Driving through the fog

Pulling an all nighter on the road, his eyes bloodshot and blurry, Jimmy encountered a thick bank of fog at the Arkansas line. His shoulders sagged under extreme fatigue and he rubbed his sleep-filled eyes. The fog seemed to ridicule him, one more hazard to endure after a night of dodging drunk drivers, potential road kill and unnerving sharp curves.

He had one more leg on his tri-state haul and needed to make it to Clarksville, TN by 3:00 that afternoon. There was no time for sleep or dense fog. Jimmy gritted his teeth and trudged on. He used to enjoy the freedom and independence of long-haul trucking, but middle age was creeping in, causing his body to protest from the sedentary nature of the job. Years ago, this gig helped extinguish the last remaining embers of his marriage. He hardly ever saw his boys anymore. He had become every country song cliché. Not an inspiring goal.

Weak morning light was trying to creep in, but was being beaten down by the oppressive gloom. Pine trees looked ominous. Every landmark was obscured in thick pea soup. Suddenly, Jimmy tensed and took his foot off the gas. On the shoulder was a dark figure, dancing and fluttering on the gravel. Jimmy strained his eyes for a better look, feeling cold sweat breaking out on his skin and his heartbeat quickening. But the figure disappeared as Jimmy was almost upon it. Slowly he realized that other creatures began to take shape in the mist, unidentifiable, some wide, some petite, some crouched near the ground, some floating just above the dirt.

Jimmy chuckled to himself. He was a seasoned driver, not the least bit green. So why was his mind toying with him? As he rumbled down the highway, he grew accustom to the fog images, He rather enjoyed their company. Soon, Jimmy was almost hypnotized by the cloudy blur enveloping him. As he was lulled by the whine of the tires on the pavement and by his sleep deprived brain, one fog companion inexplicably captured his attention. Its movements were agitated and jerky, not like the delicate wafting dances of the others. Jimmy snapped to, alert just in time to swerve back into his lane, narrowly missing a pale green Ford pick-up coming round the curve. The pick-up driver angrily blasted his horn. Feeling queasy from his near miss, Jimmy frantically searched in his rear view mirror for the creature that warned him of impending danger. But, like the others, it has been consumed by the shadows.

"I Am Writing You From a Far-Off Country"

Dear Nigel-

The natives are restless tonight.  They pound their drums incessantly.  It grates on ones nerves so after a while.  I wonder what they hope to accomplish from their primitive attempts at music?  Perhaps they wish to sooth the wild beasts that lurk about the savannas.  Their numbers are breath taking.  Today the guides brought us to a watering hole off some bush trail.  We lay in wait for two hours and saw a parade of amazing creatures.  Zebra, gazelle, and even a loan rhino. Managed to bag three elephants when the herd came through.  Took the tusks and left the carcass.  Most magnificent pieces of ivory you have even seen.  Will look smashing on my study wall.  Thought of taking a foot as well.  You know how I admire Albert's elephant foot stool but decided against it at the last minute.  Already the local boys groan under the weight of our kills.  Have been most extraordinarily lucky in that regard.  This place is just overflowing with game.  Most magnificent.

These drums, however, are not.  Am on my third whiskey of the evening and still they pound away at my head.  I am not sure if it is the drink or a trick of sound but it almost sounds as if they are moving closer.  These savages have no real use.  They run about barely covered with their little pointed sticks making the most uncivilized clicking noises.  Their women know no modesty and dress in the most appalling fashion.  Our guides are no better.  They are a superstitious lot.  Imagine, they insisted we push on tonight instead of setting up camp here.  Most ridiculous brouhaha I've ever herd. Some nonsense about holy ground or some such.  But a few shiny coins put their mutterings to rest.  Although, now that I think about it, they were rather scarce at the fire tonight.  No double they are off sulking in the jungle.  They forever complain about the amount we pack into the jungle.  As if we could go a night without our whiskey and cigars!  What ha!

Finally, those damn drums have stopped.  It is so refreshing to hear silence.  Why, there isn't even the sound of birds or night insect to be heard now.  Odd actually.  They are usually chirping and buzzing all night.  Ah well.  Tomorrow we head for the grand prize, a lion pelt.  Am most hopeful to bag at least three.  Will do my best to find a cub for your front fireplace.  Would look most sporting there, eh?

Ah, I hear the sound of feet.  Those dratted guides must be back at last.  Quite a bit of yelling going on out their.  Suppose I will have to pop out and see what the hubbub is.  Will sign off for now.  Best to Maude and tells the boys at the club I shall be back within the month.

