PAROLE

This is an interesting Assignment from Stephen King's, "On writing." I am to narrate a story about a prison escape but change the character from a man to a woman. I made it a parole instead of an escape to get more dialogue from it.

PAROLE

Rita counted the days. Her mental competency hearing was a week away. Convince these morons I am sane and I am outta here, she thought. Of course she was sane, no doubt of it. Imprisoned by a biased Judge and a jury of rednecks. Just let me get out of this hellhole and they will see how sane I am. These thoughts kept her calm.She pretended to take her mind-altering prescription drugs from the prison matron, then spit them in the toilet of her small cubicle. One more week. She could wait. Years had passed, waiting. Then a trip home to see her husband,ex, actually, since the bastard chose to divorce her while she was incarceratred. Like he hadn't helped her beat up the kid. Rita told him she never wanted a brat anyway. But she was here and he was out free. It ate at her like a canker sore, but not for long-not for long. And their little girl, grown now after five years. What would she be now? Ten years old, about. Probably don't remember her dear ole Mom, Rita thought. She will when I get out. Oh she will. and her father more so.Rita faced the panel of parole officers, the Warden, social worker, shrink, etc., on the date of her hearing. Her once rosy complexion was pale from years of prison life-her drab green prison garb accentuated it. Still the glitter from her steely gray-blue eyes, held a madness she fought to conceal. Beneath a mop of ash-blonde hair, her face held a reminder of cruel beauty, not quite lost.The panel was a somber group. Suited men, suited women, wearing a facade of importance and fake concern. God how Rita hated these hypocrits. She hid it well, sitting demurely before them, with as much innocense as she could portray and still be believeable. This had to work. She must get out-there were debts to pay, and Rita was never one not to meet her resonsibilities. Dick and Melissa first on her list, then her parents. Could she stop then? Rita had no idea but just the idea of killing gave her an orgasm of such intensity that she had to cross her legs to keep from crying out.The snob panel did not seem to notice. They sorted and shifted paperwork, in preparation for her question and answer session that would decide her fate. Rita was ready. Let the inquisition begin."Rita," asked the psycho therapist. "Have you learned from your years with us?""Yes Maam, so much that it would take a month of Sundays just to tell ya about it.""I see. And do you think you can live outside and be a credit to the community? When you answer, please give me details."" Maam, I know I can. I have learnt so much from you and everyone here. I have become a new woman. I've been thinkin' on how much my baby girl needs her Mama. I have lost so many years I intend to make up for them if I can , in the best way I know how." Rita lowered her head at the appropriate moment."Rita, it will not be easy to establish a relationship with your daughter," the social worker, interjected. "you will need a lot of support.""I realize that Maam, a big job, I reckon, and it will take time, but I got plenty of that."The Warden spoke next. "You do understand, Rita, that on parole, you will be required to report to your parole officer once a week, should we agree to return you to society?""Yes sir, I know that. I will comply with anything you want me to do.""You understand we have petitions from your family asking us not to let you go.""No Sir, I didn't know that. I will promise to stay away from them if that is your wish, much as I love them.""Rita," the Warden said, rising from his seat. "We expect you to do just that. If you go anywhere near them, except for your daughter, you will be immediately brought back, in violation of parole. Is this perfectly clear ?"" Yes Sir, " Rita nodded, with a face sincere and sad enough to convince them. She was edgy now. Her freedom was at stake."Leave us now, Rita," the Warden advised her. "We will discuss your parole request and inform you of our decision by the latter part of the week."The news came to Rita as she was folding prison laundry. Her psychologist brought her the answer."Rita, the panel has decided in your favor. I am happy to bring this news and hope you will make a worthwhile life for yourself.""Thanks, Maam, this means so much to me. I won't disappoint you."The therapist smiled, shook her hand and told her to call her if she had any problems. It was done. Rita was free. Her breast swelled with emotion. At long last, her revenge would begin. And after killing those who had rejected her, Rita would be happy. If not, there were always more to kill.

