Essay

We all daydream and sometimes our hopes and dreams seem far away and we wonder if that's all they will ever be. We try to make them happen, but despite our best efforts, some just fall through. Writing is my safety net. If something just won't seem to happen in real life, I will make it happen on the page because I need to see it happen. It serves a purpose. Maybe I'm sending this energy out into the universe and making it more likely to happen. Maybe it satisfies me somehow to see it written down and happening to a fictional character.

Writing gives you power. It allows you to create your own world. In fiction, anything is possible. Whatever it is that you want can happen in two pages. I use my characters. I use my stories. Writing is a very selfish thing in the beginning. It is all in your head and you are creating a world with new people and events. My stories aren't about me. They never start that way. The characters pop into my head demanding attention and I don't know where they come from, but they need to be given life. And many times, writing about their struggles, their conflict, their pain, their joy, is therapy for me. It helps me to feel compassion for myself because it puts everything onto the table and allows me to see that I have every right to feel the way I do. Have you heard people say "Would you talk to your friend that way?" when thinking of how you talk to yourself? Sometimes putting a character in your shoes (or giving them some of your problems) helps you to see a situation clearer. I can't tell you how many times an answer appears in the story that helps me personally.

The great thing is that many of our struggles are universal. Most likely, whatever you are writing about is something other people can relate to. So it is not entirely selfish. By making yourself vulnerable and sharing your (or your character's) struggles, you comfort other people by showing them they are not alone. And sometimes, a story is just entertainment. Most often, it is both. My novel is very much set in the real world and deals with personal relationships (specifically, a romantic relationship with lots of very messed up issues) but also has supernatural elements because it is fun to imagine a mysterious, possibly devious person with superhuman abilities.

All the things you can't say--because no one wants to hear it, people are tired of hearing it, or it sounds like complaining or whining--you can put into a story. And this changes everything. It is far more effective to get your point across and really say something if you make up fictional characters and a fictional setting with an original plot. It is safer. It is not as threatening. You can't just shove the medicine down someone's throat. They will fight you every time. Put the medicine in the mashed potatoes. Sneaky? Maybe. But, isn't this what every great artist has done? This is what I strive for. Because the alternative is to go around being miserable and feeling sorry for yourself and that is not much fun to be around. So, purge all the crap and then go out and enjoy your life.

(2014)

Essay

Dating can be fun but is mostly confusing. I have learned many things, though. For example, I learned that you shouldn't drink at all on the first couple of dates because you will miss a lot of important things. And pay attention if a guy wears sunglasses a lot. He could be hiding something, like a serious case of lazy eye. How did I not notice this? It was probably the Pinot Grigio. Now before you say, "Elaine, that is just mean," read on. He was not exactly Prince Charming.

You might be tempted to drink to calm the nerves and get over the first date jitters, but resist the temptation, because you will start to really like the person. He was fairly intelligent with a good sense of humor and good taste in music. So I got my hopes up and thought--as I frequently did in these times--"Yay! We found a winner!" It usually took me three dates to figure out what I assumed most people would see at first glance. I tend to be very picky so I was trying to not be so picky and be more open-minded but after this, I realized I should go back to being picky. See? Confusing. On the third date, I noticed that what I initially thought was a 5 or 6 was actually maybe a 2. Wine will do that to you.

Then I questioned myself, wondering if I was just being shallow. After all, looks are not the most important thing. But this was just too much. As Date #3 continued and I tried to make eye contact but could not because one eye was traveling westward and one wandering eastward, I realized I just couldn't do it. But that's not even the whole story.

He was incredibly tedious and indecisive in everything and very cheap. (What's that sound? Ah, yes, it's the sound of panties dropping) We went to Publix to buy a bottle of wine after dinner (a dinner I made, by the way. Why do women try so hard? On the third date??) and he grabs three bottles of wine. I'm thinking, "OK, he wants to take a couple bottles back home with him. He's stocking up." He puts them on the belt and stands off to the side, clearly expecting me to pay for all of them. I must add that he did make little comments from time to time about making sure I wasn't a "gold-digger" and that he was looking for a "sugar-momma." I paid for one bottle of wine and told him to put the rest back. He acted like I was over-reacting. I'm like, "No, we came for one bottle. I can't buy three." Oh, and I forgot to mention that he would never open doors but would actually stand back and wait for me to open them for him. Bizarre. I'm a modern woman and all, but really?

On the second date, he told me how mysterious and alluring I was, how I was so different from any other woman he dated. Please. Are we in high school? He claimed to understand women so much better than other men. He just didn't understand why women were so flaky. They would lead him on then let him down. Maybe it was because they realized what a weirdo you were, but anyway. He, in his grand narcissism, called it "buyer's remorse." He worked this into almost every conversation we had.

Suffice it to say, I did not see him again.

(2013)

Short Comedic Fiction

This was my attempt at writing a children’s story. In the end, it turned into something else. A story for cat ladies and gentlemen, perhaps. I think it’s cute and funny. I hope you like it.

Buggy is a pint-sized furball of fierce. She's named after Bugs Bunny because of her big ears and overbite which makes her look like a bunny. She's small but don't let her size fool you. Buggy is all meow and all bite.

McCatney is a tiger-striped cat from Alabama. Since he was a kitten, he dreamed of leaving his home state and moving to Orlando for two reasons:

1. Alabama, the band, has a song talking about “skinning cats.”

2. He wanted to meet this famous rodent—Mickey Mouse—everyone kept talking about.

His friends told him to stop being silly and accept his country cat life, but he had dreams. He worked his way south by jumping on the back of trucks until he reached his destination. Once in Orlando, he met Buggy and the two became friends. But to become a member of the Meow Meow Gang, McCatney had to eat an entire bowl of catnip. He was awake for two days and ended up in a bowl of noodles behind a Chinese restaurant. The owner of the restaurant came out the back door. When he saw McCatney, he yelled, “Shoo! Shoo!” Buggy came just in time and yelled at the man, “Nobody messes with my friend! Meeooww hisss!” The owner shook his head and went inside.

One day, McCatney and Buggy were hanging out at PetSmart. McCatney looked down at his claws and said, “These are too long. Buggy, distract the workers so I can use this scratching post a while.”

“Right meow?” Buggy asked. “I was getting ready to take a nap.”

“Yes, right meow,” said McCatney.

“Merr purr,” Buggy mumbled then jumped up on a high shelf full of dog treats and shoved them all to the ground. Then she ran and hid behind a stack of cat litter. A young man walked around the corner and saw the mess. He sighed and cleaned it up.

Meanwhile, McCatney was hard at work on the scratching post. When he trimmed his claws, he went into his own world. He was in a frenzy, his head bobbing back and forth, low growling sounds coming from his throat. Finally, when he was finished, he laid on the floor and purred.

Buggy walked over, a bag of Meow Mix chicken-flavored treats hanging from her mouth. She dropped the treats to the floor.

“You really get into your scratching,” Buggy said as she opened the bag with her teeth.

McCatney played with a little squeaky mouse, batting it back and forth between his paws. He looked at Buggy. “Have you ever been to Disney World? I hear there's a big mouse named Mickey there. I have to see him for myself.”

Buggy wrinkled her nose and her whiskers twitched. “I haven't met him. But I've heard he's a real asshole and he's really big. You wouldn't be able to catch him.”

McCatney whacked the mouse across the floor. It slammed against a container of cat litter and squeaked. “I like to challenge myself. If someone tells me I can't do something, then I have to try it. Don't you have dreams, Buggy?”

Buggy grabbed hold of a dog bed with her claws and dragged it closer. She jumped in and kneaded the soft cotton for a couple minutes before lying down. “I have dreams of taking a nap right meow.”

“I'm serious, Buggy. Don't you ever get tired of this? Living on the streets, sneaking into pet stores and stealing food and catnip? There has to be more to life than this.”

Buggy stood up again and pressed her paws into the bed. “What are you talking about? Just because you were named after some famous human, you want a glamorous life? This is the best we can do, cats like us.”

McCatney jumped to the top of the scratching post and looked down at Buggy. He raised a paw into the air. “No! We can do better. The street life is no way to live. Somewhere out there is a purrfect loving family who would take us in, feed us, pet us, cuddle us, maybe even take us to see Mickey Mouse!”

Buggy stretched and yawned. “Come on, McCatney. What kind of catnip have you been sniffing? No one wants us. Look at us.” She looked down at her matted fur. “We're dirty kitties. We're wild. We're street cats and that's all we're going to be. No one would want to adopt us. Now stop being silly and go grab a box of Meow Mix. I'll grab some catnip. We need to go before they find us and kick us out.”

“Alright. Let's bring some food to the rest of the gang.”

Buggy and McCatney walked outside and stopped when they saw a big white van with “Humane Society” written on the side.

Buggy leaned up against a street post and began licking her paw and washing her face. “These creeps again,” she said. “Driving up in their weird white van. No way am I getting in there. Don't care if they have the best treats in the world.”

“Shh,” McCatney said. “Don't be rude.”

A lady with bright red hair stepped out of the van and walked slowly to the cats, smiling.

Buggy decided to call her “Fire.” Another woman walked out behind her, followed by a short man with curly hair.

“Hey, little guys. Let us bring you to the shelter. You must be hungry,” Fire said.

McCatney looked at Buggy. “We're okay, we just had some Meow Mix.”

The fur on Buggy's neck stood up and she arched her back. “Yeah, we're fine,” she hissed.

Fire smiled. “Come here, you.” She leaned down and tried to pick up Buggy, but Buggy batted at her, giving her two quick slaps, and ran around the corner.

Fire looked at McCatney. “We can give you a nice warm bed and find you loving homes. I bet you could use a bath, too.”

McCatney licked his paw and wiped his ear. “I already had a bath.”

Buggy peeked her head around the corner. “Come on, McCatney. Let's find the rest of the gang.”

McCatney looked at the van then back to Buggy. “We should go with them, Buggy.”

“Hell, no. Life on the streets is all I know.”

“Come on,” McCatney said. “Maybe it won't be so bad.”

Buggy's tail twitched. “You just want to meet Mickey Mouse.”

His tail waving back and forth, McCatney stepped closer to Buggy. “Yeah, maybe I do. But I want more for us. We have nothing to lose. Don't you trust me?”

Buggy rubbed her head against the side of the building then walked over to McCatney. “I do trust you. You're my best friend.”

McCatney and Buggy let the rescuers take them into crates and put them into the van. It smelled like other cats and the ride was bumpy. When they got to the shelter, the nice people gave them baths and a man in a white coat gave them shots. Buggy was mad at first, but calmed down when she saw a bowl of delicious food.

One day, after they'd been in the shelter for a few weeks, Buggy nudged McCatney. “Hey, no one has adopted us and this is boring. We should escape.”

McCatney lapped up some water from his bowl. “We can't give up hope. Besides, I heard them talking while you were asleep. They said we would get adopted together.”

“I sure hope so,” said Buggy. “Although you'll have to do something about that gas when we're in a house. I don't know how that smell can come out of a cat. I mean, I can see it from a cow, but—"

“Alright, alright, I got it!” McCatney said. “Stop nagging. Maybe when we have better food my gas will go away.”

They both looked up as a pretty young woman walked into the room. She smiled at Buggy and McCatney. “Oh, look,” she said. “Aren't they precious?” She stepped closer and bent down to pet them. “I'm Cindy. It's nice to meet you.”

McCatney leaned in to let her pet him and buried his face in her cleavage.

“McCatney!” Buggy hissed. “Stop that.”

Cindy picked him up and held him. “Silly boy,” she said.

Then she put him down and picked up Buggy, who purred and rested her head against her chest. “How about you guys come live with me?”

McCatney meowed loudly and Buggy amped up her purring. Cindy laughed. “I'll take that as a yes.”

Buggy and McCatney spent the next few days exploring their new home. It was big and there were plenty of toys all over the house. There was always yummy food and clean water to drink. Cindy loved to play and cuddle with them, too.

One day, Buggy was rolling around in a pile of catnip and meowing loudly. McCatney sat next to her, eating from his bowl. He looked at Buggy and shook his head.

Cindy walked in. “Oh my goodness, what have you gotten into, little one?” She picked Buggy up and held her, petting her. “You opened the catnip all on your own?” She laughed. “I'm going to have to hide that better, Buggy-Bug.” She set Buggy down and looked at McCatney. “Your little sister is a wild one, isn't she?”

McCatney washed his paws. “Don't I know it.”

When Cindy left the room, Buggy went to the middle of the kitchen floor and stood for a minute, her eyes to the ceiling. She let out a long sigh. “Meeoooow. . .”

“Buggy! What did you do? We have a litter box for that,” McCatney said.

“She hid the catnip. When she stops hiding it, I'll start using the litter box again. You have to train your humans, McCatney. All cats know this.”

“That's just rude,” said McCatney. He jumped onto the counter and pushed a roll of paper towels onto the floor.

Later that night, Buggy and McCatney were lying in front of the fireplace. “I sure am thankful the shelter people took us off the streets,” McCatney said.

“Me, too,” said Buggy. She rolled over onto her back and licked her paw. “You know what I could really go for right now? I'd love some catnip.”

McCatney purred and shook his head. “Oh, Buggy, what am I going to do with you?”

Buggy got up and moved a little closer to the fireplace. McCatney's ears stood straight up when he saw what she'd been lying on. It was a colorful piece of paper with a picture of a big mouse dressed in red pants, a black shirt and white gloves standing in front of a castle.