Sincerely yours,
Oscar

This is the hand you were dealt

Jake wiped his brow with a bandana and pushed his hair back. He tried to do this every time so that he wouldn't tip anyone off if he was truly nervous. Like this time. A Jack of diamonds, a two of clubs, a six of hearts, a seven of clubs and an Ace of diamonds. House rules, he could exchange three cards. Was his truck really worth this hand? Too bad there wouldn't be another.

"Mr. Winston I do believe its your turn to call?"

Jake was still deep in thought. The truck door slamming shut as Grace started the long walk back to town. The vision of tears in her eyes made his jaw clench. The way she kept one hand protectively over her belly made his knees buckle ever so slightly under the table. Was this hand really worth the truck?

"Some people just can't get it together. Jake are you one of those people?"
Grace had asked him that question that very morning while he was drinking his coffee and looking at the blank lines in the checkbook.

What was he really worried about losing? He had circled back and pleaded with Grace to get back in the truck, but he knew at one of these times that she was in for a walk and he was in for a long quiet ride home. She turned off onto a path the truck couldn't fit down. Problem was there wasn't much of a home to walk back to anymore. The tornado had taken out their house and its not like he could afford insurance. His dad always said insurance was for suckers anyway. The FEMA trailer wasn't bad, if only Grace would get used to it.

"Jake, if its too rich for you, you can fold, but you're already all in so..." The fat man said.

Jake looked at the piles of hundred dollar bills in the middle and sitting on top of it all were his truck keys.

"FEMA's just handing out checks man! Go get yourself some of that cash!!!" his friend Benny had chided. Wasn't too bad. FEMA gave you a trailer to live in, MRE's to eat and a check.

"Don't worry about the fine print on the back, dude, just cash it!"

Four pairs of eyes around the table were looking at him. Three pairs anyway, as Chaz (as he called himself) wore reflective aviator glasses.

"Grace, we're doing fine. Joe says that they're going to start building those houses again up on the bluffs and he said he'd make me foreman this time!"

"And what do we do when those houses are built? If they get built? You really think people want to move here? We need a plan Jake. We're going to be a family and we need more than just you pretending to be a foreman."

"What do you mean pretend?" He could feel his cheeks flush. "Its not like I have a college degree or anything. We can't just up and move to a city and I can find work."

"Why not? We could leave this town. We could sell your dad's house and with the money we could get a fresh start somewhere."

"I don't want to sell my dad's house. Its a perfectly good roof over your head too."

Its amazing how much crow tastes like chicken.

Jake took the two, the six and seven and laid them on the table.

"Hold your horses, I'm still all in. Give me three cards."

"What will die with me when I die...."

“I don’t make many requests. I hate to be a burden. Isn’t that what the elderly always seem to say? And when they say it, their tone is so wistful, that anyone who is even half listening should know that yes, they do want to be someone’s burden, because that would mean they were not alone in the world, as their dying lights flicker in the cold draft of an imminent end.

But, I am being honest. I’ve always been independent. I dislike the thought of leaning on anyone. I’ve always just needed Viv and me. We were introduced when I was 10 years old and feeling left out, the only girl in a family of four boys. Gramma Rose sensed my discontentment and gave me Viv. She used to be hers, until rheumatoid arthritis gnarled Gramma’s hands into silence.

When Gramma placed Viv in my hands, I knew I had found the extension of me. With Viv, my soul sang out, my spirit danced among the strings, rosin wafting into the air as my finger raced up and down the fingerboard, my bow sliding effortlessly, vibrations producing beauty. Viv was polished, golden brown, with a smooth neck and a delicate scroll. She was made to nestle under my chin, resting on my left shoulder contently, the way newborns meld into their mothers.

I played Viv for decades, at family affairs, concerts, for my students, even for perfect strangers battling life’s upheavals. Together we were a force and we tried to give back a little gloriousness in an otherwise bleak world. With Viv, I was confident, interesting, the object of envy. Without Viv, I would have been a lost child in a boisterous family, just along for the ride as everyone else heartily accomplished life. Viv made me……..well, me.

I haven’t played Viv for 6 weeks. Oh I know, what’s six weeks? It isn’t really all that long. But for me it seems like an eternity. And when you’re in my situation, it really is an eternity. Viv is quiet now, anticipating my upcoming departure. She lies in an elongated violin case, burgundy velvet on the inside, dull black with gathering dust on the outside. In the pitch black of her isolation, she waits to be remembered.

How fitting, that we will both be sent off in such similar fashion.”

Write About Being Unable to Sleep

The clock blinks red.  3:15.  3:15.  3:15.  3:16.