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A Most Unusual Wedding

I hate weddings. They bore me, receptions deafen me. The noise from usually bad dj's wreak havoc upon my senses, setting off episodes of irregular heartbeats, trying to keep pace with the drumbeats. Most of the food at the buffet table is too salty or too high in fat for my heart problems, so as I savor a cold shrimp dipped lightly in cocktail sauce, I do it with trepidation, hoping it will not lead to an ER visit , hooked up to a ventilator for Pulmonary edema, a fancy word for too much salt. It has happened before so it is a real fear, yet hunger and food lust forces me to sample that shrimp and a few other delicasies, hoping the lack of salt or food before the wedding, plus an extra diriretic will save me. So far I have been lucky. But I am playing with fire. This wedding , on a Friday afternoon, was not one I looked forward to with any kind of anticipation. How little I knew! It was held at Ste. Rita's Catholic church in Neward, New Jersey. That should have been a clue. Nothing good happens in Newark and no one goes there unless they have to for some important occasion. Like a wedding. It is a city rife with crime, poverty, pollution, and drug traffic. To those living there unscathed thus far, I offer my appologies for my reprehensive view of your city. But hear me out.We got lost, of course, and like the old cliche, the men with us would not ask for directions. That and heavy workday traffic, made us late for the wedding. I was not unduly upset over this-the later the better, I thought.One of my three daughters and her husband rode with us, guys up front, women in the back. Just as well, as it spared us the illegal u-turns made my insignificant other, aka the driver.By the time we pulled up to the church, we realized it was not possible to enter, due to at least 30 police cars, city and state, ambulances, search and rescue trucks, helicopters hovering overhead, swat teams, and armed police swarming the area. "Perhaps the groom changed his mind," I quipped. We passed the church, turned around and my husband maneuvered his almost new Dodge Durango, through long lines of police cars and on-coming traffic on the other side. Pulling into the church parking lot, we saw the limo with the bride pull up, late as well. There was an armed guard in front of the church and a helicopter droned overhead. The officer explained there was a suspect on the loose. Overkill, I thought, never having seen such an arsenal in my life.We slipped in right before the bride and sat down in the back. Very few made it to the church since it was a work day. The bride walked down the aisle beautiful as are all brides, to meet her groom, who had in fact showed up. The church was the most exquisite I have ever seen. Marble pillars, marble walls, an arresting, (pardon the pun) statue of St. Michael the Arch angel wielding a sword, and high, arched ceilings with paintings resembling the Sistine Chapel in Rome. A beautiful ceremony was officiated by an elderly white-haired priest, apparently used to such events in his Parish.As we followed the newly married couple out of the church we asked the family what had happened and were grateful we were late. Two suspects had high-jacked a car and assaulted a police officer. One of them had run and hid in the church. As my sister-in-law was coming out of the church rest room, she walked into a hoard of armed, bullet-proof-vested swat team members brandishing rifles. Typically, she asked, "What did I do?" and then joined the rest of the entourage who had all been removed outside while they captured the perpetrator. It could have easily turned into a hostage situation.The limos and shuttle buses pulled away as we stood talking out in the parking lot, catching up , until my brither-in-law a mild-mannered man, asked nervously if we could please continue the conversation is a safer place. Noting the helicopters circling and the armed men all over the place, it seemed like a good suggestion. The reception was held at The Tides, a magnificent building with huge glass windows, winding staircases and chandeliers of near indescribable beauty. The cocktail hour served the most delectible food, all capable of easily killing me. Yet the ambience was a perfect ending for a wedding that will surely be told of for many generations to come. It is one wedding I will not soon forget. It almost made me forget that I really hate weddings.

A Most Unusual Wedding

I hate weddings. They bore me, receptions deafen me. The noise from usually bad dj's wreak havoc upon my senses, setting off episodes of irregular heartbeats, trying to keep pace with the drumbeats. Most of the food at the buffet table is too salty or too high in fat for my heart problems, so as I savor a cold shrimp dipped lightly in cocktail sauce, I do it with trepidation, hoping it will not lead to an ER visit , hooked up to a ventilator for Pulmonary edema, a fancy word for too much salt. It has happened before so it is a real fear, yet hunger and food lust forces me to sample that shrimp and a few other delicasies, hoping the lack of salt or food before the wedding, plus an extra diriretic will save me. So far I have been lucky. But I am playing with fire. This wedding , on a Friday afternoon, was not one I looked forward to with any kind of anticipation. How little I knew! It was held at Ste. Rita's Catholic church in Neward, New Jersey. That should have been a clue. Nothing good happens in Newark and no one goes there unless they have to for some important occasion. Like a wedding. It is a city rife with crime, poverty, pollution, and drug traffic. To those living there unscathed thus far, I offer my appologies for my reprehensive view of your city. But hear me out.We got lost, of course, and like the old cliche, the men with us would not ask for directions. That and heavy workday traffic, made us late for the wedding. I was not unduly upset over this-the later the better, I thought.One of my three daughters and her husband rode with us, guys up front, women in the back. Just as well, as it spared us the illegal u-turns made my insignificant other, aka the driver.By the time we pulled up to the church, we realized it was not possible to enter, due to at least 30 police cars, city and state, ambulances, search and rescue trucks, helicopters hovering overhead, swat teams, and armed police swarming the area. "Perhaps the groom changed his mind," I quipped. We passed the church, turned around and my husband maneuvered his almost new Dodge Durango, through long lines of police cars and on-coming traffic on the other side. Pulling into the church parking lot, we saw the limo with the bride pull up, late as well. There was an armed guard in front of the church and a helicopter droned overhead. The officer explained there was a suspect on the loose. Overkill, I thought, never having seen such an arsenal in my life.We slipped in right before the bride and sat down in the back. Very few made it to the church since it was a work day. The bride walked down the aisle beautiful as are all brides, to meet her groom, who had in fact showed up. The church was the most exquisite I have ever seen. Marble pillars, marble walls, an arresting, (pardon the pun) statue of St. Michael the Arch angel wielding a sword, and high, arched ceilings with paintings resembling the Sistine Chapel in Rome. A beautiful ceremony was officiated by an elderly white-haired priest, apparently used to such events in his Parish.As we followed the newly married couple out of the church we asked the family what had happened and were grateful we were late. Two suspects had high-jacked a car and assaulted a police officer. One of them had run and hid in the church. As my sister-in-law was coming out of the church rest room, she walked into a hoard of armed, bullet-proof-vested swat team members brandishing rifles. Typically, she asked, "What did I do?" and then joined the rest of the entourage who had all been removed outside while they captured the perpetrator. It could have easily turned into a hostage situation.The limos and shuttle buses pulled away as we stood talking out in the parking lot, catching up , until my brither-in-law a mild-mannered man, asked nervously if we could please continue the conversation is a safer place. Noting the helicopters circling and the armed men all over the place, it seemed like a good suggestion. The reception was held at The Tides, a magnificent building with huge glass windows, winding staircases and chandeliers of near indescribable beauty. The cocktail hour served the most delectible food, all capable of easily killing me. Yet the ambience was a perfect ending for a wedding that will surely be told of for many generations to come. It is one wedding I will not soon forget. It almost made me forget that I really hate weddings.

