Where You Headed?

I regret ever letting him advance from roommate to lover. Now he thinks he owns me. I can’t even leave the apartment without him asking me where I’m headed. The lease is up in two months. He’s going to be gone after that. I’m finished with him and his clingy ways.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “where you headed?”

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Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

4 thoughts on “Where You Headed?”

  1. Can’t wait to jump in my car. Feel the engine roar. Hear the wind whip against my face as I am gaining distance between me and your bullshit. You said things will be better and I thought I could see a change. Now, I am gone. Where? I can’t say as I don’t even know myself. But I do know that I won’t fall for you again.

  2. Questions often reveal much about the person who asks them. For instance, “Where are you headed?” can show concern for someone or an attempt to control or dominate. Sometimes asking “Where are you headed” shows equality or deference given to the other. Or it reveals a person who thinks of himself as superior, in charge, and on a higher rung on the ladder of life. Sometimes, even “Where are you headed?” implies solidarity, support, willingness to accompany the other in whatever venture is happening. “Where are you headed?” therefore becomes a tip=off to our own contextual response: emotional, rational and/or tactical.

  3. The mynahs hop silently
    the soil sleeps fitfully
    the blossoms outburst
    from the earth’s heart

    So much happens here
    My friend my dear
    Where you headed?
    To the land of dead!

    The sighs of the dying
    the screams of the dead
    all night replaying
    inside your soft head….

  4. Where ya headed, chickie? That’s what they would say after the night shift. I could smell the sweat of my body. My back and feet hurt. I’d put in overtime working at the carpet mill. The mill had moved down here to Carolina to get cheap labor and they did. The guys and gals worked harder than anyone I’ve ever seen. Those huge carpet weaving machines were huge. I’d have to jump up and down – up and down. There were no air conditioners. You had to get permission like a kid in school to go to the goddam bathroom. When you had your period you’d be ashamed to have to ask so many times to get to the bathroom to change your sanitary napkin. I left home clean as a whistle in my pretty flowered blouse and my comfortable cotton slacks but that summer heat and humidity melted me almost down to my bones. When the whistle blew and we all wound down to get home the guys would call out, “where ya headed, chickie?” It wasn’t demeaning. It was said caringly because they knew how hard the women worked their asses off alongside the men. Equal to the men. They knew we couldn’t wait to get home to the sleeping kids and bathe and crawl into bed alone because husbands had left us and we needed this job. We needed this freakin’ job. We needed this job because it paid less than the men but more than if we worked in an office. That was a long time ago.

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