With a sigh, I roll over and yank the covers over my feet but it all feels wrong.  I can sense the numbers behind me.  Determined, I close my eyes and will my brain to stop thinking.  Hours pass but still I can't sleep.  Defeated, I roll back and look.

3:18.

I have been playing this torturous game with the clock since 11:45.  For some reason, my mind will not shut off tonight.  Sleep is kept at bay by my roiling thoughts and my harsh mutterings.  It seems the more I reach for it, the farther it eludes me.

When I was a child and could not sleep, I would open my window a crack, roll on my right side, slip both hands under my pillow and close my eyes.  The open window was for Peter Pan and Tinkerbell.  It was my invitation for them to join me.  The hands under my pillow were uncomfortable but comforting.  Without fail, they triggered the dream of flying over NeverNeverLand.  Cannon-balling through clouds, soaring over the Mermaid Lagoon, the wind twisting my satin blue nightgown between my legs.

But I had left Peter far behind.  My brain had forgotten all these nighttime signs and rituals.  Now I battled the clock convinced that the meager weapons of childhood were helpless against its blinking power.

3:19.  3:19.  3:19

3:20.

I lay on my back and watched the shadows on the ceiling.  As a child, I saw monsters and unicorns.  I talked to these dark images and watched them schlump across the walls.  Now all I saw was plaster and spackle, dust and paint.  My old friends were probably there, waiting to entertain me, but I was too busy locked in battle with time to notice.  Instead of engaging my mind, harnessing my imagination, I fought to throttle it, to bend it to my will, to make it shut off like at light.  But tonight, I would realize that somethings need to be rocked to sleep.  Somethings require a gentle touch and a tease.  Perhaps, I had forgotten what I knew as a child.  That night was a time to open your mind to the impossible.  A time of un-control.

3:22.  But I didn't even notice.  My monsters peered down at me, watching my lids droop slowly, slowly.  They frolicked above me.  Now a cup of coffee, then the steam, then a face.  Then, sweet nothing.

Italian Quarter

Italian quarter.

My brother and our friends on the street used to say it like an epithet, almost a racial slur. Kind of like "Jewing him down." or being an "Indian giver." Or even the more mundane "What a gyp!"

I don't know if it started out financially. "Hey, you trying to cheat me out of my share? Don't you be givin' me that Italian quarter."

Or maybe it was a little more pedantic going back to Mussolini and the fact that he was known for not giving any quarter to partisans in world war 2. "Hey, what gives? I stopped, you can stop too! Don't give me that Italian quarter!" Which would usually result in a purple nurple or a dead arm.

Either way it was in our lexicon, and none of us could figure out how it got there. Its not like any of us were Italian. None of our parents were from Italy, and none of us had a more than average passing interest in history. The closest to Italy any of us ever got when we were growing up was the time when Chuck's sister spent a summer abroad in France.

My brother, Lou, was always the ring leader since he was oldest. He would always puff himself up and say "Age doth have its privileges." which would result in a slug in the arm. He was three years older than me and got to stay up an extra hour at night which never seemed fair. He'd also get me up early in the summer time. He'd fix me a bowl of cereal and together we'd wolf down our coco puffs, eyes glued to channel 22 (they had the best cartoons during the week) before slapping on shorts and tee shirts.

Grabbing our bikes, Mike would usually be waiting for us as the garage door opened. He was almost Lou's age but a lot taller. He wore the same clothes every day until they could stand up themselves. I wasn't much on personal hygiene but even that went too far for me.

The three of us would go over to Eric and Steve's place next. They were heavy sleepers and it usually took at least 5 minutes of straight knocking on their window to get them to start moving. At first I could never tell them apart. Supposedly they were identical twins. Lou said they were clones whatever those were. But Steve had a scar on his left knee that was always a dead give away in warm weather.

The twins would move painfully slowly in the morning. Threats of leaving them behind or pranking them later were the only ways to get them going. They had the squirt guns though. The battery powered kind that could shoot up to thirty feet. So leaving them behind was never really an option, especially since their parents were the best about buying batteries.

And the last person of our crew that we'd pick up was Snot. His real name was Charles, but we all called him Snot. Two guesses as to why, summer hay fever wasn't good for him.

His parents traveled a lot. And it was his sister who had been to France. She was just about to graduate high school next year and we could never figure out how the two of them had come from the same parents. They were night and day different. Water and fire. Lou said Snot was adopted, from a traveling circus. Snot himself was pretty cagey which is why we kept him around.

In dodge ball he was only OK, a decent side arm throw but always too slow to dodge. But, in capture the flag, he was definitely the guy to have on your side. The weirdest thing about him was that he could hold his breath for nine whole minutes, a full 5 minutes longer than Lou and 7 minutes longer than me.

