Word Prompts: Brew, flew, stew

Choose one word and write what your imagination dictates. For an added challenge, include all three words in your entry.

Something True

Brew

Last Spring

Mrs. Cameron handed her a mug of cocoa and Bella blew at the steam billowing up from the top. "I've never made a good decision my whole life."

"Nonsense. And I have reasoning that can't be argued. You decided to come here tonight, didn't you? Now come with me." She placed an arm around Bella's shoulders, leading her from the kitchen to the small living room. Bringing out a basket of yarn from the coat closet, Mrs. Cameron announced she got new colors and that they're making afghans.

While her cocoa cooled on a coaster, Bella chose her colors: two greens, one brown, and a cream. It had been over a year since she last touched a pair of knitting needles, but as she sat on the floor and began her slipknot, everything came back to her. She barely had to pay attention.

Mrs. Cameron was in her glider, sliding her glasses on. It didn't seem right without the squeaking sound of the old rocking chair. Bella wished that chair was here instead of in a corner of her own room.

After finishing a few squares, Bella got up to put a DVD in. Little Lulu.

Moving back to her knitting, she caught a glimpse of Mrs. Cameron's warm smile.

Little Lulu was arguing with boys who were firing snowballs at every girl they could spot.

"I hate love," Bella said, working her needles.

"Which love?"

"What?"

"Which kind of love do you hate?"

Bella's eyes narrowed, perplexed. Little Lulu's angry voice squeaked on in the background. "Every kind."

"I see." Mrs. Cameron stopped her gliding. "Has it occurred to you that if you hate love, you care an awful lot about it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I have a story for you, but you're not ready to hear it yet. You let me know when you're ready."

"How will I know when I'm ready?"

"You'll know." She went back to her knitting and her gliding. "Trust me."

Bella stared at her for a few seconds. "What if I think I'm ready now?"

Mrs. Cameron leaned forward so that their eyes aligned. "It's a love story. Are you ready?"

Bella shook her head fast, and Mrs. Cameron nodded as if she knew everything. Bella thought that maybe she did.

Mrs. Cameron took the empty cocoa mugs to the kitchen and padded off to bed at midnight. Bella continued knitting for another hour before taking a shower. In the bathroom she noticed a dot of blood on her panties. A little nauseous, she washed them before washing herself under a stream of hot water.

In the morning it was Mrs. Cameron's idea that Bella leave her blanket squares.

"You can continue it next time you come," she said, hugging Bella goodbye.

"I used to want to live here," Bella said, stepping out of Mrs. Cameron's arms.

"My door is always open to you. You know that."

...

Deciding to clear her life of Riley as much as possible, Bella walked to his house that afternoon.

He didn't answer the door until after she knocked this time.

"Bella," he said with his head cocked to the side like he felt sorry for her. "You know you're not supposed to come over anymore."

"I'm not here for you. I'm here for something else."

He stepped aside, gesturing for her to come in as if he was some sort of gentleman.

After a glance at the sofa she couldn't help but notice the frame was back in its position on the table. Victoria.

"Did your wife get married?"

"What?"

"Did you end up going to your ex-wife's wedding?"

"Oh, no."

"But her picture's back?"

He didn't answer; she didn't press.

"I want to pull my essay from the contest."

"What? Why?"

"I just do."

"You can't, Bella."

"Miss Swan," she said.

It might have been slight, but Bella saw his head jerk back. "You can't pull it. Winners are being announced on Friday. And listen, you're in the top three. "

"Are you sure you should be telling me that? Is that ethical?" She folded her arms across her chest. "Pull it or I'll ask another teacher to pull it."

"Do you know how that will look? We'll both look guilty."

If understanding hadn't already been crystal clear to her, it would have been then. He didn't give a shit about her. Her insides felt cut open all over again. But she wouldn't let him witness her bleed. "We both knew this was a risk, didn't we?"

"Tell me why you want it pulled."

She wouldn't tell him that the reason she wanted it pulled was because he had been the one to talk her into entering. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of any real answer. "I can always ask Mrs. Cohen to do it. Maybe she'll also want to know why."

She saw him swallow as if there was a golf ball going down.

"And leave Bree alone or I'll tell her everything."

She walked to the fish tank and tapped on the glass. "Bye," she whispered. Then she walked to the front door, opened it, stepped outside.

She took the forest way home. She thought about how well she knew it, how she could walk from this edge to her neighborhood with her eyes closed. She turned around and walked backwards.

A grid of sunlight snuck through the trees to the ground. Of course, of all the days for the sun to come out, that was the day. She wished for rain. She wished for it to rain so hard the dirt would slush to mud and cake her shoes. Her hair would be smashed to her head. Rain so hard it came down in sheets so that even if she were to turn around and face forward, she wouldn't be able to see where she was going.

Bella had heard about girls like her before, girls who fell in love with teachers. She hadn't been sure they were real; or if they were real, she knew they were crazy, and it certainly wasn't something that went on in a place like Forks. But here she was, one of them. No amount of walking backwards could change that. Time could not be reversed. Why she continued to walk backwards, she couldn't be sure. Maybe it was simply that she didn't want to face where she was going, to a home where she was once smart, where she'd thought she'd known better. Maybe she was afraid that at home all these warring emotions would brew into tears and she'd lie down on her bed crying the day and night away

At some point the crushing feeling in her chest that thought it was love would have to let up.

In her room she dug through her desk drawers in search of an old box of colored chalk. She drew out the blue one and wrote the number 370 on the wall by her bed, the number of days before she graduated high school.

Under that number she drew a short, vertical line.

A/N: You all are so wonderful and appreciated. Thank you.