DWP No. 044



Alright, that’s enough unstructured writing for now. As the day(s) for LOVE dawn upon us, let’s get right to it and spread the love! To begin, in honor of Galentine’s Day, start off with the prompt below. Tomorrow, we’ll stay with the theme of LOVE, but we’ll work with a different facet.









  1. Joey, you were much too big for me but I didn’t care. How I love you. 110 pounds of beautiful black fur, your feet, your footsas, as big as frisbees and your relentless love. When I met you you barked. And you continued to bark. I miss your tummy tummy tum tum tums( “Joey, show me your tum-tum!” and you did.) You would also do a full frontal and loll out like a piece of gum.

    You were the junior lieutenant to the other half of our family, Stretch, always the loyal soldier to your fearless captain.

    “Stretch, there’s a squirrel! Stretch, I’ll get it for you!”

    You were the first dog who loved me for me, not for a handout or a handful of treats, a Lab- Newfoundland extraordinaire. When I walked into a room, you would wag your tail, hard, on the floor, so happy to see me. With you, I stopped worrying about dog drool flying everywhere like birthday confetti. I stopped worrying about dog hair clogging every vacuum cleaner around. I stopped caring about dog fur in the freezer, the microwave, and dishwasher. It was always Joey and Mary, true love forever.

    I miss you so.


  2. “All About That Hair”

    She’s my Golden Girl, and yet, to put that pressure on her is to ruin the thing that makes her shine so bright. Aware, intelligent, musical, quick, funny, smiley, bold, courageous, curious, with a hint of sass and a touch of rebel, she moves through the world with her head held high. Adventurous, easy going, cool, chill, friendly, generous, comfortable, she faces each day head first.
    Born to two opposites that indeed attracted each other, she equally splits the best of both parents. A self-proclaimed comic, her father laughs easily and often. A self-proclaimed reader, her mother keeps largely to herself but sees everything. And then the rounds of cancer treatments spared her life but kept the hair.
    Upon our first meeting, the hair was gently explained to me as a point of pride and embarrassment. She survived cancer, afterall, but in a society like South Korea, the difference something like hair can make on the psyche of a blossoming adolescent ought to have shaped much of how she felt about herself. Instead, her cancer does not define her. Her mother has worked hard to create a sense of normalcy around her hair. They shop for wigs like they’d shop for haircuts, and she gets a wig change about twice a year.
    Lately though, I’ve seen none of the wig and all of the hair. At first, she used to wear a little beanie in the winter instead of her wig, but then, she started to wear the beanie all the time. And then she swapped out the winter beanie for a little cyclist cap in the summer, and I haven’t seen her in her wig since. This was about two years ago, and I couldn’t help but feel that this tiny gesture—being able to see her with her natural hair sticking out from under a little hat—entitled me to some closeness with her as a friend.


  3. “And you say you’ve been searching for this woman?”
    “And can you describe what she looks like?”
    “Then how do you expect to find her?”
    “I will know her when I see her.”
    “How will you know that?”
    “One never mistakes for a stranger the one they truly love.”
    “But you don’t know what she looks like?”
    “Correct. Not yet.”
    “And do you expect us to help you find her?”
    “No. You cannot help me. I have already asked to leave.”
    “Who? Who did you ask?”
    “The Detective Inspector.”
    “Who? Wait. Who brought you in here? Hold on. Don’t move.”
    The chubby, increasingly sweaty deputy yanked the door open and then abruptly shut again behind him as he stomped out of the interrogation room and huffed off to complain to some officer in some room somewhere else in the precinct – a showy gesture, indeed, but too crude of a move not to belie its deception.
    “That was a nice try, but I’m afraid I can’t be much more help to you. I truly don’t know what she looks like,” the drifter continued into the empty interrogation room, clearly certain of an invisible listening ear. “And do please apologize to that poor deputy you’ve been stringing along and tell him the real story here, confusing him serves you no benefit anymore, much as my presence is here, to you.”
    The tall, wiry drifter stood up from the steel table in the center of the room and shucked off the handcuffs that bound him as if they were old, brittle, rubber bands.
    “As I leave here now, I will vanish, and you will have no chance to follow me, nor would I ever dare lead you to her even though I am currently uncertain of the way,” he continued, “This will be the last time you have with me as I have no children or family with which to be leveraged, only my undying love for her, which I will pursue to the end. And you have proven to be no threat here in that you know so very little of her, and soon enough we will both be grateful for that fact. But I will leave you with this: A long time ago, I once knew a life before this, before I ever perceived of her, before our entanglement began and my individual unity combined with hers. That time was messy, complicated, filled with uncertainty. Now I have certainty in my pursuit. And focus in my vision. And the spectre of commotion that manifests the world you live in is a mere whisper at my heels, and no longer of any concern to me. I am hers, and she is looking for me, and you have wasted enough of my time.”
    And with that, just as the deputy burst back into the room, the space in front of the drifter screamed and split open like a gaping vertical wound in the fabric of spacetime. The drifter swiftly stepped inside and the void swallowed him up. And with that, the splitting snapped shut with a thunderous clap and coated the interrogation room with red sparks and jets of crimson mist.

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