“Buggy!” McCatney pounced on Buggy. “That's the place with the mouse! We have to go there!”

“I know,” Buggy said. “That's why I'm making sure Cindy sees this in the morning.” She picked up the picture with her teeth and jumped onto the coffee table. She carefully slid it under a set of keys. “She won't miss this. When she decides to go, we'll just sneak into the back of the car.”

“Buggy, you're the best,” McCatney said.

“I am, aren't I?” Buggy purred and hopped back onto the floor. She looked around the room. “Now, help me find that catnip, would you?”

Screenplay (thriller/supernatural)

*Note: MOS means “without sound.” OS means “off screen.”

Part One

INT. KITCHEN - DAY

ANNIE ARCHER, 12, is small for her age with the face of a porcelain doll: fair skin, rosy cheeks, bright green eyes and black hair lopped into a bob. She stands defiantly, hands on her hips, looking at her older sister, KATE, 16. Kate raises an eyebrow and scratches her head, messing up her pink hair.

ANNIE

Come on! I’ll hide and you come find me.

KATE

Really don’t feel like playing this again.

Kate rolls her eyes before covering them with her hands.

KATE (CONT’D)

One, two, three . . .

Annie takes off running.

INT. ATTIC - CONTINUOUS

Yellow late afternoon light shines in through the small round window at the end of the room, illuminating dust in the air. The door opens and Annie bursts in, closing the door quietly behind her. Her head moves from left to right, searching for a place to hide. She tiptoes quickly to an old couch and crouches down behind it, peeking her head out to look at the attic door.

INT. KATE’S BEDROOM - SAME

Kate lies on her bed, her cell phone to her ear, talking MOS.

INT. ATTIC - CONTINUOUS

Annie peeks her head out from behind the couch again and frowns. Her eyes scan the expanse of the room. A few feet away, three female Russian nesting dolls lie, cracked open, on an old bookshelf. The mother doll lies in between two smaller dolls. Annie crawls out of her hiding spot and takes the smaller doll from the bookshelf, studying it.

She jumps when a box near her feet begins to shake. She GASPS and backs away slowly, her eyes never leaving the box. The box tips over and a doll similar to the one Annie is holding rolls out onto the floor with a CRACK. The doll opens in the middle and a smaller doll rolls out, coming to a stop by the bookshelf.

A blinding light flashes between the two halves of the larger doll. Annie shields her eyes with her arm. When she moves her arm, she sees MISHA, 14, tall and thin with long black hair. She has a nasty case of resting bitch-face. Her eyes narrow at Annie.

Annie stumbles back, her mouth wide open in shock.

MISHA

Hello, sister. It’s been too long.

The smaller doll on the floor begins to vibrate. Annie clutches the doll in her hands tighter and takes off for the attic door.

Misha takes a step forward and glares at Annie’s back.

MISHA (CONT’D)

You don’t remember me?

Annie yanks the door open and bolts down the stairs.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Annie slams the attic door shut behind her and runs down the hallway. She nearly collides with LINDA, 40, who catches her by the shoulders. Linda looks like a fashion editor at Vogue magazine, complete with a thin figure and messy dark bun.

LINDA

Whoa, honey. Slow down. What--

She stops mid-sentence when she sees the doll in Annie’s arms. Taking a shaky step back, she covers her mouth with one hand.

ANNIE

What, Mom?

Linda steadies herself against the wall. Her eyes move between the doll and Annie. The doll looks exactly like Annie.

LINDA

What were you doing in the attic?

She reaches out and takes the doll from Annie.

ANNIE

We were playing hide and seek.

LINDA

I told you to never go up there.

Linda looks down at the Annie-doll in her hands then to Annie.

LINDA (CONT’D)

You have to be very careful with these dolls. They are worth more to me than...

She stops and wipes a tear from her eye.

LINDA (CONT’D)

Where are the rest of the dolls?

Annie’s eyes widen as she looks at something behind Linda.

Linda turns and the attic door slams shut.

LINDA (CONT’D)

Kate! Come out right now! I told you guys to stay out of the attic.

A bedroom door opens down the hall and Kate steps into the hallway looking confused.

KATE

What?

Linda GASPS, putting her hand over her chest.

ANNIE

It wasn’t Kate. There’s a girl up there.

Linda’s mouth forms a small “o” as her eyes travel to the attic door.

LINDA

Just one girl?

ANNIE

There were these dolls in a box and then it fell...The doll...opened and it was really bright and then she was there. A smaller one was on the floor but I ran downstairs.

KATE

Wait, there’s someone in our attic? Shouldn’t we call the police, or--

LINDA

(under her breath)

Misha and Natalie.

KATE

What?

LINDA

No, it’s OK. Girls, go to your rooms.

KATE

Mom, what’s going on?

LINDA

Just take your sister and go to your room. Now.

Kate frowns and leads Annie to her bedroom. The door closes.

Linda goes to the attic door and opens it. About two dozen marbles come flying down the stairs. A few hit Linda. She shields her face from the onslaught.

LINDA (CONT’D)

Aah!

MISHA (O.S.)

Go away.

Linda looks up at the top of the stairs. Misha is holding one of the dolls. She tosses it down to Linda who barely catches it before it hits the hardwood floor. Linda looks closely at the doll. It’s the smallest of the set. She clutches it close to her chest and looks back up to Misha.

LINDA

Oh, Misha, honey. I didn’t know you were---I couldn’t take care of all of you. But I can now! We can be a family again. Please talk to me.

Linda takes one step up the stairs. At the top of the stairs, Misha is holding a bowling ball.

MISHA

No, thank you, Mommy Dearest. But you’ll be sorry for what you’ve done. Keeping us locked up. You forgot about us.

LINDA

I didn’t forget. I told you--I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d be awake! Please, Misha!

Misha holds up the ball and laughs maniacally.

Linda slams the door shut behind her and runs down the hallway toward the kitchen.

INT. KITCHEN - CONTINUOUS

She yanks open a drawer and pulls out a small gold key.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

Linda runs back to the attic door and inserts the key, locking it. She takes a few steps back and stares at the door. The doll in her hand shakes. Linda kneels and gently sets it onto the rug. The vibration speeds up until it looks like it will explode. Then the doll splits and the two halves roll apart leaving a blinding light in the center.

Linda takes a step back and looks away, shielding her eyes. When she looks back, a little girl stands before her. NATALIE, 5 years old, smiles wide. She looks identical to the face on the doll.

NATALIE

Mommy!

Linda rushes forward and pulls Natalie into a fierce hug.

LINDA

Baby, are you OK?

NATALIE

I’m fine, but...

She turns and points to the attic door.

NATALIE (CONT’D)

Misha is mad.

LINDA

I know, honey. I’m going to get you guys to Aunt Maddie’s house then I’ll try talking to Misha.

Natalie shakes her head.

NATALIE

I don’t think she wants to talk.

INT. KATE’S BEDROOM - DAY

Linda opens the door. Kate and Annie look up, confused.

LINDA

We need to pack up and go stay with Aunt Maddie, OK?

KATE

Mom, what’s going on?

Natalie peeks into the room.

LINDA

Natalie, come in and wait with Kate while I help Annie pack.

Natalie walks in and smiles shyly at Kate and Annie.

LINDA (CONT’D)

Kate, do you remember?

Kate’s eyes widen at the sight of Natalie.

INT. LIVING ROOM - NIGHT - FLASHBACK

Linda stands with the largest doll split in half at her feet. Next to Linda, Kate stands with her doll, open at her feet. In front of them, a medium-sized doll begins to vibrate. It cracks open in the middle and breaks apart, leaving a smaller doll inside, unopened. A burst of light pours from the two halves. Misha appears and dances over to Linda and Kate, hugging them. The next doll follows the same pattern, vibrating until it bursts open, the two halves engulfed in blinding light. The light fades, Annie in its place. She jumps over the wooden halves to join Linda, Kate and Misha. The four stand close, holding hands as they watch the smallest doll vibrate and crack open. A flash of light then Natalie hops over her doll and runs to join her family.

Linda turns to Misha.

LINDA

And you’re sure you’re OK with this? You can say no.

MISHA

It’s OK, Mom. I can sleep for a while and you wake us up when you can.

INT. KATE'S BEDROOM - BACK TO PRESENT DAY

Kate jumps up and runs to Natalie, hugging her.

A flash of recognition in Annie’s eyes, she follows Kate and hugs Natalie.

KATE

How could we have forgotten?

Linda smiles.

LINDA

When you’ve been in human form for as long as we have, you tend to forget. I’ve wanted us all to be together for so long. I had no idea you could still be conscious in doll form.

ANNIE

But Misha was.

Linda frowns and embraces all the girls at once.

LINDA

She was. I didn’t--

A loud thud cuts her off. She looks up in horror. The girls hug each other tighter as they look up to the ceiling. Misha’s maniacal laughter echoes down from the attic.

LINDA (CONT’D)

We should leave. I want to try talking to her again but I want you guys out of here first.

KATE

Talk to her? She’s crazy!

Linda shakes her head and begins throwing clothes into a suitcase.

LINDA

I know.

A loud CRASH sound down the hall. Then a THUD sounds outside the bedroom door. Linda peeks out.

INT. HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS

A bowling ball rolls straight down the hallway and CRASHES into the door of the hallway closet, leaving a hole in the door with splintered wood fragments all over the floor. Linda runs back into Kate’s bedroom and slams the door, locking it. The three girls huddle together in the corner of the room.

ANNIE

What happened?

Linda puts her finger to her lips in a shushing gesture. She listens, her ear against the door.

KATE

Do you smell that?

Linda sniffs the air.

LINDA

Oh, God, no.

A door slams shut.

LINDA (CONT’D)

We’ve got to make a run for it! Leave your bags. When I count to three, run as fast as you can to the front door, OK? The three girls line up at the bedroom door. Linda opens it and pushes the girls in front of her.

LINDA (CONT’D)

Go, go!

INT. ENTRYWAY - CONTINUOUS

Linda, Kate, Annie and Natalie rush to the front door. Linda yanks on the door. It won’t open.

ANNIE

Aahh!

She jumps back and points to the window. Misha’s face fills the window frame. She smiles wickedly.

Tendrils of smoke dance behind Linda and her daughters. Linda looks behind them to the kitchen. Smoke is pouring out into the living room.

LINDA

Let us out!

Misha’s smile transitions back into a bored scowl. Kate kicks and bangs on the door. Misha ignores her and stares at Linda, who steps closer to the window.

LINDA (CONT’D)

I’m sorry, OK, sweetheart? I’m sorry. Please let us out. We can all be together now.

MISHA

Too late.

Linda turns and looks at the kitchen, which is now filled with smoke. She grabs a vase from the entryway table.

LINDA

Stand back, girls!

She throws the vase through the window.

EXT. PORCH - CONTINUOUS

Misha jumps back, caught off guard. She stumbles and loses her balance, falling down the steps.

The door bursts open and Linda and the girls run outside to the sidewalk across the street. Linda talks on her cell phone MOS. Kate points to the front lawn.

KATE

Look!

Misha cuts through the trees and drops something in the grass before she disappears behind a neighbor’s house. As SIRENS wail in the distance, Linda walks over and picks it up. It is the Misha-doll. Looking closely, there is one large crack along the side. Annie and Kate run up behind her.

ANNIE

Maybe she can go back in doll form and then she won’t be able to hurt us.

Linda stares at the doll for a beat then turns to Annie and Kate. She points to the crack in the side.

LINDA

See how it’s cracked there? Once the wood is damaged, she can never return to the doll.

Annie’s head jerks up and she points down the street.

ANNIE

Mom! Look!

Misha stands a few hundred yards away under a street lamp, staring at them.

The SIRENS grow louder and a fire truck turns the corner onto their street behind Misha. A slow smile forms on her face before she turns and runs the other way, her long dark hair flying behind her in the wind.

Short fiction

I shiver as I slam the door to my apartment. “Love coming home to a tiny box,” I say to the blinding white walls. Charlie, my fat orange cat, rubs against me and I feel the vibration from his purring against my ankles. He looks up at me and meows.

“It was another hellish day at Samson and Associates. How was your day?” I say to him as I toss my bag down. I liked my old job better (got to work from home sometimes) but Justin started showing up there and causing scenes so I had to leave. I strip off my jacket and kick off my heels, now soaked to the inside. I just want to sit down in front of the fireplace and with a glass of wine. After feeding Charlie, I throw some logs into the fireplace and start the fire. I only have half a glass of wine left in the bottle but that will have to do.

I jump when I hear a notification on my phone. Digging it out of my bag, I see it’s Justin. I slide the screen open, my hand shaking. “You can’t avoid me forever. I’m not going to sign the papers until you talk to me. By the way, I hope you like your new job.” My heart pounds. Has he found out where I work already? But I don’t get to think about this for too long because I have to throw up.

“Damn it,” I say. I make it to the bathroom just in time to land in front of the toilet and lift the lid. My knees sink into the plush rug and before I know it, it’s over. My hands and legs shake as I stand and brush my teeth. My stomach always gets upset when I’m stressed. I should feel better since I left my abusive husband but I just feel sick. It doesn’t help that he won’t sign the papers and he won’t stop harassing me. I keep meaning to go the doctor, but I’d feel silly. It’s just stress. Starting over at the age of thirty-one is tough. Even tougher when you and your family are devout Catholics. Divorce is not allowed in my religion. This must be why I feel so sick. It’s my penance.

