I have this book titled The Write Brain Workbook and it contains writing exercises for each day of the year - as many of you know, I can be quite the procrastinator so I haven't really stuck to the "one exercise per day" thing BUT the story below is actually the fruit of one of these exercises which I wrote below. By the way, I wrote this about 3 yrs ago. Enjoy!

The Exercise (Day 21 in workbook)
*You are in a bus depot in New York. A gypsy appears out of nowhere and hands you this card: (the illustration shows a pair of scissors, a hand, a skull and bones, a snowflake, a yin yang symbol, a white flag, a bow tie and a Celtic cross)
*Use 7 elements that appear on the card in a story that begins: IT ALMOST SEEMS IMPOSSIBLE FOR ME TO GO BACK TO THAT SPLIT SECOND WHEN.. (let's see if you can guess which elements I used).


Snowflakes

It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when Jensen gave me that bottle of poison to do the deed. I was hesitant at first as any sane person would be but I got this strange rumbling feeling in my gut that it was the right thing to do.
“You have to get rid of that son of a bitch, Maggie,” Jensen said, “It seems for the best.”
I tucked the tiny, brown bottle into my pocket. Jensen stared as I did this, his icy blue eyes scanned toward my jeans. I looked up at his face. Those eyes still glued to my pockets.
“Stop that,” I said pulling my jacket hood over and tightening the drawstring, “It’s disturbing.”
He shook his head, his stare shifted to even up with mine. His hand moved to the furry lining of my hood. I could feel the slight movement of his fingers.
“You can do it,” he said softly, “Be brave.”
His voice was soothing. I still remember it now.
That night I went home to find my brother painting the windows with snowflakes. He did that every winter, taking over for our father years before; the year his body betrayed him.
I could still see my hands tremble as I made my way to my bedroom. When I am nervous, they trembled and that time, they shook more intensely than usual. I took the doorknob into my hand. The muscles could not grip properly. They were weak. I fought the feeling.
The bottle stood on my night table. I rolled over in bed and made sure it was still there. The skull and crossbones on the bottle heralding its contents seemed to come alive. Its stare chilled me. It chills me now.
Next morning was a Sunday. My father came knocking at my door.
“Mags honey? Breakfast is on the table,” he said muffled by the door.
Sunday was reserved for church. My family, immediate and sometimes extended, went consistently. It was routine. First, my father cooked breakfast, my brothers and I got ready and then to St. Thomas for mass. Like clockwork. I pushed myself out of bed, slipped on a pair of socks then down the hallway. Slowly. Attracting static electricity.
My brother’s snowflakes made shadows on the living room floor from the windows like spiky ying-yang patterns. He had been practicing to perfection with those.
Frank and Aaron each sat at the head of our rectangular kitchen table. They both were older than me. I was the only girl and the only source of estrogen in the household. Frank was three years older than me with Aaron in between being 2 years older. I did not look anything like them, they both possessed wavy, sandy blonde hair and light brown eyes. I was cursed with red hair and dark brown eyes. My hair was and still is a fluke. Our mother was a redhead. Our father told us that her hair attracted him to her.
Sunday breakfast was toast, scrambled eggs and bacon. Sometimes my father would make cubed potatoes mixed with green peppers and onions but those were reserved for important Catholic calendar days like Easter or Palm Sunday. Springtime I will always remember as “special potato season.” We ate breakfast like animals. Our conversations during pre-Mass were sparse with father being not as distant as he was on other morning repasts.
The white flag that was attached to Frank’s car antenna fluttered in the wind as we barreled toward church. I wore my jeans that day with Jensen’s bottle in my left pocket and a loose magenta blouse. I hated that blouse but it was the nicest I had for Mass, Aaron sat next to me in the backseat with his hand on the curve of my knee. He always did that. Especially when were going to Mass. I guessed it was the only time no one was looking.
The St. Thomas church was a large concrete building with high ceilings and a Celtic cross nestled atop its single steeple.
I sat between Frank and father. We got there in time for procession, the section that began the Mass when the priest and the rest of the Catholic party enter the church to the choir singing a spirited hymn from the song book. My hands quickly went to my pockets. My fingers felt for the tiny, brown bottle again. I had to be sure. I was definitely sure. I closed my eyes and tilted my head as I always did. This was the moment when I would feel someone’s fingers nestle onto the small of my back underneath my blouse from one side. Then a heavy, broad pressure made its way around my inner thigh. It was then I knew Jensen was right. It seemed for the best.
“Can I use the phone real quick?” I said to my brother when we came home from Mass.
“Yeah, but not too long. I’m expecting a call,” Aaron replied.
My hands shook as I took the receiver in one of them. I dialed away not sure what I was doing. I was on “automatic.” After a few rings, Jensen answered.
“Yeah?” was his greeting.
“You were right. I have to do it,” I whispered, “They have to go.”
“What took you so long?” he said, “Was it the same thing?”
“Uh-huh. In God’s house of all places.”
My eyes began to well up. I shut them quickly to stop the tears from forming.
“Well, get a move on, Maggie,” he said after a long pause.
“Christ, give me the courage,” I said as I put the receiver down.
The next few minutes were a blur. I was not entirely there as my fingers undid the top of the feces colored bottle and poured its contents into the soup I was making them for lunch. The scene was fragmented when I placed the bowls in front of them. My ears were open as I stood in the kitchen and heard the sound of them choking in unison. Then the loud contact of ceramic soup bowls hitting the wooden dining room floor. My fists clenched as I walked in and found them piled in different positions like heavy sacks of laundry around the table, motionless. I did it.
It almost seems impossible for me to go back to that split second when I took a pair of scissors to my red hair in front of my bedroom mirror and cut off large chunks from my head. I had to escape. I had to change. I needed to find comfort in the protection of his understanding.