That was our crew from East Hemlock street. And that was the ritual we would follow every day of summer vacation.

Write about possibilities

Never quite satisfied, a constant nudge from status quo, I will not accept stagnation.

In the past, adorned possibilities expired. Fear and doubt left them unopened in a box. I chide myself and resolve to improve.

I wonder; what creates that quest for betterment and change? Some believe it is circumstance. Some attribute will and determination.

Outside my door is a plethora of opportunity, the unforeseen and the anticipated.

Decisions must be weighed, risks calculated, paths chosen.

So I dream, tingly with expectation. I pursue relentlessly, challenging myself to evolve, no longer content to tread tranquil waters. I want to propel myself into white caps.

For how muted would life be without the thrill of possibilities.

Write About A Haircut

It had feathers.  One on each side of my face.  I was mortified.  The stylist?  He was ecstatic.  Perhaps it was the AquaNet induced high he had acquired from all the spraying needed to sculpt those feathers.  But as I sat there in that leather swivel chair, all I could think about was damage control.  I was rapidly calculating how long it would take for my hair to grow out and what mitigating factors I could use in the meantime.  I mean, come on, the man had just whacked off most of the hair on the sides of my head to form two perfect Farrah Faccett type feathers.  My mom wasn't helping.

Really, this was all her fault.  I was down, admittedly, having just lost a very lousy job with lousy pay.  My boyfriend had been spotted with Janice last night at the ice skating rink and the knowledge of my misfortune was quickly scuttling its way about town via the biddy grapevine.  My mother's brilliant idea was a makeover complete with new hair-do and outfit to shake off this grey mood and launch me back on my feet.  It just goes to show you how desperate I was that I actually accompanied her to her salon and let this "stylist" attack my head.

I figured it would be three months, tops, before I could truly re-style my hair.  Until then, it was going to be a very, very long hat season for me.

"Oh hon, it's just fabulous!  Just what you needed!  You don't even look like you anymore!", my mother gushed as she patted the crispy hair molded over my ears.  She was beaming at me hopefully.  She was so anxious that I just couldn't beak her heart so I mustered a weak smile and nodded sagely.  At least I hoped it was sagely.  Not a hair on my head moved with the motion.  I upped my estimation from three months to four.  Maybe head scarves would make a comeback.  Or turbans.

"I think it just so suites you honey.  And after we get you in a new outfit, why, you won't even recognize yourself!" she declared as she scurried off to settle the bill.

Yes, I had sunk so low that my mother was now paying for my haircuts.  It was junior high all over again.  I slumped in the chair and took stock of my reflection.  Barring the hideous hair, it wasn't all bad.  I swiveled back and forth checking my jawline.  OK, there was a little pooch but I was going through an emotionally difficult time.  A girl needs a little extra sustenance during times of distress to keep going.  Right?  Leaning in I traced a few lines across my forehead and around my eyes.  Frowning made them worse.  When did those appear?  I scooted back out of the stylist chair quickly.  These lights were not flattering and I needed to get some air.  I paused at the door.  My mom was still chatting away by the register.  I didn't have anything to cover my head so my only option was to make a dash for the car and hope no one I knew spotted me.  That would be difficult.  Our town wasn't large and the strip mall we were in boasted a constant flow bet6ween the Radio Shack, Starbucks, and Ace Hardware. The odds were good someone would spot me.  But the smell of hair spray and chemical straightener was making my head spin so I grabbed the door handle and made a bee line for the car.

Of course, it was locked.  Of course, Travis, my supposed boyfriend, would be stepping out of Ace and that exact moment.  Of course, our eyes would meet.  I reddened.  He stopped in astonishment and stared at my hair.  Or what was left of it.  I just couldn't catch a break.

The weekend it rained

I got nuttin for this one. I had 3 ideas all started and all petered out. One was to write in "Lovecraftian style about a creeping horror abomination..." but to tie it in to "the weekend it rained" seemed to shoehorn two great tastes that did not go together. Like Chocolate and Egg salad.

The next idea was to write about camping during the weekend it rained, but after several false starts and stsops I couldn't find a voice for it. Coudln't figure out a way to make the reader care about what was going on. I certainly didn't care about what the pine trees smelled like or the sound of the rain hitting the fly tarp. And as vivid as I could make it, it was still boring. Add someone being chased and we may have something. But...

The third? Adapting part of a story about a guy who gets shipwrecked I started in college. But that would be cheating... Or would it? And anyway the part about it raining only took up one paragraph in that story.