I tried going back to St. Paul’s last week to attend mass. I hadn’t been to a service in months and walked in a few minutes late. I sat in the back and listened as the choir sang “I Am the Bread of Life.” Mom stood in the front row on the left with the other sopranos. After scanning the large room, I found Dad sitting about four rows back, his bald head shining under the overhead lights. Bert was sitting next to him, his hand stroking his dark brown beard. I smiled. I miss him, I thought. I’ll have to talk to him after the service. Then I felt eyes on me and turned to my right. A woman I had only met a couple times was glaring at me. Once I made eye contact, she pointedly stared down at my left hand, bare except for a pale strip of skin where my wedding band used to be. Then she sniffed and jerked her head back to the front. Her husband gave me a sideways glance and a frown. I rolled my eyes and looked back to the front of the room and caught my mother’s eye. She smiled and tilted her head to one side. It was a sad smile. A couple other people must have noticed and turned to look at me with expressions of half-surprise, half-disapproval. I felt like I was being pushed out of the room. I smiled a big, toothy grin and then dropped the smile, rolled my eyes and quietly put my purse strap over my shoulder and snuck out. Judgmental assholes.

Won’t be going back there again, I think as I pour a glass of wine. My phone buzzes again and my chest tightens. If I don’t respond, he’ll just keep calling and texting. He doesn’t know where I live but I don’t want to take any chances. I hit reply: “Please just sign the papers, Justin. I don’t think meeting is a good idea.”

His reply comes seconds later filled with a string of profanities and I turn the phone off and put it in the top drawer of my dresser. I am a prisoner in my own home. I’m afraid to go anywhere because he might find me. And if I were to escape, where would I go? I barely have any friends left, thanks to Justin telling them horrible lies about me and forbidding me from seeing them.

Orange-pink light streams in from the blinds. I peek out, halfway expecting to see Justin’s silver BMW outside. There are only the usual cars in the parking lot and the asphalt is wet from the rain. We have more sunny days in Seattle than people realize but today is not one of them. The tall emerald trees across the street stand out against the golden sky and silver mountains in the distance.

After a hot shower that leaves my skin pink, I get a glimpse in the mirror of my puffy red eyes, blotchy from crying. I look away quickly and rummage through my drawers for sweats and a blue plaid flannel shirt then set to work organizing my closet. I’ve already started giving things away and I didn’t expect it to be so refreshing. No one knows why I’m giving so many clothes away. They don’t even know about the weekly Goodwill drop-offs. My apartment was almost empty. My mother was proud of me for being so organized. My friend Amber was thrilled to get my new clothes with tags still on them. “Take it, I don’t like it,” I told them. Or “It doesn’t fit me right.” I didn’t give away the Zoloft, though; I just threw it in the trash.

I have it all planned out. I’m going to jump off the Aurora Bridge at midnight on Easter. It’s kind of poetic because Easter represents re-birth and I was born on Easter thirty-one years ago. It will be the perfect end to the total fluke that is my life. I wasn’t meant to be born. Everything that can go wrong has gone wrong, so there’s no point. Suicide isn’t allowed in my religion, but then again, neither is divorce so I’m already screwed.

I was an “oops” baby, as my mother puts it. My mother—sweet, church-going, choir-singing Nancy—had been quite surprised when I came along ten years after my older brother, Bert. Bert’s real name is Robert, but did he choose to be called Rob or Bob? No, the Urban-Outfitter-wearing, bushy-bearded Starbucks aficionado insists on Bert. Probably thinks it’s ironic.

My dad is a drunk. He’s the mean kind who says the nastiest things, things that cut you to your core and leave you bleeding. Then he rubs the proverbial salt in the wound the next day when he claims to remember nothing. One night—I think it was New Years’ Eve ’99—he was angry that I didn’t clean the bathroom properly and so I was a “whore.” I told him I was honored that I had graduated from simply being a “bitch.” He didn’t appreciate my 15-year-old wit so he slapped me across the face. Mom pretended not to notice any of this.

Fast-forward through countless loser boyfriends who either cheated, hit me, called me names (or all three) to 2005 when I graduated from the University of Washington. I was searching for an apartment when I met a handsome real estate broker named Justin. We were married within a year. My parents thought I must have been pregnant, but what I’ve never told them is that I just wanted to get away from them.

They loved Justin, as did everyone. He was so charming, almost too charming. But he slowly became less charming to me when we were alone. The more stressed he became, the more he drank. And the more he drank . . . It started small, with light shoves here and there, then graduated to kicks and hair-pulling. I tried everything to make it better. I was determined not to get divorced.

One night a few months ago, I heard the key in the front door and I knew he was in a mood. I could tell by the force he used: if it was quiet, a gentle clicking, then he was in an okay mood. But if it was noisy and struggling with the lock, it was going to be a bad night. If he slammed the door, I may as well just run and hide.

He walked through the door, his mouth set in a hard line and his brows creased together. The heavy door slammed behind him. He sighed loudly as he put his briefcase on the entryway table and tossed his keys on top. He turned to me. “What did you do today?”

Wow, what a greeting. “Well, hello to you, too!” I said, smiling. “I worked today but I’ve been so tired—“

He walked over and rested a hand on the couch. I smelled booze. He must have stopped at Bruno’s on the way home, threw back a few with the guys. “Is that why dinner isn’t ready?”

“Yeah, I just haven’t felt well all day and I was resting.”

He huffed. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well, Samantha. I’m tired too but I don’t get to rest today. I worked all day and now I’m starving and there’s nothing to eat.”

“I worked all day too—“

He waved his hand in the air. “They let you come and go as you please. I own my own business, Sam. It’s not the same. You can stop and rest anytime you want. Hell, you can take a nap whenever you feel like it.”

I sat up straight, my eyes wide. “Are you serious? I have deadlines, too. I can’t take a nap whenever I feel like it,” I said.

“Okay, enough,” he said, his voice louder. He slammed his hand onto the back of the sofa. A throw pillow went flying across the room. “You seem to be well enough to argue with me so you’re well enough to make dinner. Get to it. I’m going to take a shower.” He turned to leave.

“Whoa, Justin. Hold on just a second. I know you’ve been stressed lately but you don’t get to treat me this way.”

He stopped, his back to me. He was still a moment. Then I heard him say so quietly, I almost didn’t make it out, “Stop. Now. I’m done with this. I’m at my wit’s end with you.” He turned his head and I thought he was going to look at me but all I saw was his profile before he started walking upstairs again.

I bit my lip. I really didn’t want to fight but I had to stand up for myself. If I didn’t he would think this was OK and it definitely was not. I stood and walked toward him. “Justin. I know you’re tired but please don’t speak to me this way. You’ve changed recently and I understand you’re stressed—“

He dropped his fist onto the wooden banister so hard that I thought it might break. When I looked back up at him, he was glaring at me.

I continued. “I understand but you can’t—“

He turned and came down the stairs, his hands balled into fists and his mouth set into a hard line. “You don’t understand anything! And you don’t get to tell me what I can and can’t do in my own house! Now shut up and go make something. Now.”

“No!” I said.

The last thing I remember is the warm yellow glow of the hallway fading to grey then black. When I woke up, I was lying on the couch. How did I get here? I had no recollection and only knew that my face hurt. He mumbled a half-hearted apology the next morning but I had already made up my mind. I’d had enough. After he left for the day, I set to work packing up my suitcase.

I snap out of my reverie when I feel something sharp against my hand. I look down and see Justin and I smiling, standing in front of St. Paul’s. My wedding dress had such a long train that Justin had accidentally stepped on it after the ceremony when we were taking pictures. He had made some joke about doing it on purpose so I didn’t change my mind and run away. I never imagined I’d be leaving him just five years later. He was so kind and so funny. But last year he opened his own real estate firm and has not been the same since. He took up drinking as his main hobby and changed into a different person.

My throat feels tight and I hear a plane rumbling overhead. I suddenly realize I’m going to throw up so I throw down the photo and run to the bathroom, which is thankfully just across the hall. After my stomach is emptied and I’ve brushed my teeth with shaky hands, I open up the cabinet under the sink to look for mouthwash. I push aside a yellow box of tampons and grab the large blue bottle of Scope behind it. Then I freeze and stare at the yellow box. I haven’t used those in a while. About two months. Shit. No, it can’t be. Justin and I tried to get pregnant for years and it never happened. I throw on a sweater and boots and head to the Walgreens on the corner.

A half hour later I’m back, a small plastic bag in my hand that holds a pink and white box. Even before I pee on the stick, I know there will be two pink lines. I know I will have to tell Justin. But that can wait. Everything can wait.

After gently placing the stick on the counter, I walk to the window and push aside the white curtains. It’s started to rain harder and I can barely see the evergreen trees across the street. There are a couple thirty-somethings outside my patio on the sidewalk standing on either side of a little blonde girl. They are holding her hands and lifting her up as she jumps and splashes in puddles. She crouches down and pops up into the air higher than before and lands hard in a huge puddle. Water shoots up like a wave and gets the dad square in the face. He’s drenched. The little girl giggles and covers her mouth with her hands. I laugh and the sound echoes throughout my tiny apartment.

Short fiction

I have to stop myself from banging my head against the wall. It has been the longest day at work with all of the nutty patients picking today to come in. My mother is one of them and I can hear her talking at the front desk.

My phone buzzes and I slip it out of my scrub pocket. Josh. A short time ago, seeing his name would have made me smile. Now I feel nauseated. Being dumped for the pretty new girl in your boyfriend’s office tends to do that. The air kicks on and I get a chill, sending goosebumps down my arms. I put on my sweater that I keep draped over the chair and sit at the computer in my room.

For two years now I’ve been a physical therapist at Jensen Sports Medicine. I like my job but the rest of my life is a shit-storm and I have no idea what to do about it. Six months ago I was on top of the world. Me and Josh—my college sweetheart, the captain of the football team and a member of the Chess Club—had just bought a house and were going to get married. But I guess nothing lasts forever. Not when your fiancé decides to sleep with his pretty new co-worker, Jennifer. I’ve always hated that name.

The worst part of the whole ordeal was that he didn’t even try to deny it when I confronted him. It was exactly six weeks ago.

“Look, Logan, I told you I’m sorry. I’m only human. It’s not like we’re married yet.” He sat down at the table and interlaced his fingers, looking up at me, his big brown eyes not quite pleading, not quite sorry, just trying to convince me to get over it.

My jaw dropped. “Not married yet? Jesus, like that makes a difference! We are engaged, we live together—“

He slammed his hands down onto the table. “Just stop, OK? I feel bad enough as it is. I had a moment of weakness. You know it won’t happen again.”

“And how do I know that?”

A week later, he had moved out and I had put the house up for sale. I could still afford it on my own but there is no point staying in a place where I was supposed to be married, have a family and it had already fallen apart. Best to just start fresh. Now all I want is a pill that will take away his memory. Or maybe he could be zapped out of my brain like in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. I thought he was The One. We had a future. Then he got a new job and met Jennifer, who is the complete opposite of me with her sparkling blonde hair, tanned skin and Cross Fit body. I’ve never met her but I hate her. And I don’t trust anyone who does Cross Fit anyway. No one needs to be able to flip a damn tractor tire. Unless it lands on someone on the farm, in which case Jennifer can lift it and save them. Good for her.

Last night I had a dream that I was paralyzed. I was sitting in the center of a large, dark room in a metal chair and the only parts of my body that I could move were my eyes. All I could see were the faces of my mom, Josh and a few other friends and co-workers. The creepy part was their facial expressions. As I moved my eyes around the half circle in front of me, their faces were smirking with superior and condescending looks. I woke up shivering, sweating and shaking. I’ve had this same dream over and over again for weeks now. Usually my dreams fade away but I can’t shake this one. It lingers all day.

Mom is now following Dr. Stein down the hall, her diamond jewelry creating a constellation under the fluorescent lights: two carats in her ears, a delicate sparkling cross lying on her chest and three carats on her left hand next to a platinum band. My step-father is generous to her. But, despite her bedazzled appearance, she’s frowning and looking at the floor, clutching her shoulder. She is an undiagnosed hypochondriac who thinks every ache or pain means cancer. I’m glad she’s not scheduled for therapy with me today. I used to have more patience with her but now the irritation has taken over. In the healthcare industry it’s called “compassion fatigue.” Funny how it sounds so gentle and harmless when it’s really so violating.

I close my door, hoping I can hide out here for a while. I don’t feel like socializing today. Some days—usually when I’ve had enough coffee or just have the fortune of being in a decent mood—I yak it up with my co-workers. But on days like today, I feel like I will crawl out of my skin if someone talks to me. It’s a slow day so maybe I’ll get lucky and no one will come bursting in with a big sunny smile telling me I have a patient waiting. I sit in an old blue plastic chair and lean against the cold white wall staring into space.

A few months ago, I lived in a 2500 square foot home with Josh in the Victorian District of Savannah and had a sparkling diamond on my left hand. My whole life was finally planned out, orchestrated beautifully the way I had always envisioned it. But you know the saying, “if you want to see God laugh, make plans”? I am the living embodiment of that wickedly ruthless but true statement. I don’t know why I went to school for physical therapy. The idea sounded great four years ago when I was a senior at the University of Georgia, a few months away from a B.S. in Health Sciences. Many things used to seem like a good idea. But now, I feel like a spider caught in her own web, unable to break free.

I can still hear my mother talking even though she’s all the way in the front office. Her voice grows louder and I can hear bits and pieces: “My insurance should cover that . . . No, call them again, that is wrong . . . I’m in so much pain.” Her voice has escalated to a whine now. “I guess I’ll just have to have surgery if you won’t help me . . .”

