday's prompt was one I wanted to do:

March 26, 2004: Do a character sketch of a woman whose name is Indigo Luke.

From the porch of the sprawling ranch house on the hill, Indigo looked out over the plains that fanned out at her feet and marched off to the horizon that simmered under the setting sun. Beyond the fence that marked the yard, she could see the dead-blonde grasses sway in the evening breeze, flanked on either side by the greening fields of winter wheat. She welcomed the satisfaction deep in her heart that anchored her to the land. As the wheat fed on the red-brown soil and grew strong, so did her determination.

There was much to do now. Much to learn. If she thought about it all at once, it had a tendency to overwhelm and scare her. At the same time she knew she couldn't afford to be afraid. That's why she'd sent for her grandmother, who, at the ripe old age of 70, had promptly accepted her offer to come West at least for a time. Any day now Clyde Murphy's wagon would amble down the path cut by many other wagons that had come and gone over the years. As if it were unfolding before her eyes right now, she could see her grandmother waiting to be assisted out of the wagon seat even though she was perfectly capable of alighting under her own steam. Indigo longed for the feel of her hug, for the scent of her, wondering how much would be the same, and how much of her would be different. They had been apart now for almost a decade, but their bond had remained strong. Nothing could break it.

Indigo reached into the pocket of her worn gingham dress and pulled out the last letter her grandmother had sent.

"You can do this without me, you know. Your name is your legacy. It's funny how that works out sometimes. Parents label their children with some sort of foresight that they don't know they possess. You should do some reading, Indigo, about the role of the indigo plant in Southern history and how Eliza Lucas, at the age of 16, turned her father's plantation into an enterprise like no other. And all of this in the 1700s before our country was a country, and in a man's world. It's amazing how much she was honored and respected even though she had stepped out of the traditional roles of the day and had led a small revolution of her very own. Nothing bloody or forced, just quietly managed and spread. You need to read about her, and you'll know that your destiny is similar, my dear girl. You have at your hands, heart and head something that you love dearly. Take that love and run with it in the face of all odds. You will suceed as she did. I saw that strength in you even when you were eight--the last time I saw you. And I've heard it in the voice of your letters that I have cherished since then. You have many gifts, Indigo. A strong mind, strong will, and strong body. They will serve you well. Nonetheless, I am coming as soon as I can make the proper plans, and I'll be with you as long as you need me."

With her grandmother's words playing through her head, the fear had lessened. She had been able to put off those who pressured her to sell this place that she loved so dearly, where both her parents now lay buried in the cemetery by the chapel. They said it was too much for a person her age, much less a girl. They said she could sell now and make a profit, or simply give it away when she had mismanaged everything and had no choice. How grateful she was now that in the grips of the panic that woke her at night she had put off deciding anything. She had told all of them to give her at least a month, and then she would talk.

And by then her grandmother would be here as well. But even if some cruel twist kept her from coming, Indigo already knew what she would tell anyone who asked. This land was all she had left and she had no intention of leaving it.

Today's prompt: (March 25, 2004) A cinnamon-colored Irish setter stares out the driver's side window of a dirty white cargo van. Who owns him?

Mike watched his setter out of the corner of his eye while he ordered two hot dogs from the vendor. One with sauerkraut, onions and mustard and the other plain. He silently wished Cinnamon would stick his head back inside and be a little less visible. He imagined explaining to his boss why his dog had to accompany him on today's delivery run. Maybe he would understand. Probably he wouldn't.

It was so hot. Mike wiped his forehead with his sleeve before reaching out to drop the cash into the vendor's hand in exchange for the hot dogs. If he were a dog, he'd have as much as he could fit outside the window too. He caught the canine's eye as he made his way to the van. Thankfully all he did was get to his feet and wag his tail. Mike could see the plume swaying in the shadows inside the van. Cinnamon wasn't one to bark much.

"Scoot over, Mutt and let me in." Cinnamon scrambled over to the passenger seat and faced the front as though he were ready to be moving. "Lunch first," Mike said in response. "Here you go, Boy." He pulled the hot dogs out of the sack and put them up on the dash, tore the bag open and spread it like a placemat on the seat between them, and then unwrapped the plain hot dog and set it before Cinammon. The dog looked at him with huge dark eyes begging for permission, and Mike couldn't help but smile. "Go for it!" he said, and the dog did just that. In the back of his mind, Mike wondered if he should have gotten him two. Then he wondered how he'd get him water. Later. He'd think about that later. Along with all those other things he couldn't think about just now.