How about some continutity? Maybe trying to tie in the Weekend it rained with the Noirish start I got the other day but with the clock ticking and inspiration still fleeting I start thinking about a pass. What can I do to get something down but still keep up with the assignment. Writing about not being able to write seems the ultimate in conceit and cliche, but alas here I am. And then there's the feeling like I'm giving up. "The weekend it rained" seems like such a strong premise and I'm sure tomorrow I'll think of a billion and one things that I should have written about.

So maybe I'll take a rain check on the weekend it rained and when the clouds clear so will my head. Some day I promise there will be a two-fer and it will be good. Worthy of posting and worth of the crew I'm writing with. But that won't be today.

Today I will slink off to bed, a full 3 days wasted and uninspired. Lets hope for better results and higher standards for Saturday and picturing myself "in the Italian quarter."

You know ideas are already starting for that one. So with that I bid the fair reader adieu and I'm just going to squeak on out of here quietly and hope no one notices.

And that's what I have to say about the weekend it rained.

She was painting her nails

Jace walked slovenly down the cracked sidewalk, his shoulders hunched over, feet shuffling on the cement. He had on an Abercrombie and Fitch t-shirt, three leather rope bracelets on his left wrist, and ripped faded jeans that gave him the appearance of hipness but with an air of fashion indifference. He was too hip to care that he was hip.

Behind his aviator shades were eyes filled with pity…..for any sucker who had to spend his high school years in this dump of a town. After Jace’s mom went ballistic over some minor thing with booze and bombing grades, she sent him to live with his grandfather; probably so she could make the moves on her latest target. There had been a string of men through their front door since his parents divorced when Jace was seven. His mom was usually in a drama of her own making, trying to get the guy and then trying to pick up the pieces after the guy inevitably dumped her. Jace used to help her glue those pieces back together, but after a few years it got tiresome. Keggers, girls and other alcohol filled pursuits distracted him until he and his mom basically shared an address, not much more.

So, no surprise that she decided he was getting in the way of her fun. The shocker was living with an adult who actually gives a rip. Suddenly, Jace had a curfew, chores to do and a car-free existence. It was prison after years of wild freedom. Grandpa was ornery as they come and took no guff from “youngsters”. He was going to whip Jace into shape come hell or high water.

Jace’s only escapes were “walks about town”. Grandpa admired exercise, said it was good for the mind and body. So, everyday, sometimes a few times a day, Jace walked the sleepy summer streets, bordered by big maple trees and craftsman two stories with wide covered porches.

Shuffling onto 3rd Street, he found something intriguing. At the corner yellow house, sitting on the front porch, was a girl about 15 years old, with straight blonde hair spilling over her bare shoulders. She was wearing a tank top and cut offs, her long tan legs propped up on the porch railing. She was painting her nails, her head bent in concentration. But as he passed, he noticed her eyes shift towards him. It was almost imperceptible. She moved no other muscle in her body, apparently too cool to acknowledge his presence.

He checked her out in his periphery. Thinking she was safe from detection, she turned and watched him, blowing on her wet nails and tossing her head, causing her silky hair to cascade over one shoulder. Jace smiled to himself as he continued down the street, still feeling her eyes on his back. Maybe this summer wasn’t going to be so bad.

The Last Stop Before Arrival

Knowing when to get off.

Watching out a window fogged up with the breath of strangers.

Rain pounding against the glass, rivets streaming by.

Rocked into a daze, hearing so much it becomes nothing at all.

Tired.

Pull the cord.  You are here.

Now, let your feet find their way home.

Looking out a second story window

It was just past noon and the 11:40 to Hobocken had finished giving me its daily ear ache. I straighted the upended pencil cup, dusted off the ceiling grit that had, for the third time that day rained down on the racing form. "she's the one" number 8 in the 6th race looked promising, but I'd need to get some cash together first if I had any chances of playing the ponies and eating allin one evening.

My assignment file was, as it usually seemed to be of late, more a breeding ground for dust than the busy thourofare it used to be. Either husbands were no longer filandering, wives no longer "stepping out to the tennis club", or this part of town was going to need a face lift, or at least more regular police walk thorughs, so I
could get my old high brow clientelle back. My dad used to say "Son, change is decay." In this part of town it certainly held true.

Getting up from my desk, I went to go looking out of the second story window. I could count at least 4 winos sacked out down below. One on each of the benches, and two taking shade in Stoops of the buildings across the way. That just left Gus unnaccounted for but a hacking cough below implied he had taking up residence in the
stoop to my building.

It was August third and the newspaper said two things that interested me. One was that RUssia had just annexed Georgia, Lithuania and the other baltic states, and the other was the temperature was supposed to be topping 104 today. Maybe I could go down to the docks and through fish around for a few hours and still make it back to the 6th race.