Night is Fallinf; You're not home

I pick up the phone to call one of your friends, then drop it as reality delivers a sucker punch to my heart. You will not come home this night.I listen for your footsteps, knowing I will notr hear them. The door will not slam behind you as your rush into the house with exuberance. Looking for me, so you can tell me of your day.You went through some moody, sad years, as teens do, but this year you came into your own. You grew to like yourself, gained confidence and became even more comical than you were before, if that were possible. Well versed in irony, your humor was a combination of Carol Burnett and Lucille Ball, a mixture of slapstick and sarcasm.You are beautiful and you almost believe it yourself, but not quite. It happened so suddenly I nearly missed the transformation from gangly teenager to lovely young woman.You have fallen in a first love with a nice boy who will carry your picture in his wallet for 24 plus years. Life is so good for you at last. I have never been so proud or so close to you in both our lives. But you will not come home to me this night, my sweet Noelle, except within my dreams.I intened to do this differently, with a dialogue between my workaholic husband and myself, but the tragedies I suffered this past weekend turned me in this direction. I had no choice but ot go with it - the muse always gets his way.

Great Expectations

The seed interrupting the last bite of her grapefruit was sprouting green. Might grow, Tess thought, slipping it into water. It soon rooted.Her amateur botanist husband placed it into a bonzai pot." You can't bonzai a grapefruit tree!"" Watch me," Bart replied. The tree sat on the windowsill, dwarfed, its roots trapped within a shallow pot. Tess empathized.It survived the years; observing. Children grew and married-grandchildren crayoned next to its ceramic tray. Attempts to grow stunted by routine trimming of its thick roots.Pleas to set it free denied, as was Tess's request for freedom from a love no longer blooming. Life continued except for Tess and the tree, their thirsts and needs entrapped within a prison not of their making.She found Bart face down in his garden; sudden death from emphesema. Tess felt rooted in grief for love unfullfilled, forever stunted - robbed by a lifetime of might-have-beens.One sunny morning, preceded by overcast days, Tess repotted the minicule tree. It first appeared lost in the huge vase. Soon it began to thrive. Within the year it stood six feet tall, forming blossoms. For Tess and the grapefruit tree came promise of long awaited rebirth- a new beginning.

The new Old age.

It is a priviledge to live during a time when 60+ is no longer old age, but a fresh beginning. We will not escape some ailments along our passage into this new frontier, but it will be manageable as medical advances pop up almost daily.Our children need to look to us, for we, the baby boomers, push forward with renewed zest and dedication. It is our destiny. Never again will there be a group like us. We have changed the past, live the present and intend to promote and protect the future. It was our generation that paved the way,suffering death and tears and struggles to give todays children the things they take for granted. We gladly paid the price. Now we must educate them to understand what we endured that they might be free, well-fed for the most part, with avenues open to then that we only percieved in dreams. In hope that they will carry on the torch for upcoming generations,We were young in our twenties, and thirties, yet more politically aware than any other generation in that age group. Baby boomers believed they could change both the present and the future--each decade of our lives spurring mental and emotional growth. We thought we made a difference. Maybe we did. Maybe not. But we never stopped trying.Now in what was once the twilight of our lives, we are not retiring our convictions. The spark of interest in life that spawned our tumultuous youth has not gone out. We do not quit, we readjust. We do not relax, we regroup our priorities. For us the best is both here and yet to come. Blessed with time, health,and mental accuity, we press on to continue to achieve the goals of our youth. Baby boomers are the personification of what it means to be an active American, taking responsibility for the welfare of our country and loved ones. I am proud to count myself among them.