After folding the paper down around his own lunch, Mike started the van and eased away from the curb. He heard the wet flap of the dog licking his chops and glanced down at the paper bag, which was being thoroughly sniffed for a stray morsel. "We're almost through, Buddy. Then we'll figure out what we're going to do next."

Then Mike started thinking about her, and found himself caught in that whirlpool that dragged his mind down a deep and bottomless hole every time. How could she be like this? How could a person change so utterly, so completely. And so fast. Almost overnight it seemed.

They had been married for five years. No, they weren't the match-made-in-heaven couple that seemed to fill the movie screens. They had married too quickly and had put a lot of work into adjusting to one another over those first couple years. Still, they had built a life together. Mutual respect had been cultivated, as well as tolerance for each other's quirks. They had their weekly pizza night and full-blown date evenings a couple times a month. Mike recalled long conversations they'd had over Saturday breakfast, often arguing good-naturedly over the op-ed column, and long easy walks through the park with Cinnamon in tow. He had been honestly happy. And thought she had been as well.

Now she wanted out. Not only that, she wanted to take everything with her. Even the dog.

Mike reached out and buried his fingers in the dog's coat just below his collar and rubbed. Cinammon turned his big, grateful eyes on him for a moment, and then went back to watching the world go by out the passenger side window. Why on earth was she so adamant about the dog? It wasn't like they had kids or anything. It wasn't like she was the one who got up in the mornings and walked him. Lately she hadn't even been taking him to the park in the evenings either. She had been working round the clock, only now Mike couldn't help but wonder exactly what it was that she had been working at during those long hours.

The house was negotiable. As was the car, the furniture, the wedding pictures. He was ready to give her what she wanted as long as he wasn't left destitute. Without Cinnamon, he was destitute. At the moment the company of the animal meant more than money or things. There was one living, breathing being on the earth that hadn't turned on him, that gave him unconditional support and companionship, and of all the things she wanted, this was the one he would not even discuss.

When he saw her this morning, ready to back out of the drive with the animal in her shiny BMW, and Mike had nearly gone berserk. Probably stitched up every thread needed in a case for divorce due to insanity. She was just taking him for a walk, she said. They had to get used to sharing these things, she said. But nothing could stop him from opening the passenger door and calling the dog out and then putting him in the Wentworth's Uniforms van that was sorely in need of a wash he had noted in that odd way that had overtaken him. Details that meant nothing caught his attention like bait.

"The dog is not going to be shared," he said, sharply and clearly. "Non-negotiable."

"We'll see about that!" she yelled in return as he climbed into the van and put it in reverse.

Mike wondered now what it was he really thought she was up to. Honestly she'd have no reason to kidnap the dog. He wasn't registered, trained or worth any money, which seemed to be her sole interest these days. But the sight of her with Cinnamon raised all the jealousy that would have surfaced had she had her lover in the seat beside her. Maybe that's what he'd seen. Or been afraid of--that his dog's affections could be swayed away from him. That he could be utterly and completely alone.

And so here they were, side by side, Mike and Cinnamon, delivering uniforms across Cleveland, both of them wondering exactly what came next. Cinnamon just seemed a bit more eager to know than he was at the present.

Prompt (from March 1st, but hey....)
He had been studiously avoiding me.

I don't know why. I'd never met him before in my life. That I knew of.

At first I caught him staring. You know the feeling of eyes on your back. I wish I knew what vibes it is that let you know when you're caught in someone's gaze. But I digress. I was looking over the morning's program and found myself resisting the urge to turn around and look. In the end I didn't have to. All I had to do was look toward the door as if I was expecting someone, and there were those blue eyes. Not much of them was visible. His eyelids drooped, his black eyebrows were bushy and formed a straight line above eyes and nose. The eyes were fringed in heavy black lashes as well. But you didn't need much of that color blue to be able to notice it. They were like small sapphires displaced on black and white velvet.

Of course he looked away, as did I. We each went our separate ways to different workshops, or so I thought until I felt his stare again. I didn't look at his face this time. Only his hands on the table--very tanned, large bony wrists, squared fingers with well-manicured nails and no calluses that I could see. Veins simmered underneath the skin. He was wearing a long-sleeved deep blue oxford shirt, the cuffs of which poked out too far from underneath a black suit jacket. It was the eyes all over again. Just to be sure I looked up. He looked away and began pulling papers and a notebook out of the soft leather satchel at his feet.