I opened the window to let some air in and got a wiff of the bakery's dumpster two doors down. It was going to be a close call. Leave the window down and die of heat stroke, or keep it open and die of asphyxiation. A gentle breeze coming up the street helped me to decide on asphyxiation. The scent was eggs gone bad with a hint of something else. Flowers? Soap? Chanel? Either way it was an improvment and then that's when I saw her. Walking up the street. Her hat dress and shoes matching her lips. A red that would have made Mephestopholes himself jealous.

Even in this part of town she seemed to not care that everyone had stopped to watch her. Her pace never quickened, her glance never once wavered. Eyes forward, mouth turned up in a half bemused grin finely plucked eye brow slightly raised. You can't learn that sort of confidence. That's the type of thing you grow up with. What
was she doing in this part of town and why was she coming to see me. I knew that she was coming to see me specfiically. Call it a hunch, call it a bet. Or maybe call it hope to eat tonight, but except for the Pawn shop 1/2 a block down she had no business coming up this way.

I straighted my tie and walked over to the counter on the far side of the office and pulled out two tumblers. For me I filled mine 3/4 full of Jack. For her's two fingers of Makers Mark, the stuff I keep around for special occations.

Her sillouhete filled the frosted glass that was my front door and she knocked.

"Come on in Jackie, its unlocked."
In she came and made a bee line to the drink. Always full of surprises, she chose the Jack, not the Maker's.
"Brother dear. What do you see in this dreadful part of town?"
"Up until a few months ago it was a steady paycheck. Now, not so much."
"The aweful goings on in Europe have put a damper on most everyone's scandelous fun?"
"So what brings you here? Certainly not a social call?"
"Well it could be if you just came back. Father holds no grudges and would welcome you back with open arms. You wouldn't need to slum it any more."
"I'm sure. I can only imagine the price tag associated."
"Well I wish you would find whatever it is you're looking for so you could come back. I miss your wild adventures and the excitement you bring to the dinner table."
"As much fun as that would be I think I'm happier here."
Her brows knitted and her mouth sneered. She never could reason why I had left in the first place.
"Andy" she was teh only one who I ever let call me that. "Let me cut to the chase. I'm in trouble and I need your help."
Maybe I'd eat tonight after all...

Write about a woolen shawl

Tessie peered over the edge of the tree house ledge. Dobbs, Mikey, Will and the others looked like ants, scurrying around, staring up at her, daring her to do it. As usual, Dobbs was the ringleader. He taunted her, calling her chicken and wussy girl. He was sweating and breathing hard in the Tennessee summer sun. As he inhaled and exhaled, the perpetual gray-green mass of gooey snot in his left nostril heaved and hoed, threatening to finally dislodge and go flying across space. Mikey was a little more civilized. He and Will were brothers and lived down the road. Tessie’s mom and their mom were best friends, so the boys were decent to her, but when Dobbs came around, they had to show it up, strutting around like royal roosters, cocky and cool.

Today, they shaded their eyes, peering at her in the noontime glare. “Just call it quits and go home to your mama!” Mikey yelled up. “Everyone knows you were fibbing anyway!”

“Was not!” Tessie screamed back. “Gaga told me so and Gaga doesn’t lie!”

“You sound as crazy as that ol’ loon right about now! No wonder you got no friends. You as nuts as they come!” Dobbs spit at Tessie.

Tessie felt tears sting her eyes. Gaga had given her the magic shawl a few years ago, when Tessie went to school for the first time and was so scared. Gaga had wrapped her up in the shawl and told her the shawl would help her do wonderful things. With it, she said, Tessie could do anything she set her mind to.

Tessie did have her doubts. After all, the shawl was scratchy and smelled musty, like it had been sitting in a trunk down in the basement. It wasn’t even all that pretty, certainly not colors Tessie would have picked. Instead of purple and soft green and blue, the shawl was gray, brown and cream with zigzag stripes and several little holes where the yarn appeared to be falling apart.

But Gaga promised, and Gaga didn’t tell a lie. Tessie clung to that belief as kids poked fun at her for always wearing the shawl, even in the heart of summer. Her mama tried to coax her out of it, but she couldn’t leave it home. What if something extraordinary was supposed to happen that day, but she couldn’t do it because she didn’t have her shawl? Better to be safe than sorry.

The kids, lead by Dobbs, kept up the teasing until Tessie told them she would prove to them that the shawl was magic. She decided she would fly, jumping off the tree house, using the magic in her shawl to send her soaring. Word spread through the little town and soon about 15 kids showed up to see her feat.