Peeking my head out of the room, I see Stephanie, another PT, walking in my direction. She stops and smiles when she gets to me but says nothing for a moment, just puts her hand on my shoulder. We both watch my mother as she stands in front of the desk, one hand gripping her large Chanel bag on her shoulder and the other hand on her hip. She still has not paused from her monologue. I faintly hear Dr. Stein say, “Anastasia, you don’t need surgery . . .” but I can’t hear the rest. My mother’s given name is Anna but she insists on being called Anastasia. She claims it suits her better. But I know the truth. She believes she’s a Disney princess and not in that needs-to-be-committed-to-the-psych-ward kind of way. Then Dr. Stein is making her way back down the hall and she’s wearing that “I have no choice but to be professional” smile. She sees me and raises her eyebrows, because there’s really nothing to say.

I am so embarrassed.

Stephanie squeezes my shoulder. “Maybe you should transfer to the other location,” she says.

“She would just start going there,” I say.

“True.” Stephanie gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You could fake your own death.” She shrugs.

I laugh and head back into my room to wipe down the table for my next patient. “I just might consider that.”

That night after making a bowl of Ramen, I open up my laptop and search for one-way tickets to Seattle. My best friend moved there last year and has been trying to get me to move ever since. She tried again to convince me last week.

“I absolutely love it out here!” Sarah said.

“Isn’t it cold and rainy, though?”

She laughed. “You just can’t leave Mother Dearest. Admit it, you would be lost without her.”

“You’ve got to be kidding! She drives me nuts. I’d love to get away and start over on my own.

There’s nothing for me here anyway.” I got up and began to pace around the room.

“Right. So you’ve said for the past year. Do something about it then. You’re young, you have no kids, aren’t married and you sure as hell haven’t had any luck in the man department. So take a chance.”

“I know but I can’t just pick up and leave! I’m not like you, I like to plan things out, know what’s going to happen.”

“Well, maybe you should try something different. You could stay with me. It would be great, Logan. You loved it when you came out to visit.”

“I did. . .”

“You’re just scared, Loges. I get it but if you’d stop letting fear control you, God, you’d be amazed, hon.”

There is a one-way ticket on Southwest for $120. I slam my laptop shut. I don’t want to think about this right now. My phone on the table lights up with a green bar in the middle of the screen. It’s a text message from Josh. I haven’t talked to him in two months since our break-up. My heart accelerates as I read the message. He wants to have dinner this week. I sigh and toss the phone onto the couch. I’m not going to respond. See how the cheating bastard likes that.

I remember I still have a half-finished bottle of wine in the fridge. I pop the cork out and swish the pale yellow liquid around, bringing the opening of the bottle to my nose. It’s starting to sour but it still has a good 24 hours left before it will taste like vinegar. My glass in hand, I look around, staring at the bare whitewashed brick walls. I need some artwork to liven up this tiny apartment. It’s actually not that small but I’m still adjusting to downsizing from our spacious Victorian on the outskirts of town. My third floor loft is situated in the heart of Savannah. I love the noise, the distractions. I think if I had stayed in that big old house by myself I’d have gone crazy by now. I go stand by the big window overlooking Broughton Street and watch people walk home from work, couples walking hand in hand, stopping at Sakura to get take out for dinner.

I jump when I hear my phone vibrate on the coffee table. He’s being persistent. He always is when he wants something. Let him wonder a little longer.

Two glasses later, I find a green and white pack of Marlboro Menthols in the back of the freezer. No one knows that I smoke. But I don’t really. Only when I’ve had more than one glass of wine, which isn’t often. I sit on my back patio with my now room-temperature wine and light up, inhaling the thick, acrid smoke. It tastes bad. I haven’t had a cigarette in months and once the first puff goes into my lungs, I feel dizzy. My heart does a little jump and I’m nauseous for a couple seconds. Then I take a gulp of wine and I feel better. I finish the glass and pick up my phone and can’t stop myself. I agree to have dinner with him tomorrow. This is a bad idea, I think as I type the message.

“So I guess it didn’t work out with Jennifer,” I say. Josh is sitting across from me at a booth in Chili’s shoving salsa-drenched tortilla chips into his mouth. A Dean Martin song is playing a little too loud overhead and a baby in a high-chair on the other side of the aisle is starting to get fussy. I reach to my left and grab the drink menu.

He sighs and scratches his head and I notice his nails are still as dirty as they always were and his hair is still as messy as usual. “Are you really going to bring that up? That was nothing. I miss you,” he says, his mouth still half-full of chips.

“I don’t miss you.” I slide my Diet Coke closer and lean in, taking a sip. It’s so fizzy it almost makes me choke. I really should order a mojito. Or maybe a margarita.

He laughs. “Yeah right. You’re here, aren’t you? Stop acting like you don’t care. I’m not buying it. We both know you’re going to take me back.”

I sit back into the squishy booth, my hands wrapped around the cold plastic cup, now wet with drops of condensation. The guy behind me at the next table must be shaking his leg because I feel like I’m sitting in one of those massage chairs at the mall. “Oh my God.” My voice quivers a little because of the nervous leg shaker. I sit up straight. “You’re serious.”

“Baby, come on.” He reaches across the table and starts to take my hand.

I wrench out of his grasp, shaking him off like a huge bug and shove the tall, cold glass, still filled with soda, across the table. It crashes into the front of his shirt, brown fizzy liquid flying in the air, spraying the table, drenching his shirt and pants. I hear the cup roll onto the floor but I am already up, my bag slung over my shoulder. “Go to hell,” I say quietly. He’s sitting there like a statue, his hands up in the air, his face red with embarrassment or anger or both. Either way, he looks like an idiot.

The owner of the shaking leg catches my eye and snickers, his elbow on the Mexican-tiled table, his hand cupping his chin. Under the table, his leg is shaking even more violently now. I turn on my heel and walk away. As I make my way towards the door, a man at the bar smiles at me then takes a sip of his drink. I wonder if he saw me throw Diet Coke all over my ex-fiance.

My hands grip the steering wheel tightly as I drive home but I’m smiling. I crank up the radio and sing along. When I get home, I plug my cell phone into the charger and see I have a missed call. Much to my surprise, it’s not Josh but Mom. I call her back and she picks up on the first ring. “Where were you? Did you not have your phone on you?”

“Sorry, it must have been on silent. Is everything OK?” I let myself fall onto the couch and lie the phone on the table, putting her on speaker.

“Well, no, it’s not actually. I couldn’t get a hold of the office today. I needed to know if I have an appointment tomorrow. They have been giving me the run-around anyway, telling me my insurance doesn’t cover this, doesn’t cover that--“

“Mom,” I interrupt her. “I didn’t see you on the schedule but I’m not one hundred percent sure. I can’t check now. You can call them in the morning or I can check when I get in.”

She sighs. “Well, that won’t help. I need to know. I’m very busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Logan. Don’t talk to me that way. Just because I don’t work anymore doesn’t mean I’m not just as busy as you.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not in the mood for this.

She sighs again. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out. Thanks.” And before I can reply, she hangs up. Fine by me. I lob the phone across the room and it lands on a pillow on the chair. It didn’t even come close to breaking. That would have at least been satisfying.

The next day at work I’m typing some notes when Dr. Stein comes into the room. “Your mother is here for therapy. She requested you.” Her face looks pained.

“OK, thank you,” I say. I pass by a mirror and my face is paler than usual and my eyes are puffy.

Here she comes down the hall with all of her pushiness swirling around her. She smiles her sad smile, her large blue eyes stare into mine, searching, desperate, commanding me to “recognize this, acknowledge this! I am suffering greatly but I’m a trooper! I’m tough!”

I watch as my mother struggles to lift the two-pound weight with her left arm. “That’s good. Try five more,” I say.

She sighs loudly. “This exercise is too hard. It hurts.”

“OK,” I say. “Take a break.”

“I need a permanent break from this! You’re killing me!” She drops the small blue dumbbell to the floor.

“Anastasia, I’m trying to help you.”

Her brows furrow. “Why do you insist on calling me that?”

“It’s your name,” I say, picking the weight off the floor.

“I’m your mother.”

“Yes, but right now you’re my patient and it helps me to call you by your name. Just go with it.” I hold out the weight. “Would you please try five more?”

She yanks the weight out of my hands and begins her dramatic struggle again. “You know, your old mom is tough.”

My blood is starting to boil and there is a burning tightness in my chest. I turn and roll my eyes. Here we go. I look up at the clock. We have twenty minutes left. It’s going to be a long twenty minutes.

“I am,” she continues. “I’ve been through so much and I just keep going. Honestly, I don’t know how I do it.” She does her last rep and places the weight gingerly on the table. Folding her hands in her lap, she purses her lips and watches me for a moment before speaking again. “But when you don’t have a choice, you don’t have a choice, you know?” She laughs, a forced, high-pitched sound and stares across the room with big, sad puppy-dog eyes. “Your step-father is always working and I just do my exercises at home, well, what I can do before I get tired. Most of the time I have to run all over town to have more tests, more x-rays—“

“Go ahead and start your next set,” I say, cutting her off. “You know, the bicep curls.”

She huffs and picks up the weight again.

I swivel on my stool and slide back a few inches. “You’ve had all the tests in the world and they found nothing. You have mild tendinitis in your shoulder, that’s it. How bad is the pain right now?”

She looks down at her shoulder and moves it around. “Did you hear that crunching sound?” I don’t hear it and I tell her so. She frowns. “Well, I wouldn’t be surprised if I have a fracture. It shouldn’t sound like that, should it? It’s pretty bad and those exercises you make me do are making it worse!”

“Your x-rays do not show a fracture,” I tell her. She narrows her eyes. “And you played tennis yesterday.”

“Well, some days it is better than others. You seem like you don’t believe me. I need you to support me! I might have cancer in my shoulder—“

“You do not have cancer in your shoulder,” I say a little too loud. “At the most, you have tendinitis or bursitis, which is something almost everyone gets at some point. It’s not even close to being serious. And I do support you. That’s all I do. It’s always about you.”

“Now, listen. I was so good to you. I gave you everything!” She drops the weight to the floor again. It makes a loud thud and it’s only a matter of time before someone comes to check on us.

“Did you ever stop to think that I need you now, too? Just because I’m an adult doesn’t mean I don’t need you to care.”

She stands up from the table. “You are a spoiled brat! I suffer so much, day and night, with all of these health problems but I don’t burden you with them! I just push through it. You have no idea what I go through.”

I see her selfish, pitiful face and then another face flashes through my mind. Josh. The way he looked at me last night, his eyes half begging my forgiveness and half knowing that he had me. Knowing that I would come running back. Something clicks inside me and I hear the words coming out of my mouth before I know I am speaking. “You’re a bored housewife. Rob ignores you. But, he gives you plenty of money so you can stay home and wallow in your insurmountable problems, carefully plan how else you will get your necessary attention from all who will listen. You bathe in your pain, your self-pity and your narcissism. You are self-absorbed to the furthest extent. This has been going on for years. Ever since you married Rob. And I don’t know why. He’s a nice guy. And you can’t be bothered to care about me. Your singular focus in life is all of your made-up illnesses. You get a diagnosis of tendinitis and you act like it’s cancer! You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met. Do not request me again when you come in—“

I realize I’ve been yelling when the door opens and Stephanie peeks her head in. “Everything OK in here?”

“Yes, we’re fine. We were just finishing up.” I stare at Anastasia and wait for her to leave the room. She mumbles to herself, yanks her bag from the table and rushes out of the room.

That night, I text Josh and tell him I’m moving. I can almost hear his jaw drop on the other end of the line. He has woken up but it’s too late. He begs me to stay, says he’s sorry, asks me to forgive him but I tell him it’s not about him and I wish him the best.

Two weeks later I am squeezed in a narrow seat, my carry-on bag tucked under the seat in front of me. I paid a few extra bucks for the window seat which helps with the claustrophobia. Next to me is a large man wearing tiny silver wire-frame glasses reading his Kindle. Every few minutes, he sniffs and snorts, wipes his nose with a big white handkerchief. I didn’t know people still used those. I hear a baby softly cooing in the row behind me and in the mother’s low and nurturing voice, I can hear a note of nervous tension as she silently hopes he doesn’t start screaming and crying on the five-hour flight. I put my earbuds in and press play on my “Relax” playlist. I smile to myself and lock my phone as the soothing sounds of a piano and strings start to flow into my ears. I can feel the cool plastic of the wall on my shoulder as I lean to my right and adjust my pillow. We are moving now, the vibration becoming stronger and stronger as the plane gains speed and the windows of the airport rush by. Finally, we are in the air and my stomach feels like it is still on the ground for a split second. Pressing my face up against the small window, I look down at my little town and watch as it shrinks smaller and smaller, the streets crawling with toy cars, passing by white and beige buildings that look like faded Legos left out in the sun too long. The world is such a big place and I want to see more of it. I can always come back to visit Savannah. Maybe next year.

Essay

“The tremendous leisure industry that has arisen in the last few generations has been designed to help fill free time with enjoyable experiences. Nevertheless, instead of using our physical and mental resources to experience flow, most of us spend many hours each week watching celebrated athletes playing in enormous stadiums. Instead of making music, we listen to platinum records cut by millionaire musicians. Instead of making art, we go to admire paintings that brought in the highest bids at the latest auction. We do not run risks acting on our beliefs, but occupy hours each day watching actors who pretend to have adventures, engaged in mock-meaningful action.”

― Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow

I had live-streamed Bonnaroo on my laptop on June 15, 2014. I had been talking to my sister who lived so close to the festival site (Manchester, Tennessee) at the time that she could hear the music. We are both huge Jack White fans so she was ecstatic to be able to hear his set live from her backyard and I was green with envy as I sat in Orlando watching it live-stream on my laptop. But I recorded a few bits and pieces of his set onto my voice recorder on my iPhone as I listened. Today I was going through all my old voice memos and heard one from Jack's Bonnaroo set that I wanted to share. It's just something that I've thought of many times and to hear someone else say it was pretty cool.

He quotes a conversation he had with a movie director one time who said, "I think films are so strange. If an alien came down and walked into a movie theater, and watched [all the people watching] two people talking to each other on a screen, an alien would've said to a human being, 'so you come in here and pay money, your hard-earned money, to sit down and watch two people talk to each other? Why don't you do that at home? Why don't you do that at home?'"

I just think that's interesting. I've always felt a little strange watching TV or watching a movie. (don't get me wrong, I can binge-watch all 9 seasons of The Office, and I also love Grey's Anatomy) but I've always thought, "why am I sitting here watching other people do things? It's weird. Why don't I go out and do things?"

It's also a topic covered in a book I read a few years ago called, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Mihaly Csikszentmihaly. In it, he writes, "Although watching TV is far from being a positive experience—generally people report feeling passive, weak, rather irritable, and sad when doing it—at least the flickering screen brings a certain amount of order to consciousness. The predictable plots, familiar characters, and even the redundant commercials provide a reassuring pattern of stimulation. The screen invites attention to itself as a manageable, restricted aspect of the environment. While interacting with television, the mind is protected from personal worries. The information passing across the screen keeps unpleasant concerns out of the mind.”

I guess my point is, watching movies and TV has its place. Sometimes we need to do something mindless and escape our reality for a while. I just think we need to be careful not to go overboard and let our lives slip away. It feels so much better to create something yourself, whether you're dancing, singing, writing, painting, crafting, designing a video game, a website, starting your own biz, quilting, making handbags out of your cat's shedded fur...

Anyone else agree?

Flash Fiction

Reaching across the table, I take Charlotte’s hand and squeeze it gently. She smiles and gives me a light squeeze in return. It’s our third date and we’re sitting in a booth in the back corner of T.G.I. Friday’s. I had made reservations (unbeknownst to her) at an expensive French restaurant but Charlotte had insisted on Friday’s because she loves their mojitos. I think she might be a keeper.

As soon as the server leaves, Charlotte slides the flip booklet in front of her and starts thumbing through the pictures of drinks and desserts. “Ooh, look at this,” she says, pointing to a picture of molten lava cake.

I nod and start to reply but my heart skips a beat. I look around the restaurant and register the song flowing out of the speakers above us. It’s that song. God, how I hate it. And as if that isn’t bad enough, the music video is on the television above the bar. Why don’t they have football on? Faith Hill is sitting atop a giant peach, swinging back and forth, singing about a kiss that was apparently so powerful she had to write a song about it. I had seen the video years ago when it came out, but now it just seems stupid. The cheesy melody, her perky vocal inflections full of overdone joy, it’s too much. I normally don’t have such strong opinions about music, but there is a reason this particular song irks me so much. I remember being in the sixth grade and having to take the bus to and from school every day.

I stood at the end of my driveway by our faded black mailbox and watched as the big yellow bus slowed to a stop in front of me. After some puffing noises from the engine, the folded door opened and I looked up to see Mr. Evans. He was leaning over in his seat, his large hand gripping the lever. Wiry tufts of grey hair spread across his hand like old, dying trees in a forest with a peach floor and tiny brown ponds scattered throughout. Looking back up at his face, I watched him raise his eyebrows and give me a half-hearted smile. I hesitated. There was still time to run back to the house.

He rolled his eyes. “C’mon, son,” he said. “Haven’t got all day.” I did this every morning and every morning Mr. Evans would say the same thing, an annoyed look on his wrinkled and weather-beaten face. I sighed and climbed the steps, praying Benjamin would be home sick today. But no such luck. He was sitting in the back, as usual, away from Mr. Evans, away from any possibility of him hearing what went on back there.

Benjamin sat up straight in his seat as soon as I stepped on. “Hey, Matt!” he called out. “I saved you a seat. Come on, buddy!” He slapped the seat next to him loudly and laughed, looking around at his friends who laughed with him. My eyes scanned the entire bus for a seat away from him but they were all taken. The only open seats were in the back. Resigned, I made my way back to an open seat two rows ahead of him.

“Aww, you hurt my feelings,” he said. “I just want to be your friend.”

I ignored him and sat down, putting my backpack on the floor in front of me. Then I felt a sharp searing pain on the top of my head. Turning around, I realized Benjamin must have switched seats with someone so now he was sitting directly behind me. Hitting me on the head with his book was his favorite, followed by shooting spitballs at me through a straw. And then, like clockwork, “This Kiss” from Faith Hill started playing on the radio. 107.1 WJAM must have played it fifty times a day and I heard it every single morning on the way to school and sometimes on the way back home, too. It was the soundtrack to my torture, courtesy of Benjamin Pruitt, the nightmare of the sixth grade at Lexington Elementary.

He continued his attack, alternating between the spitballs and the whacks to the top of my head all while taunting me, saying things like, “Why are you such a nerd, Matt?” and “Everyone hates you, why don’t you just jump out the window?” As I yelled at him to leave me alone, while trying to get Mr. Evans’ attention (he was too busy singing along to the stupid song), and dodging the wet pieces of paper flying at me, the words blared from the speaker, “It’s. . .the way you love me, it’s. . .a feeling like this, it’s. . .centrifugal motion, it’s perpetual bli-iss. . .”

“Hello? Earth to Matt,” Charlotte’s voice rings in my ears.

I blink. “I’m sorry,” I say, glancing around. The song is over.

“What happened? Are you OK? You were gone for a minute there.”

“Oh, yeah, I—“ I start. Should I tell her or will she think I’m crazy? Hell with it. “That song just. . .it makes me—“

“Oh, God. I hate that song,” Charlotte says, sticking her finger in her mouth and making a gagging noise. “It’s so annoying. A song about a damn kiss? Really? So lame.”

I laugh and breathe a sigh of relief. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Short Fiction

I think of Adam as my savior. His name is even the same as the first man on earth. This is according to my mother, the star of the church choir and the blondest of all the Stepford wives in Celebration. Let me just say that I am not an entitled millennial from a wealthy family who ran away from home. The truth is, Adam saved me from a very dysfunctional home. I got out of there a month after graduating high school and have not looked back. Adam was twenty-one and had his own place when I moved in with him. He owns his own business. He comes from a good family.

I don't know what he is doing with me.

Sometimes I feel lonely at night, even with Adam lying beside me. It's not normal to be so disconnected from your family, is it? Then the guilt creeps in and I wonder if it was all my fault. Maybe I was a bad daughter. Maybe I don't deserve Adam, my loyal, caring boyfriend of three years. When these ugly thoughts come, I can feel my heart speed up and a thick fog rises from my chest to my throat. I put my hand over my heart, turn my head to look at Adam in the dark, afraid that he can hear my heart pounding, afraid that the sound will give me away, that he will come to his senses and leave me, but he is fast asleep, snoring softly. Then I wonder what it is, this dense air, this substance that is steadily rising up, threatening to pour out of my mouth. Is it the truth? Is it that I'm really a bad person and one day, sooner or later, everyone, including Adam, will see it? The cat will be out of the bag one day, I just know it. I can't fool him forever. Then, as I lie still next to Adam, listening to his steady, deep breathing, I talk myself out of it. It wasn't my fault. My father is an abusive, sick bastard and my mother didn't give a shit. The only thing I did wrong was not leave sooner. But I'm never entirely convinced of my innocence.

It is July and our air conditioner has been broken for the past twenty-four hours. Our landlord does not seem to understand why we are getting impatient. This cannot be healthy. Adam has taken matters into his own hands and called the air conditioning company himself because that’s what he does.

I huff and look up at the thermostat. It reads eighty-four degrees. I snatch up a folder from the counter and start fanning myself. "This is insane. When did they say the air would be fixed again?" I close my eyes and tilt my head up facing the ceiling, praying for one small glorious gust of cold air to come out of the vent.

"Probably tomorrow. The manager said he would call us back by eight tonight to let us know. I'm sure it'll be fixed soon, hon." Adam smiles, tracing his fingertips along my arm. I look into his deep brown eyes, so calm and sure that everything will be OK. He is so Zen all the time, sometimes it is unnerving.

"I hope so."

He tilts his head and smiles at me. "I know so."

I soften and reach my arms around him, hugging him tight. His damp shirt clings to mine and he smells faintly of sweat and I'm sure I do, too.

He hugs me back, kisses my cheek and then pulls away, starting to walk out of the kitchen. But he stops and whirls around to face me again where I stand by the oven. "Is the oven on?" His eyes are wide.

I raise my eyebrows and look at the stove then back at Adam. "I wanted to make brownies."

"But you're complaining about the heat and that just makes it hotter in here."

I shrug and toss the folder back onto the counter. "I'm going to change," I say.

"You make no sense, Sam."

"I know." I ruffle his hair as I pass by him on my way to the stairs.

Upstairs in our bedroom, I thumb through my dresser for something light and cool to put on. I come across an old pair of shorts from high school and pull them out, tossing them onto the bed. They are bright blue with faint yellow stripes. My mom bought them for me on a back to school shopping trip. That was her way of coping with the misery of living with my father: shopping.

Over the years, my father, Dr. Oren Reilly, had increased his drinking, going from a couple beers a night to the harder stuff, his favorite being Jack Daniels. The night that I called Adam—February 24, 2013—my father had downed a bottle of Jack and I had a busted lip. My mother had been hiding in the bedroom, pretending that everything was OK as usual. Fifteen minutes after calling Adam, I was already outside, standing next to the garage, my "get-away" bag (having been packed a week prior) slung over my shoulder when Adam peeled into the driveway, tires squealing.

I was miles away from the house before my parents knew that I left. My mother had called me throughout the night and into the next day, begging me to come back home. She promised everything would be different. That's when I lost respect for her. She was a grown woman; if she wanted to be in denial and stay in that hellish existence with my father, that was her choice. But what kind of mother would want her child to live there?

As I slip on my flip-flops, I hear the doorbell ring and come downstairs. I see Adam making his way to the front door, so I go back into the kitchen to check on the brownies. They are done so I put on my polka dot oven mitts and pull the pan from the oven.

Wondering who is at the door, I peek out from the kitchen and over Adam's shoulder. There is a young woman with red hair standing on our porch. Adam is leaning slightly to the right, his hand resting on the doorframe and I can see the left half of her body clearly.

"Hi, neighbor. I'm just across the street," she says, motioning with her thumb over her shoulder. Adam doesn't respond at first. The woman's wild copper hair points in every direction and her white tank top is soaked with water or sweat so that we can see her neon green bra underneath. Her denim shorts hug her thighs and are so short that the pockets peek out from under the hem. Classy. On her feet are hot pink flip-flops that have seen better days.

She is saying something but I can't hear well enough from the kitchen. I take a few steps toward the doorway to the living room. The woman is smiling at Adam. She says, "So, can I borrow one if you have an extra?"

Adam nods and starts to speak but the woman leans a little to her right and looks at me. I am standing at the edge of the living room holding the pan of brownies. Adam moves slightly to the side and I see her completely. I lock eyes with her then look her up and down. Still looking at her, I say to Adam, "You going to introduce me to your friend?"

"Oh, she just stopped by, she lives across the street and. . ." Adam trails off.

"And I asked to borrow a fan if you can spare one. I'm Kristy." She smiles and looks directly at me, mimicking me, looking me up and down.

A fan? We’re the ones with the broken AC. I turn and walk back into the kitchen. "There might be one in the basement. You’re more than welcome to go look for it," I call out. I can hear the bitchy tone in my voice but I don’t care.

"I'm sorry. Let me go see if I can find it. Come in and have a seat." Why did he invite her in?

"Why not?" Kristy says, shrugging, before choosing the big green chair facing the kitchen.

"Make yourself at home," I call out. What I really mean is, 'get out of my house and stop flirting with my boyfriend' but I don't say it.

"Thanks."

A few minutes later, Adam comes back into the room holding a large white fan. "Here you go," he says to Kristy.

After the redhead leaves, Adam turns to me. "Let's go somewhere for dinner. I have to get out of here. It's too hot."

The hostess seats us at the far corner of the restaurant and as we take our seats in a booth, Adam begins removing his silverware from the napkin. "You were rude to her."

I lean back in my chair and look away.

"Hello, Sam?"

"What?"

Before he can say anything, the server comes over, places two gray tinted glasses of water in front of us and takes our order. When he leaves, Adam sighs and looks at me, his eyebrows raised.

"What do you want me to say?"

Adam shakes his head but says nothing. He looks away and I do the same, staring out the window. We sit in silence until the server is back, setting our hot plates in front of us.

After a few bites, I put my fork down. "This chick comes over dressed like that, starts flirting with you and I'm supposed to be nice to her?"

Adam slams his fork down onto his plate. His brows are knitted tightly together.

"Now you're mad?" I say.

I lean forward, my eyes wide. Adam looks down and begins twisting his napkin in his hands. His forehead is wrinkled and he bites his lip before speaking. "I remember when we first met. You were so happy," he says.