I felt a little better when he wasn't at the subsequent workshop, but he did show up at the final one before lunch. He had three others to choose from but here he was again. I wondered if he was following me then chided myself for being paranoid. Perhaps we just had similar tastes. And if that were so, maybe we'd have common ground for a nice conversation. I made myself a promise to introduce myself after the lecture. What could go wrong in a hotel with almost 200 convention delegates on hand. I replayed all those cool networking stories I'd heard about people getting their big break just by striking up a conversation with the right person at one of these things.

At the close of the lecture I stuffed my things in my totebag and spent a little longer gathering up my courage. I met his eyes and smiled and then started moving toward him. He averted his eyes, gathered up the satchel by the handles and almost tripped over the shoulder strap trying to make it to the exit.

Shy?

Maybe hungry. Maybe he had false teeth that clicked when he ate and didn't want company for lunch. Maybe his ride was waiting outside the hotel. A viciously jealous girlfriend who would instantly assume the worst. Or maybe worse, his mother had to approve.... If nothing else this was good for stretching the imagination.

I was determined now though. I was not going to be dumped without being picked up first. I mean he started the staring thing. And continued it. I even felt it during the last lecture. If it was okay for him to stare, it was absolutely okay for me to introduce myself. Let him try to escape me next time!

There were three lectures after lunch. I hovered outside doors this time and waited for him to sit down so that I could get between him and the door. I'd at least be the one to stare this time if nothing else. He'd sneak a peek as he wrote notes, and then the buzzard left the lecture early. I don't know if he hid in the men's room or what, but he was studiously avoiding me. I knew it. I just wanted to know why.

But I never found out. I never saw him again. I watched for the rest of the weekend. It made me laugh really, and almost cry too. Was I really so frightening that someone would skip out on $50 worth of conference just to avoid being introduced.

Maybe I looked like his long-dead sister, or aunt, or cousin. Maybe he thought he knew me from a past life (I didn't believe in such things but that didn't mean that he didn't.) Or maybe there was more there than he was ready to cope with because he'd recently divorced his wife of fifteen years and abandoned his children (in which case I didn't care to know him at all.) Maybe he was an old classmate of mine who had undergone extensive reconstructive surgery after a horrible plane crash and he was secretly in love with me all along but too timid to take a chance.

Or maybe he was there to help me write my first mystery novel. Hmmm...... Now there was a thought.

Thought I might try today's prompt which is a word list (any form of the word is acceptable):

pigeon, bus, flowers, leave, dream, anything, block, fizzle, snap, powerful, print, junk

I wonder how many times I walk this block and never see it. There's Michael's print shop; he prints the menus for Syrett's Cafe and business cards for most of the town. Anything requiring banners or T-shirts or special hats or aprons, Michael has that covered.

Old Lady Shelton waits at the bus stop. She's dressed in a navy suit which hangs loose on her frame these days. The bus stop is a new thing for our town, another indication that the city is working its way out to meet us. She loves to dress up in and ride into the city to have lunch with her old realtor friends. She was one of the first women in this area to enter the man's arena of real estate, and she made quite a chunk of change doing it too. You'd think she'd have a driver, but I think she's too afraid of becoming Miss Daisy. Of all the people in town I would have expected to use the bus, I would not have chosen her. Shows how much I know.

The next shop I pass is Howard's Antiques. I went into their store once, and the place was such a hodge-podge of junk that I never went back in. I'm sure there are treasures in there, but one would truly have to dig for it. I realize that some people enjoy that kind of thing, but it's never been my cup of tea. Every time I really look at the store I want to scream at someone to organize something. Which is probably a good reason to walk without looking, at least for this stretch. Howard did put half-barrells stuffed with flowers by his front door this year. They really add a nice touch. And he got rid of the tattered blue and pink awning that had decades worth of pigeon evidence. I have to give him that.

I'm looking today because I'm leaving, only no one here knows that yet. I've lived in this little place my entire life. All of 18 years. I've watched the buildings change hands and change signs. I've watched families connect and grow, implode and explode. And up until last year I never dreamed of leaving here. Then I read a book. A powerful book. And my contentment with this place fizzled like a finished firecracker. There are different worlds out there and I am ready to snap them up, make them part of me, and then maybe, when I'm through wandering and want to settle, I can come back here.