It was now or never. And, it would be worth it to shut Dobbs up forever.

Tessie took a deep breath, whispered, “Gaga promised” and jumped.

These Are the Stories of My Father

"Tell me the story of my father and the bear, NiNu!" the little girl pleaded.

The old woman stopped pounding the corn and looked up from her task.  Her granddaughter squatted next to her, balanced effortlessly on her toes, her long lankly arms wrapped around her knees.  It was a pose only the very young could hold.  Ninu clucked her tongue and flapped her hand as if brushing away a fly.

"Not now, little one, I am busy with my task.  You have heard that story often enough."

But the little fly would not be so easily scared off.

"Please Ninu!  Please?  Pleeeeeze?"

The grandmother sighed and straightened her back.  Her long grey braids were flicked over her shoulder and she squinted at the small form beside her.  Tecumla was all big dark eyes and eager smile.  It was a look that could melt any heart.  And it did.  The old woman grinned back into that little face with more gum than teeth but the resemblance was clear in the gleam in both sets of eyes.

"Well, let me see," Ninu began, musing to herself, "how did that story begin again?"

The little one knew her line and quickly pipped up, "Father went deep into the forest to find a deer."

"Yes, that's right my child.  Your father was the bravest warrior of our tribe and it had been four long weeks without meat.  So, your father set off, deep into the woods of Sethnoa, looking for meat for his new woman.  You have heard of the woods of Sethnoa, yes?"

"Tell me again!" came the gleeful cry.

"The woods of Sethnoa are sacred," the grandmother intoned,  "the great Father, Ra-Nu, has claimed them for His own.  It was forbidden for any to enter His forest.  Many had tried but none had returned.  All know that the woods are full of fat, sleek deer and plump sweet rabbit.  The tora roots grow plentiful by the clear streams and the kokoa birds sing their songs deep in their plump breasts.  It was a forest of plenty.  But of dangers unknown."

"But father wasn't afraid!" Tecumla declared, bouncing on her toes in her excitement.

"No, child,  your father was many things, but a man of fear he was not.  He set off on the first day of the full moon taking with him his best bow and arrow and his bravest warrior dog, Nilu.  He left when the moon first crested the western hill and planned to return in three days.  Well, those three days were long and hard for your mother.  Every evening as the moon rose, she would watch the hills that marked the edge of the Sethnoa forest.  But each day, the forest remained still.  Your father did not return."

"Were you scared, too, Ninu?" Tecumla asked.

"Psh.  No. I knew your father.  I had raised him myself remember.  I knew if anyone could trick old Ra-Nu, your father would be the one.  He could talk honey from a bee hive and tickle fish into his hands.  He was a rascal, your father.  Just like you."

The old woman reached out and pinched the pert nose before her and then smoothed the thick black hair.  Her eyes grew distant and she sat silent.

"Ninu, tell the rest!" the child chided.  "Tell the rest of my father's story" she demanded, impatiently shrugging off the caressing hand.

It was all she knew.  These stories of the father who had died when she was little.  She treasured each one like it was a rare bear's tooth and acted each adventure out in her head every night before she feel asleep.  Her father was a great warrior.  She would be one too.  Someday, perhaps, she might even match wits with Ra-Nu as her father had. Perhaps she too would emerge, exhausted and pummeled, with a large carcass strung over one shoulder, a set of gleaming new bear claws strung about her neck, and that same rascal grin across her face.

Promises Broken

The day was becoming quite pleasant. A slight breeze came out of the south, large puffy cumulous clouds wafted on the horizon breaking up the otherwise cobalt blue of the sky. Golian watched the wind driven “V”’s dance in the long green grass that stretched as far as the eye could see in every direction.

Nearby, two of Arabian herd 24b whickered and whinnied and took off at a gallop. The rest of the herd was head down eating grass not concerning themselves with the foals. Golian slowly walked up to one of the feeding horses and in one deft movement brought the hypospray nozzle to the horse’s flank and pushed the metal stud. The horse’s tail came up to bat away a perceived fly.

Arcturus-B’s violet fiery head poked over the hills to the east, the light from the star changing the grass’s color ever so slightly towards yellow. The think stripe of the central milky way ran brightly overhead. Individual stars clearly visible even though it was halfway to lunch time.

Golian’s hand paused running through his short gray hair, a red light blinked silently yet insistently on the dash. He put his bag on the back of the skiff, climbed in after it and settled into the front seat.

He took two deep breaths before pushing the button. The com screen lit up with one mere word: VISITORS. He tapped in a response to the AI that ran most of the planet: “Supply early?”