My jaw drops. "I was happy? I was running away from an abusive father and a clueless, plastic mom. I tried to off myself. I was just a ray of sunshine."

Adam sighs. "You know what I mean. We were happy together. You trusted me. I just don't know why you'd be threatened by some random woman who lives across the street."

"That service dog over there." I motion with my head. "He looks just like one I used to have."

"He went out the door. I can't see him."

As we stare out the window of our favorite restaurant, a gust of wind comes through the front door, blowing over a stack of menus from the stand.

"Why does it seem all we do is argue, Sam?"

I shrug. "I used to believe we never would. But, we don't really. Not that much."

Adam frowns and pulled the Peg Board game towards him. He stares at the small wooden triangle with the red, blue and white pegs protruding from the holes. Old coffee stains splatter the surface.

I slide my chair closer to the table. "Not as much as them," I say, pointing to the television in the corner of the ceiling where two presidential candidates are debating.

"Why do you always change the subject?"

I swipe the Peg Board game away from Adam and start playing.

"You know what I did a week after we met? I was out shopping and running errands. When I passed by a jewelry store, something made me go inside. I spent an hour looking at rings and had one picked out for you."

"You never told me that," I say.

Adam nods and pushes his dinner plate to the edge of the table.

"Well, why would you want to marry me?"

He smiles and reaches for my hand. "Because I love you, Sam, believe it or not."

***

I'm still thinking about our conversation the next morning on my way back from the gym. He was going to propose? I'm way too messed up to be marriage material. He should know that, I think.

I pull into the driveway and hope Adam isn't home. I am in a weird mood and don't want him to see me like this. I just want to grab a post-workout snack and lie down for a while, slip into oblivion. Walking into the house, I see a pile of mail on the counter. Great, probably more bills, I think. I flip to an envelope with "Mid-Florida Hospital" printed on the outside. Oh, look, here's one now! Because I don't have enough to worry about. I open it and the first thing I see is a number that is way too large and a red stamp: "Past Due." Thirty thousand dollars. I feel nauseous even though I haven't eaten yet. I toss it into the file where the rest of the past due hospital bills go: the tall stainless steel can under the sink with a plastic bag in it. I call it the Bye-Bye File. Adam doesn't know about my debt and he doesn't need to. I am already enough of a burden on him. I wish I could tell him all my secrets. They are jumbled up inside me and I feel like an overstuffed trash bag that cannot hold one more thing without bursting open. But it is all so ugly. I can't let it burst, I can't let him see inside.

I go lie down in bed and the next thing I hear is the front door closing. I look over at the clock and realize I've slept for an hour. When I come downstairs, I see Adam standing at the sink. He turns when he hears my footsteps. In his hand are crumpled pieces of paper and envelopes. Damn. He found them.

"Sam. What are these?" he asks, holding them up.

I know what they are without looking. I cross my arms over my chest. "They're nothing. I'm handling it."

"By throwing them away?"

"It's not your problem. Why were you digging around in the trash?"

"I was getting ready to take it out and one of these fell out." He tosses a few crumpled sheets of paper onto the counter. "These are from three years ago and it is my problem. We share problems, that's how this works."

I sit at the table and cover my face with my hands. "I don't want to think about three years ago." About six months after I left home and came to live with Adam, I had attempted suicide. I felt so guilty for running away from home, leaving my mother alone with that monster. I had stayed in the hospital for two days under close observation and had to undergo a psychiatric evaluation.

Adam sighs and pulls out the chair next to me, sitting down. "Of course you don't. You're better now and we've moved on. But you can't just pretend these don't exist. You told me your insurance paid for it."

I don't know what to say so I sit silently, my face buried in my hands. Who would want to be with someone with all this debt? We are both so young. Why does he stay with me? It makes me so angry, the unfairness of it all. My eyes start to burn. I always cry when I'm angry and this only makes me more upset.

"Sam, I'm not angry. Let me help you with this. I can call them and set up a payment plan, OK?"

I stand up from the table and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. "Why aren't you angry with me? You really should be. You always have to rescue me."

Adam grabs my hand. "It's my job and I'm happy to do it."

I laugh. Why, I don't know, but I have a sick, burning feeling in the pit of my stomach and I need to push him away. It's for his own good. "Well, aren't you a saint? God, it's so pathetic." I want to take back the words as soon as I say them. He is silent, looking at me with those kind brown eyes. He only looks mildly irritated. I try to decipher the look on his face and then I realize it is pity. That sends me over the edge. "I can't breathe. I'm going outside." I say before opening up the sliding glass door. I walk outside and close it behind me, looking through the glass. Adam hasn't moved. He looks sad, as if he is about to cry. The glass between us may as well be ten feet thick. My chest aches and I have to turn away.

Our neighbor's children are outside playing and their laughter, like little bells, drifts over. I feel cold even though it must be eighty degrees outside. As I sit on the old plastic chair on the porch, I decide to skip work tomorrow and go somewhere. Where, I don't know yet. I just need to get away and think. There are two people inside of me; one who wants to run away and be alone, and one who wants to run inside and wrap my arms around Adam and tell him I'm sorry and that I love him.

The next morning Adam kisses me goodbye, saying, "Don't worry about this. I'll take care of it. I love you." He hugs me and it is almost too much. The guilt, the dense fog is creeping up from my chest again and wants to escape but I push it back down.

I wait until he leaves and call my boss and tell him I have the flu. Then I get dressed and throw my large straw hat and towel in my bag. I'm going to the beach. It always makes me feel clean. It is the only place I can think. It is about an hour drive and I love long drives. They always make me feel powerful, like I am making a decision, taking control of my life. Maybe if I just spend the day there, I will feel better and I can come back and talk to Adam. But I just can't talk to anyone right now. I feel raw, like my chest is wide open for the world to see and everyone can see my ugly, bruised heart and all its dirty secrets.

In the car, I wrap my hair in a scarf, roll down the windows and turn on the radio. I have to keep changing the station because so many of the songs make me want to cry. Finally I find an alternative station that doesn't remind me of anything. I sing along and after a while, the air starts to smell salty. It starts to feel cleaner and lighter. I can already feel the fog in my chest dissipating.

I cross over the causeway, glancing to my left and right, taking in the sparkling blue water, the sunlight dancing on the surface. Cars zoom past me and I realize I am driving slow.

When I get to the beach, I find a spot in front of a set of steps leading down to the sand. I reach into my glove box and grab a few quarters for the parking meter. Sliding quarters in one after the other, I wait until the little faded screen reads “3:00” and then I grab my bag and head for the steps.

It's Wednesday so the beach is almost empty. The only people here are a few older people on their morning walk and a family wearing bright neon baseball caps with "Florida" printed on the top in cursive.

I find a spot about twenty feet from the family and spread my towel on the powdery sand. Tossing my bag to the left, I decide to keep my shorts and tank top on for a while, until the sun warms me a little more. I sit in the middle of the oversized neon striped towel, lean back and close my eyes, feeling the sun's warmth gently pressing onto my eyelids.

It's still early and there's a light breeze sweeping over me, giving me goose bumps every few seconds. I shiver and a memory of the hospital room from three years ago pops into my mind. I had goose bumps in that room, too. I had been living with Adam since the night he came and took me away. One night, Adam had been working late and I felt sad and didn't know why. I had convinced myself everything was OK now that I was out of my parents' house. But then I had seen eight missed calls from my mother and a voicemail.

"Samantha, this is your mother. Your father and I are worried about you. He is sorry he hit you. He lost his temper. . .Sam. You can't talk back to him like that, you know how it makes him. Anyway, honey. Look. He has cut back on his drinking. He is getting help. You need to come back home where you belong, not live in sin with that boy. You know that's wrong, Sam. We didn't raise you that way. Call your mother back, Samantha. If you love me at all, you will call me back."

Somehow my phone had ended up broken and Adam had come home to find me lying on the floor, an empty pill bottle next to me. The next thing I remember was waking up in the hospital, IVs and tubes everywhere, and Adam sitting on the chair next to the bed. Right before the doctors discharged me, he had taken my hand and said, "You're going to be OK. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."

After a while, I look around the beach again and two birds catch my eye. I have no idea what kind they are, only that they are small and white. One is slightly larger than the other and they are identical except that the smaller one has a marking on its head that looks like the Nike symbol. I decide the smaller one is female and silently name her Nike. Their movements are both graceful and jerky at the same time. The two peck around in the sand for a while, looking for food, until they bump into each other. Nike is suddenly flustered, her wings twitching and she starts to chase after the other one. The bigger one takes off in flight for a few feet then settles back down again on the sand. He sits still and Nike comes over, continuing the assault. The larger one squawks loudly and Nike stops in her tracks and the two stare each other down for a few seconds. Finally, Nike flits off on her little spindly legs. I watch, fascinated with the drama until finally Nike slowly comes back to her mate. I expect the fighting to start up again but the larger one sits calmly while Nike approaches. Her mate takes a couple steps towards her and begins preening her, gently pecking at her feathers.

My eyes start to burn and I feel a tear escape and roll down my cheek. He never leaves. Adam never leaves. Maybe he knows something I don't. Well I wish I knew it, too. Then it dawns on me: I must be really tough. Look where I came from and somehow I'm still alive. I'm a fighter. That is something. That is really something.

I wipe my face with the edge of my towel and stand up. The birds who were about ten feet away, fly away when they see me. They disappear into the blue sky, becoming tiny white dots until finally I can no longer see them. I look around the beach one more time. The family to my left is still there and the mother looks over at me and smiles. I smile back and throw my bag over my shoulder.

Creative Non Fiction

You have this shirt you bought at Ross. It's white with an attached drapey vest in wide autumnal stripes. They are horizontal stripes, not vertical ones, and any fashion magazine would tell you this is a no-no. Despite this, you still bought it. And you wear it. What can you say? You're a rebel. It goes great with jeans and brown boots. You have to wear slim-fit jeans with it because with the shirt being loose and drapey, you will look like a frump if you wear loose jeans, like say, your boyfriend jeans. Or if you wore khakis or shorts –ugh I have to stop, this is painful—no, let's just say you must wear form-fitting pants, preferably in a dark color and jeans are the obvious choice, unless you are fashion forward enough to think of something else. And if you are, please call me because I need help. I tend to look deceivingly well put-together because I wear a lot of black and white. It's easy to match. Buy me something with more than one color or in a funky, trendy style without giving me a complete ensemble and I will slap you. Not because I'm greedy and mean, but because I will have no clue what to wear with this beautiful piece of fabric you've given me and it will inevitably end up in the back of my closet for years where I will periodically stop and stare at it for a few moments, frowning, feeling desperate to wear it but having no idea what to wear with it and shrugging my shoulders, I will just push it back again and pick something easier.

Back to the sensible soccer mom flowy shirt-with-attached-vest. This shirt is a pain in the ass. It looks great once you manage to get it on and pair it with a cute pair of jeans and stylish shoes. Maybe add in those turquoise arrow-shaped earrings that bring out the soft yet deep blue (on second thought, maybe it's teal) in the shirt. All your accessories go with this shirt; you have a lot of blue, brown, and rust-orange jewelry. You're just an earthy kind of gal. Here's the problem: getting it on is a ten minute ordeal. It seems easy but it's not, I tell you. The delicate yet sturdy brown lacy top of the vest gets all twisted and the pretty stripey part that makes up the drapey portion of the vest that hangs down on the sides of your waist and hips is all twisted and flipped over. But it is deceiving; when you pick up the shirt, it looks innocent enough and you think to yourself, "Cool, I'll just slip this on over my head and be out the door in a jiffy!" Oh, how wrong you are, dear child. Part of the cleverly attached vest is actually inside-out even though it really doesn't look like it. And then when you try to right it, try to flip it back over, it only gets worse. Think Clark Griswold with the Christmas lights. It's chaos. And you feel so silly because it's just a damn shirt. It's not that complicated. It shouldn't be anyway.

Maybe it's me, you think. Maybe I just am not good with things like this. Yet you know you're not an idiot. You can fix a computer issue (they wouldn't hire you on the Geek Squad at Best Buy, but you can impress your co-workers with your limited PC know-how), you are college-educated. You are not void of all common sense and know-how. You can figure things out. But this type of thing, this evil fabric that must have been doing flips inside your dresser drawer, just does not work for you.

Over time, the shirt begins to look less and less appealing. What you first saw on the rack and how your eyes must have lit up at this beautiful sight that you just couldn't wait to take home and make a part of your fashion life is now a burden. And it's so sad, really. You didn't want it to turn out that way. And you feel stupid for buying something like that yet again, knowing what hell it was going to put you through. OK, maybe I'm exaggerating, but you get my point. Having to deal with all the hassle of trying to get it to "work" just ruins it for you. You do believe in hard work. You do believe in having to put a little extra effort into something to make it work. You think there can be great rewards and satisfaction in doing that. You don't want or expect everything to be easy and you like a challenge. But there reaches a point where you just stop caring. The effort of it all wears you down. Because you are putting all the effort in and the shirt is an inanimate object and does nothing. It just stresses you out more than anything because you realize you are the only one who cares in this shirt-person relationship. The shirt is just a piece of fabric and cannot, does not, and will never care. Nothing you do will ever change that.