This did not go like I wanted it to because I can sense that my son, who is starting to work from 6 - 2 tomorrow (that is 6 AM. He's never seen that side of six in a long long time) is wanting to get online to check his mail. Maybe I can do a better job later. Or maybe not. I'm his driver when he goes to work. I haven't seen that side of 6 in a while either. LOL!

Today's prompt: Imagine you are walking in a meadow. The spring air is sharp. What it the sky like?

The sky changes rapidly because the wind is wicked out of the south, pushing along puffy, grey-bottomed clouds who seem to be in an important hurry. If they could stick around and settle in, they might have time to drop rain.

The sun blinks between them like a strobe because the air is dry and crystal clear. Only when an upper deck of stratus clouds meanders across does the day become overcast, as though the scudding clouds might actually do something.

Ocassionally a brilliant white cumulus skips by, standing out among the gray clouds, and looking almost like the top of a Bradford pear having been clipped off by the wind and forced to ride the current north.

The sun is beginning to settle in the west and soon the wind dance will begin to die out. It promises to be a spectacular sunset. Even now when the sun wedges itself between cloud layers it turns them lemon and butter yellow. As it sets, the colors will become more numerous, catching the bottoms of the racing clouds and providing the shimmering moving layer of color, while the upper clouds will turn into smudges of purple and gray until they are warmed into salmon and mauve, with slashes of crimson and yellow thrown in for effect. There will be a crescendo of color before it all begins to fade into that small window of nothingness that settles before the serenade of stars, barely visible in cleared spots of the sky, and the haloed moon plays peekaboo, with Venus dangling brilliantly nearby.

Okay I'm promising myself 10 minutes. I honestly can't imagine anything coming of them, but I sure can't hold it up as a solution to the doldrums if I don't try it, now can I?

I don't know what to write. I don't know what to write. I just went through the word a day listings I have stashed in my e-mail. None of them inspired me. Camilla--poor Camilla left sitting in a little diner with no car. I still have plans for Camilla, but not tonight. Tonight I want to.... Tonight I want to..... Tonight I want to not write. Which is not an option. Is it? Hwah, ha, ha, ha, ha.

Those are not words--my critic is having a field day today. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe I don't have the bit in place and the reins shortened up so that I'm in control.

Control. What exactly is that. Sometimes it does feel like I have absolutely no control. Or that I'm tired of having control. Sometimes the world just seems to tedious to deal with anymore. I know it's the stuff hanging over my head. The same old stuff. Taxes and transcript. If I'd just get them out of my way, I'd feel 10 tons lighter, I know I would. They seem such daunting tasks though.

So I started last week just labeling the next thing on the list I needed to do. One step. Just deal with the one step and then list the other, instead of looking at the entire big job. Ugg. Sometimes the next thing on the list just stops me cold. But I can't let it. I can't let this get the better of me. Quit the procrastination and feel better!!!! Clear the clutter--mental, emotional, physical. I have been doing that. For the past three days my living room and kitchen have been company ready. Longer than that really. And I'm tackling my poor refrigerator a little at a time as well. It's been heartening to see the transformation in the areas where people come in if they drop by. I just have to work somewhere other than in the living room and I've decided that newspapers have the life span of a mayfly. Here today, gone tomorrow whether or not I've read them.

VVA comes Thursday. I'd love to have a nice satisfying pile out there for them. Out of my house and on to better lives. This week I want to get the skiing stuff put away for good. Can you believe it--a whole month has gone by. The thing is, I can't decide where to stash all this stuff. The ideal place is the cedar chest. But it's full. Of what? I couldn't tell you. So I guess that's where my job will start. Make room for the skiing stuff in the cedar chest. I know better than to keep Abe's clothes for Asher anymore--they are build totally different and nothing Abe wore in the past will ever fit Asher. There's probably too many "someday" clothes in there for me, too. And suit jackets without pants, that kind of stuff that I thought maybe someone here would want. Or R thought someone here would use. Who knows.

Taxes
Transcript
Ski Clothes
New words

Now if those were the only thing I had to fill my week with I'd be set. But there's a menu, a list, grocery shopping, baby sitting, library runs, and last but not least the Hall build. This time next week we'll have a brand new building to meet in. What a concept. I'm not much good with my hands but I'm not missing out on it altogether.

Has it been 10 minutes? I don't even know.... Have to check.

YES!

Sorry to put you through this, but I did warn you--these are today's words, as they spill......