I like to drop by the Writer’s Digest “Your Story” Contest page and look over their visual writing prompts. Over the years I’ve penned many a story based on those prompts and submitted to the contest numerous times. (This year, for the first time, one of my stories even made the editors’ top five and entered the final round. It finished 3rd.) Of those stories all but two have been published elsewhere.
The story below, Balance, found a home in Dual Coast Magazine in 2018. The writing prompt picture for Balance was a long tree limb shrouded in gorgeous fall foliage, bright orange and yellow leaves reaching out to an unseen end. It was a stunning picture, very golden hued, Robert Frost “The Road Not Taken,” warm, fuzzy memories inducing. With this in mind, one of the things I never did as a teenager, despite all my stupid antics, was sneak out. I don’t particularly think I missed out on some great and fundamental aspect of life, but the writer in me isn’t above contemplating such questions and, yes, boys and girls the mid-life crisis is a real thing. Wanderlust is a real thing. And adulting, on many, many occasions is completely overrated. That being said, I’m blessed with a happy marriage. Today makes 27 years – that poor man! If anything, I am in fact the “difficult” one, though certainly not rigorous. So, now that you have that great jumble of swirling and conflicting thoughts, I give you my little piece of flash fiction and dedicate it to the love of my life on our anniversary.
Balance
Owen squeezed through the open window, feet first, and carefully lowered himself onto the awaiting limb. He’d watched his daughter do this years ago when she was young and wild and obviously going someplace she wasn’t supposed to be going. He’d envied her: the thrill, the adrenaline rush, the adventure! Maybe he was a bad father for having let her get away with it, but Joannie, his wife, had always been strict, unreasonably so. He’d come to Greta’s aid often, though, probably not often enough. Peace was a delicate balance, one he’d never mastered.
Greta was gone now. Off leading her own life. Free. But what was he? Maybe he was a bad husband too? All those secrets he’d kept. What kind of couple kept secrets? He’d always known where Greta was going and who she was going with, but he’d never…
His foot slipped. Owen caught himself, barely. He wriggled and stretched, hooked one foot over the limb and somehow managed to right himself. His shirt had a hole in it now and he suddenly felt every minute of his age.
Owen hadn’t been in a tree in years. Not since he and Arnie Webber climbed up the old oak in Lamden Field with binoculars they hoped would be strong enough to give them a peek into Carla Wilson’s bedroom. Sadly, their efforts had been wasted. The dime store binoculars struggled to magnify the edges of the field, beyond it remained a blur.
He’d never snuck out before though. Not once. Not as kid or even as a teenager for a party. None of it. In a week he’d be fifty. Fifty! If ever there was a time.
Owen eyed the awaiting car with an excitement he hadn’t felt in years. It was so close now, parked along the side of the house, just beyond the outstretched limbs of the ancient tree. The getaway driver, no, not another woman, none other than Arnie Wilson. Lifelong friends came through for you like that. They’d talked for years about adventure and the open road, but life and family had a way of keeping your feet firmly planted and your speedometer under seventy-five. This was his chance for a little freedom and some time away from the rigor with which Joannie felt every day should be lived.
Six feet from the end of limb Owen stopped. He was out as far as he dared go, any further and the bough might break. This was the moment, his moment to either leap or turn around. Adrenaline coursed through him. Some might laugh and chalk this up to spring fever, but not Owen. No, for Owen the wanderlust and restlessness had been a growing ache, one that was now all-consuming. Fresh air, adventure, long days without a tie or an agenda.
Owen sucked in a deep breath. The air was cool and the sweet aroma of distant horizons danced through his imagination. Gooseflesh prickled down his arms and he let out a sigh as he glanced over his shoulder. His eyes scrutinized the house he’d called home for almost three decades. He hadn’t meant to, but he’d left the window open. He turned back and eyed the awaiting car, it was ripe with promise, but…
He waved Arnie on.
Owen watched his best friend drive away alone. He stared off into the distance long after Arnie had disappeared, his mind flooded with the possibilities that stretched out along the open road. The thing was, Owen loved his wife. Slowly, he turned around and started back the way he came. Maybe, just maybe she’d be up for an adventure now too.
(Originally published in Dual Coast Magazine, Issue 6, June 2018.)