So, one day, you get fed up and you either throw the shirt out or take it to Goodwill. A friend comes over and is waiting for you to get ready for dinner. You are thumbing through your clothes in the closet and your friend asks you, "Why don't you wear that drapey, stripey vest shirt thing? It's really cute and it looks great on you." You stare at her for a moment and have a small pang of regret. You think, maybe I should have given it one more chance. Maybe I was just imagining things. But then, you think back to all the times you wore it and even though you enjoyed it when you actually got it on, behind the scenes was a different story that no one will ever know. "But the poor shirt! It was just a piece of clothing and you are a human being. What the hell is wrong with you? You couldn't figure it out?" your friend asks, trying unsuccessfully to hold back laughter after you tell her why you got rid of it.

No, I couldn't figure it out, you think to yourself. Because wearing a piece of clothing, something people need to do every day to not only cover themselves but to protect themselves from the elements—a necessity in life, like breathing and eating—shouldn't be so hard. You need clothing—shirts, specifically, and especially if you are a woman—to wear and you should be able to enjoy it, too, don't you think? You really shouldn't have to put so much thought and effort into it. It should be fun and come naturally, especially since you've been wearing clothing since you were born. It's just something we as human beings need. But what we do not need is a shirt that makes you take several minutes longer to get ready and break a sweat trying to unravel the puzzle that seems to have formed on its own after having only laid it on the bed. You are worth more than that. Shirts from Ross can be hit or miss, anyway; you just never know what you're going to get. So go out and find something that not only looks great on you, but won’t be such a miserable chore to deal with when you’re home alone with it.

Dip me in the cold white liquid

Don't leave me too long

Or I'll fall apart

End up drifting in the water

Parts of me floating

Parts of me sinking to the bottom

They argued over me last night

I felt special until I realized

they didn't want to savor me

But wanted to use me up in one night

while they sat in front of the big box with

bright changing colors, creatures

like them talking to each other

I don't understand why they need a big plastic box for that

Doesn't that happen all around them every day?

My devourers are a strange breed

The tall one with the mustache I get caught in

Reaches for me and stares at me a little too long

It makes me feel awkward

Make a decision, man! I say to him

but he doesn't hear me

The tiny blonde one giggles as she grabs me and

my friends from our row where we've lived for months

she dips me into the deep white pool

But she drops me

I look up and see her chubby little hands

reaching, her fingers swirling, poking downwards

She needs to hurry, I'm starting to feel soft

Ahh! She plucks me out of the sweet liquid

And I travel upwards, upwards

until it gets dark

(2015)

Essay

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

— Robert Frost

When you've been to hell and back it's easy to stay on the same path--the road full of pain--not because you're happy but because it's easy. You've gotten comfortable there. You don't want to be there but the alternative--coming face to face with your issues (or maybe more accurately, your demons)--sounds too scary so you forge ahead and tell yourself you're OK.

This works for a while but the problem is you can only keep all this nasty stuff hidden for so long. You can only lie to yourself for so long. It will come up, one way or the other, whether you like it or not. It will rise to the surface and force you to deal with it sometimes in many forms at once. For example, you may be in a relationship and your past unresolved pain is causing problems. This happens to everyone; we all have baggage. But how many failed relationships do you want to go through before you stop and realize that you are killing them? It's never just one person's fault, but too many people blame the other person and don't take responsibility for their own mistakes. It's easy to just move on and find someone new but the cycle will keep repeating itself.

Now, count yourself extra lucky if you're in a relationship and your demons are coming to the surface as the bond between you two deepens and your mate is loyal and tries to understand you and work through it with you. This person is a blessing and you should thank your lucky stars! Seriously. Stop right now and say a prayer, thank the universe, whatever you'd like, because so many walk away when the sunshine turns to clouds and the roses wilt.

Now comes the hard part. You have been given this beautiful opportunity to overcome all this unnecessary garbage you've been carrying around. You've been given a chance to stop the vicious cycle, to grow and to learn, to heal yourself.

Love yourself enough to let it go. Maybe you think you deserve it. You may even think you deserve to be unhappy. I can't tell you how to heal yourself. That's something that is unique to everyone. For me, I began focusing more on my first love, the thing that fills my heart with joy and passion, you guessed it: writing. I started focusing on all the good in my life and stopping to really think about all I have to be grateful for. It's hard. When you're in the thick of it, it's so easy to be self-destructive and turn back to your old habits. But just try. Just say, "today I'm going to try to eat healthy." Why? Because what we eat affects us so much more than we realize. It affects our emotions. Over-processed and toxic foods full of chemicals will make you feel like $%#! so stop putting that in your body! The last thing you may want to do is exercise, but tell yourself you will walk for ten minutes. That's it. Maybe you'll start to feel better and want to keep walking. Maybe you won't and you'll have to force yourself the next day. That's OK. Just keep doing it. Years and years of scientific research on the anti-depressant effects of exercise cannot be wrong. It has been shown to be the equivalent of taking an anti-depressant and with no scary side effects. Yay!

Basically, stop and ask yourself what you need. Do you need a couple days to yourself? Do you need to set aside time for exercise? Do you need to eat healthier? Do you need to go see friends? Go see a therapist? Whatever it is, you're worth it so do it! We only get such a short period of time on this planet, do you really want to spend it feeling like this?

You are on a road. You come to a fork in the road. You can choose to walk straight ahead and stay on the same road you've been on for years. You already know what lies ahead. You don't like it but you know what to expect and it is not really what you want but it's comfortable and easy. You may even think you deserve to stay on this road to pay your penance for all the wrongs you've done. OK, well you've paid for your sins enough. It's time to forgive yourself.

Turn to your right and start down the new road. It is new unfamiliar terrain, it is rough at first and you find yourself tripping over rocks in the road. Get up and keep going. Because when you look up ahead, you see a clearing and a bright brilliant light peeking between two large trees. It is so blinding that you cannot even see what is there but you have a feeling you should follow it. You want to get to that light. You saw no such thing on the other road. On the other path, you could see what was in front of you for miles and it was dim and gray but it was clear. But none of that matters anymore. You've chosen to be brave and you've chosen to love yourself and give yourself a chance at happiness. While you're walking to try to reach the light, you will trip and fall and get hurt. You will cry and think about turning around so many times but you keep going because you feel that what you're doing is right. You are on the path of healing and you look around and see your friends and loved ones along the sides of the road. They are jumping for joy--literally--because they are so happy for you. They are cheering you on. You start to feel happier and more hopeful. So this is why I took this road, you say. I'm actually starting to feel better. Wow.

We have a tendency to stay with what we know. Change is scary. Healing is scary. Letting go of the beliefs and attitudes you've been holding onto for so many years is terrifying, but you can do it. The first step is the hardest. Be brave. Rip off the band-aid and toss it aside and don't look back. You're finding your happy.

Informational Article

So you’ve decided you want to write a book. It’s something you’ve always dreamed of doing but maybe you’ve doubted yourself or just haven’t had the time. The good news is, you can write a book. That doesn’t mean it will be easy; it just means it is possible if you decide to make the time and commit to it. It helps if you actually like to write. If you don’t, you probably won’t get very far. Sorry for the tough love but it’s true!

If you’re saying, “Yes! I want to write a book; it’s been my dream forever and I don’t care how much work is involved,” then you’re ready.

It is a lot of work but it’s a joyful process and is incredibly rewarding. When you get into that state of flow—losing track of time because you’re immersed in your story and the characters—eventually your stomach is growling and you realize you’ve been sitting at your computer for hours. Do this long and consistently enough and before you know it, you’ll be holding your very own novel in your hands. If this sounds good to you, read on.

Before I give you the steps to get started, think about what you are going to use to write—meaning, your laptop, pen and paper, ancient scroll and fountain pen. . .If you are using a computer, I recommend the program Scrivener. You can opt for a free 30-day trial to decide if you like it before you buy. When I wrote my first two books, I used Microsoft Word and I do not recommend that. There’s nothing wrong with Word, but it’s not made for novel writing. If I wanted to go back and make a change or find something, it was a lot of scrolling. Scrivener is amazing because it is made precisely for novel writing. Your chapters are organized and accessed easily from a side menu; you can make notes for each chapter. It will save you a lot of time and keep you organized.

Here are 3 steps to start writing a novel. This does not go into the entire process from start to finish. There is much more to think about—whether you will self-publish or query agents to go the traditional route, marketing, building a following on social media, just to name a few—but the purpose of this article is just to get you started. After all, you can’t publish or sell a book that doesn’t exist. Keep in mind, this is assuming you want to write a fiction novel. The process is different for other kinds of books.

So here we go. . .

1. Have an idea.

Any kind of idea will do, whether it’s a message you want to get out into the world, an idea for an interesting character, or a scene that’s been dancing around in your head. Often, a novel starts with a tiny seed. Mine started with a scene I imagined late at night when I couldn’t sleep: a woman is in bed and she hears a knock at the door. She looks through the peephole and sees a scary face looking back at her.

That’s it.

That’s where it started and now I have a four-book series on Amazon. (Yes, that is shameless self-promotion, but I also want to inspire you and show that it’s possible) This is very important: Choose an idea that you will want to write about every single day. Make sure it is something that excites you, something you feel passionate about, or something you are curious about (you can geek out and do research for your novel and learn something new). Bonus points if you can find something that satisfies all three.

Write down your idea. Ask:

· Who?

· What?

· Where?

· When?

· Why?

What comes to mind? Are you picturing a character, a setting, an event taking place? Is it taking place in the present or in the past or future? What is the emotion behind the scene? How does your character feel about what is happening? What does your character want? Why does your character want this?

Start there and just write. Get words on the paper (or screen). It doesn’t matter how silly it sounds or if none of it makes sense right now. Keep going and it will come together. The magical thing I’ve found about writing is that the story takes on a life of its own.

2. Outline (or not)

Whether or not you create an outline for your story depends on your personality. Did you often get off track with writing papers for school? Do you feel like you need to be better organized in general? If so, outlining might be super helpful for you. However, it can be helpful for anyone, especially if this is your first book. You can always change the outline as needed, but having one will help to keep you on track.

There are two common terms in the writing community: pantser and plotter. A pantser is a writer who writes by the seat of their pants while a plotter is one who creates an outline and plots out their story.

When I started writing my first novel, I didn’t really outline and I found myself lost: the book kept going on forever! It was a mess. At the very least, figure out the beginning, middle, and end of your story. Keep in mind the basic story you are trying to tell. It shouldn’t be too complicated. If you’ve made an outline but still find yourself lost in the process, sometimes the best thing is to simplify the story. Remove a subplot. Keep it simple. If you’re confused, your reader will be confused as well.

Basically, the only way to know if outlining is right for you is to try it. See if it helps. If you find you write better without one, then let go and have fun!

3. Set Aside Time

Set aside time each day to write, even if it’s just 30 minutes. If you have kids, it can be hard to find any time for yourself so some writers set their alarms to get up earlier. If you’re a morning person, get up a little earlier to write. If you feel more alert at night, set aside some time after dinner, after the kids go bed, whenever you can make it work. It’s OK if you can’t make time every day. The important thing is you try and prioritize it as much as you can.

Tip: If you sit down and your mind is blank or you just don’t feel like writing that day, set a timer and tell yourself you will write until the timer goes off. Set it for 10, 20, or 30 minutes. Often, you’ll find that you’ll want to keep writing.

Now you’re ready!

You’ve got your laptop or your notebook and you’re ready to go. You have an idea; it may be the tiniest seed of an idea but it’s something and you can work with that. Trust the process. Once you get going, the story will start to take shape and the characters will guide you. I know that sounds odd, but it’s true. When I write, I just sit down at my laptop and stay open and allow whatever needs to happen to happen. Trusting yourself and the process takes practice, so go easy on yourself. Starting is the hardest part. Staring at that blank screen can feel terrifying and fill you with self-doubt. So just push through it and write something. Then you’ll have something to work with and build upon. Finding the time may be challenging, but you will find it if you really want to write this novel. You’ve chosen something that fascinates you, something you are passionate about, something you are curious about, so you won’t be able to stop thinking about it until you can sit down and write again.

Bonus tip: A change in scenery can help you to feel more inspired. Go take a walk and get some fresh air. Take your laptop to your back porch and write. Go to a park. If you need a break, take a break. Giving your brain a rest from time to time is good and will allow new ideas to flow in.

Believe in yourself.

You’ve got this. If you weren’t meant to write a novel, you wouldn’t have such a strong desire for it. You have a unique voice and point of view. Share it with the world.

Informational Article

Life is stressful. You’ve got a lot on your plate: juggling long hours at work, managing your home life—kids, partner, pets—and taking time for yourself always ends up on the back burner. You’re stressed and exhausted. You have trouble focusing on the task at hand and your to-do list is never-ending.

Adding essential oils into your self-care routine (or starting a self-care routine!) can help you feel better.

Where are the oils from?

Essential oils are extracted from the plant through mechanical pressing or distillation, according to the National Institute of Health. The result is a pure oil with its own unique scent and benefits.

How should I use the oils?

You should always use a carrier oil, such as grapeseed, fractionated coconut oil, almond oil, or jojoba oil. Most of these can be found at your local supermarket. Diluting the essential oil with a carrier oil is crucial because the oils are in pure form and are too strong to be used directly on the skin. Doing so can cause irritation and rashes. You can buy oil blends like this one by Eden’s Garden on Amazon. (Eden’s Garden essential oils are good quality and reasonably-priced).

Roll-On

If you’re feeling creative, you can make an oil blend yourself. I recommend using a rollerball bottle so you can carry it with you and use it as perfume or just to inhale whenever needed. Note that if you decide to make blends at home, you should look up a recipe from a reputable website. Happy Home Happy Heart has some nice recipes. I’ve used these rollerball oil bottles to make my own blends at home. This is just one type; there are several different colors and styles to choose from. Be creative and have fun with it!

Diffuser

When using a diffuser such as this one, you can add the undiluted oils in along with water. You will typically use 5-10 drops of each oil and fill the rest of the base with water (there is usually a fill line to guide you). The diffuser will stay on for a few hours, filling your home with the lovely scent of your chosen oil or blend. You can also look up recipes for using oils in the diffuser. This website has several great recipes you can try.

There are many other ways to use the oils but these are the basics to get you started. Curious as to what oils you should try? This depends on what type of benefit you are looking for. If you need to relax, lavender is always a great choice.

Lavender: Relax & Soothe

According to the Center for Research on Ingredient Safety at Michigan State University, scientific research shows that lavender may have healing properties, help insomnia, and decrease anxiety.

You can find lavender essential oil at your local health food store (read the label to make sure you are getting a pure oil and not synthetic or perfume) or on Amazon. For a soothing scent, try blending lavender with vanilla or chamomile oil. It’s also great used on its own!

Some ideas for using lavender oil:

· Use 5-7 drops in your diffuser at night while winding down for bed

· Mix a few drops into an unscented lotion and rub onto skin for a soft scent

· Add a few drops into your bath

· Keep a bottle in your nightstand and inhale for a few seconds before bed

· Make a rollerball bottle with lavender and a carrier oil and rub onto your pulse points and use as perfume or to breathe in throughout the day for stress relief

Peppermint: Uplift & Improve Focus

According to the Cleveland Clinic, peppermint can help with stomach issues, reduce fatigue, help with headaches, and improve your mood. It’s a great choice when you hit that afternoon slump at work or just need a pick me up. If you make a blend, adding a small amount of bergamot pairs nicely with this oil.

Some ideas for using peppermint oil:

· Add a few drops to your diffuser in the morning to help you wake up

· Inhale for a few seconds for an afternoon pick me up

· Mix a few drops into an unscented lotion and keep in the refrigerator for a cooling refresher in the summer or to apply to forehead and temples for a headache.

* Bonus: You can also make a cooling spray: Using a glass spray bottle, fill with distilled water and mix 5-10 drops of peppermint oil and keep in the refrigerator. Spray onto your neck for a tension headache or migraine or just to cool down after a workout or a hot summer day!

Lemon: Ease Pain & Depression

Besides being a fresh and clean scent, this oil may help people with Alzheimer’s, according to this study. It is also helpful in relieving pain and easing depression. Be careful though, as this oil can cause your skin to be more sensitive to sunlight and increase your risk of sunburn.

Some ideas for using lemon oil:

· Inhale the scent for 3-4 seconds when you’re feeling down

· Add a few drops into your diffuser at work or home for an uplifting scent

· Mix 5-10 drops of lemon oil with water in a spray bottle and spritz around your home to refresh your space

Rosemary: Joint Pain & Hair Growth

A study published on PubMed showed rosemary oil helps reduce joint inflammation which could help decrease joint pain. It is also believed to help promote hair growth and improve mood. Note: Avoid using if you are pregnant, have epilepsy, or high blood pressure.

Some ideas for using rosemary oil:

· Mix 5-10 drops with water into a spray bottle to use as an air freshener

· Blend a few drops into unscented lotion or oil and apply to painful muscles and joints (try a small amount first to test for sensitivity)

· Add a few drops into your diffuser to fill your space with a warm and spicy scent

Conclusion

There are countless types of essential oils to choose from. According to AromaWeb, there are 130 different oils. This site lists all of them and offers descriptions of their uses, benefits, and properties. You're sure to find some inspiration for even more oils to use to help ease stress in your life as well as to benefit you in other ways, including gaining energy, focus, creativity, and pain relief. Be sure to use caution and use oils in a safe manner: Never apply directly to skin without a carrier oil and make sure you are not allergic to the oil.

————————-

Sources

National Institute of Health, https://www.niehs.nih.gov/health/topics/agents/essential-oils/index.cfm

Michigan State University, https://www.canr.msu.edu/news/essential-oils-digging-deeper-lavender-oil

The Cleveland Clinic, https://health.clevelandclinic.org/essential-oils-101-do-they-work-how-do-you-use-them/

PubMed, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/20377818/

PubMed, https://pubmed.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/19053868/

Aromaweb, https://www.aromaweb.com/essentialoils/index.php

My heart beats

like a bowl of sloppy Jell-O

in the back of a beat up pick up truck

Soldiering on with little hope but

chugging along just the same

A red wet mess of arteries and cables

and networks and chambers

All that we trust can be taken away

in a flick of a switch, a pull of a plug, a

-wait for it –

beat of a heart, a snap of the fingers.

I'm 32 and it's too soon

I beg the dusty white popcorn ceiling:

Just one more chance.

I held my sister's hand

We laughed, holding the cavity-causing-crunchy-when-wet

airy sugary surprise in your choice

of sweet baby blue or innocent pink

The luscious cute smell of caramel apples

mingle with greasy gross corndogs

Her yellow curls

sparkle under the flashing candy lights of the carousel

Golden, glittery orbs set fire to her blue eyes

reflecting the pink and green horses

smiling as they go around,

a permanent state of carefree joy their only job

Her high silly giggles pierce the late night air

with youthful ferocity,

no knowledge of the silvery knife that slices a heart in love

a heart rejected, ripped out, tossed aside

no fathoming of a cold bed in an empty room

surrounded by machines and bags of fluid

Helpless to save her from a world that

will rain down upon her like jagged glass

and change her laughter from high to low, silly to cynical

White trembling, almost translucent, hand over my heart

Slowing like a train pulling into the station, sluggish pull

lumbering motion, the weight of inertia dragging the passengers'

weary overworked bodies to a grueling –

Just when I think it will

- stop -

It moves slower, slower

Stretch and pull the fan string, watching, waiting for it to

- stop -

It lumbers, laboriously slow, a creeping, teasing near-motion

Stare and wait but is it still moving?

The only way to tell is to reach up and touch the dusty blades

But that stops it

(2014)

Short Comedic Fiction

Disclaimer: When I was 16, wrote a short series about a family named the Donners called The Donner Chronicles. They are an incredibly stupid hillbilly family from Alabama or Arkansas; they don't really know.

-------------------------------------------

One day, the Donners were at the grocery store. Everyone was looking at them strangely because they were so filthy. The oldest son, Ricardo, hadn't noticed this however and saw a pretty girl over by the potatoes. He confidently began to strut over, but he tripped over an untied shoelace and fell to the floor. As he laid there, he noticed the girl was trying hard not to laugh as she pretended to study the potatoes.

Ricardo thought, Maybe I should just walk away. He was still sprawled on the floor. Then he shook his head and thought, No, I've come this far, I'm going for it. So he got up and walked closer to the girl.

Not knowing what to say as sweat started to drip from his forehead, he blurted, "See anything interesting?"

She looked annoyed and said, "Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. I see an interesting creature standing in front of me that looks like he fell down an ugly tree and hit every branch." She walked away.

A few minutes later, Ricardo told his family what the girl had said. They were all amused and decided to leave the store and find an ugly tree. On the way out, Tommy stopped to ask the cashier, "Excuse me, would you happen to know where the closest ugly tree is?"

The cashier stared at him, confused and said, "Looks like you already found it."

Tommy shrugged his shoulders and said, "That youngin' sure wasn't any help! Everybody knows they's ain't no trees in grocery stores." He rolled his eyes and walked out of the store with his family. They found a deserted area behind the store and found a tree they all agreed was pretty ugly.

Tommy said, "Well, this is about the ugliest tree I've ever seen. So, Ricardo, what'd the girl say you had to do with it?'

"She said I fell down it and hit every branch. Weird, huh?"

"Well, okay!" Tommy shrugged. "Let's all take turns. Now, make sure you hit every branch."

The Donners had the time of their lives, climbing up and falling down, hitting every branch along the way.

Ricardo said, "Now, I feel like I fell down an ugly tree!" And with that, he turned and began walking back to the store.

"Where are you going?" asked Margerita.

"Well duh! I'm going to go back in there and show that girl what somebody really looks like after they fall down an ugly tree!"

This is a poem that opens a chapter in Cecilia's POV from the first book in my series, The Devil You Know.

Merciless, ragged bones on fire

Lies, innocent lives on the wire

From the depths of her own private hell

She takes a punch, her lips swell

But she hides, hides it all away

in the mirror, watch as her hips sway

She thinks she is free

Surely gone of misery

Oh but it has just begun

A battle she has already won

I intended to write a poem, but this turned into a country song. That’s the beauty of writing; it has a mind of its own.

You'd better be sure before you walk away

Better be sure

Because you aren't coming back

Turn your back and I'll forget you

Erase you

Won't waste another minute on thoughts of you

Can't hold me back

Who do you think you're leaving

Go on, go away

I believe enough for us both

Run to your easy girl

I could never be that simple

She's got a permanent smile

But what lies behind it

Will it be enough for you

Maybe you'll get lucky

Or maybe you'll crawl back my way

thinking you can work yourself in

to my life but you see

That no longer includes you

Sorry but what did I tell you

Fool me once, shame on you

You know the rest

Don't you remember

You had my best

But you're not alone

You've got her now

What, she's not me?

Behind the blue

You should see it all

But what would you do

So much red

Could pour out of my ears

Maybe then you'd see

No lies, no, not from me

The neverending pain

There is no pity here

Only the shame

Of knowing I've let you down

Oh no, once again

You poor thing

Why don't you take it

Could change your mind a little

Open your eyes

To how some must live

My smiles and my laughter

You would never know

Makes you feel better

And lets me escape a while

But I know

And you know

We just play our roles

Their eyes dance as they tell

The criticism

And me, I stand in awe

Of their gift of judgment

The others stand unharmed

And lean in close to hear

The lies, the truth-sounding lies

Deception and manipulation, the keys

To the doors of their own little hell

The devil's sweet smile on their faces

do tell

The only defense to sound defensive

in the heart of the wicked game

they say my name

But little do they know

they'll be put to shame

So I'll just grow stronger

Backbone made of steel

the light I've been given

Imagine, it's so real

Until the end of my time

When they've all had their fill

And I get to go home

Mercy rain on me still

I had a dream that you walked in

Found me on the floor

And I said, let me go

The pain is finally ending

I feel it washing away

I am lying on the shore

Walk a little further

And this will be no more

You will never understand

But God please take me

You know I try every day

Wake up with bright-eyed hope

That this day will be different

The sun through the curtains

Dancing off the walls

But when you can't stop to feel

Freedom

Love

Joy

What can I endure

My brain overtaken by knives

What more can I do

Who can I become

Have mercy on me

Oh Lord set me free

2014

Perfect vision, yet your eyes closed to it all

So that when you stumble, you say, why did I fall

They laugh because it's pathetic

You cry because you fear

You may never see what was meant for you

that is so dear

Can't keep pretending there is so much more

When you're walking backwards, away from the door

2002

The girls who get the boys

Ones with the pretty voice

Always smiling, it never fades

Light on her face, see no shade

If she were a flower, always in bloom

Never wilt like me, never see gloom

But wilt and die I'd rather

Than be a fake arrangement no matter

How long it lasted

Beauty be blasted

I've lived and I've learned

I've worked and I've earned

The right to be true

For me, not for you

2011

Back in 2015, while attending the University of Central Florida (Go Knights!), I was instructed to write an epistolary poem in the form of an apology and this is what happened. Enjoy.

I'm sorry but the entire

time we were on the phone

I was making faces at you

Luckily for me, you had not heard

of FaceTime or it would have surely

been awkward

You see, you just talk too much

And I need to paint my nails

and this Hemingway book is collecting

dust but I have to know what it's about

for my Lit class

Can't you feel the strained silence?

My ears are being raped by your words

Your never ending words

Every pause gives me a quick glimmer of hope

But you start up again

Isn't your mouth dry?

Maybe you need some water

Please forgive me

I know it's mean

Please don't come over

But feel free to call whenever

Flash Fiction

At precisely four o'clock in the morning last Sunday, I came into a lot of money.

Aunt Stella had been in town visiting the family for a week and she had worn out her welcome about five minutes after walking in the front door. For the life of me, I don't know why my parents insist that she stay here when she comes in town for her yearly vacation.

"There are plenty of hotels in Vegas," I tell my mother, but she rolls her eyes and purses her lips.

"We are family, Sarah." And that was the end of the discussion.

It wasn't so bad in the afternoon and evenings because Aunt Stella was at the casinos, gambling her savings away. But in the wee hours of the morning when she returned, sometimes not until six A. M., she was plastered, red lipstick smeared all over her face. She would alternate between whining and sobbing as she clattered around in the kitchen and I'd lie awake in bed upstairs, cursing her and debating whether to yell downstairs for her to shut up.

So it was no surprise last Sunday when I rolled over in bed and heard her high-pitched squeals and the noise coming from the kitchen. I'd had enough. I yanked the comforter off and trudged down the stairs. I was going to finally tell her exactly what I thought and if she didn't like it, too bad.

As soon as she saw me walk into the kitchen, she ran over to me and wrapped her arms around my neck. I tried to push her away, but even in her drunken stupor, she was strong. "It finally happened! I hit the big one!"

"Yeah, yeah, ok, Aunt Stella. How much did you win?"

She finally released me. "A hundred thousand dollars at blackjack! And I want to give half to my favorite nephew!"

Well, that changes everything.