A second later: “NEGATIVE. MANNED SHIP. ETA 2.5 HOURS. REQUESTED HUMAN INTERFACES.”

Golian took one more deep breath trying to choose his response, trying to keep his irritation/anger down. After a second he responded: “Negative clearance. Wave off. Go home. Arm Satellite defenses.”

“NEGATIVE…”

“What do you mean negative? Get rid of them.”

“NEGATIVE. SATTELITE OVERIDE PROTOCOLS HAVE BEEN ACTIVATED BY INCOMING. ETA 2.2 HOURS.”

This wasn’t right. He was supposed to have sovereign reign over the planet. A back water planet in the middle of no where that no one wanted. No minerals, no animals. Just he and his horses. That had been the promise. That had been the agreement. That had been the price extracted for both the sacrifices he had made and the sacrifices he had caused. He was supposed to be left alone to raise his horses. To get the occasional news feed and supply drop had been perks.

No one was supposed to visit, especially someone unexpected and they were absolutely not supposed to be able to override the defensive satellites surrounding his planet. But, contrary to what his benefactors/captors thought, you didn’t get to be as old as he was by not being able to adapt to broken promises.

He chose a high altitude parabola to cover the 400 miles to the compound in 6 minutes. Ellie met him at the door. He called her that and she accepted it even if it wasn’t her original name, not that Golian could pronounce it anyway, his mouth lacked the necessary vocal chords and bones. The name Ellie was a close enough approximation that had turned from a child-like insult over the decades to a term of endearment. He had adopted her at first out of pity and guilt all those decades ago but had learned to accept her and eventually to love her as if she was his own daughter. Almost. Blood was thicker than water, and water thicker than species bonds.

“Ellie we’re getting visitors. Unexpected visitors, please have the house prepare their room and you need to stay out of sight for the next several hours.”

Inside the circle

Inside the circle that gathers at 3:00 every Tuesday, forcible emotions wrangle, bouncing off the fragile periphery. At times, their intensity is violent, almost like they are trying to smash open a confining boundary. No one knows what storm will brew on any particular Tuesday, but as life charges on and death never takes a breather, it is a given that new faces will appear.

Graciela lost her mom two days before her 10th birthday. At age nine, Dakota lost his granddad, the closest man he will ever have to a father. They are the newest faces and they sit; their chairs back a little from the rest of the circle, as if not fully reconciled with the fact that something precious has been stolen from them.

Veteran members lead the way with stories of little sprigs of hope: laughing after a home run in kickball, making a wise crack about the school cafeteria’s mac and cheese. Veterans always seem shocked when a seed of contentment pokes its head through the maelstrom. But, hope is easily eradicated with guilt about levity. In their minds, having a light hearted moment might mean they have forgotten their loved ones or loved them less. They feel resigned to being sad all the time.

But inside the circle, they get reassurance, knowledge and power; so they might mend the path that was interrupted by death and get back to the business of a flourishing childhood. Graciela and Dakota are light years away from flourishing. Grief is still sharp, like a piercing cracked rib that robs them of stamina. Grief is their constant companion. It is all they can see ahead, behind, and next to them.

When it is Graciela’s turn to speak, she is barely above a whisper. Her head is down, her dark hair a cascading cloak hiding her features. She tells her name, nothing more. The circle waits patiently. Sometimes it can take up to 5 minutes before a child can speak further. Graciela doesn’t speak again on this Tuesday. But, eventually she will.

Dakota doesn’t speak either. He abruptly leaves before his turn, throws open the door and kicks over a garbage can in the hall. The circle hears the shrill clatter of metal on the linoleum. Sadly, there is nothing new here; just a boy who is flailing and lost, his anchor no longer in this world. In time, the circle will become his safe haven. It is the most difficult place but yet the most beautiful place he will ever have the courage to be.

When I Lived In....

I am trying very hard to live in the moment.

I read this Buddist tale once.  It went something like this.  The Buddha asked his students, "how long is a man's life?"  The first student answered, "From the day he is born until the day he dies?"  But the Buddha shook his head.  The second student answered "One month?"  But the Buddha shook his head.  The next student answered, "One day?"  But still the Buddha shook his head.  Finally, the most favorite student answered, "a man's life is as long as one breath."  And the Buddha smiled.

One breath.

In.

Out.

This moment.

This is my life.  That last breath I took?  That's the past.  It's over.  It can't be reached again.  It is not my life. My next breath?  That hasn't arrived.  In fact, there is no guarantee it will be taken at all.  It is not my life.  But this breath, the one filling my lungs right now, this is my life.  One deep lifetime.  It is all I have.  It is all I will every have.

And yet.....

And yet, I waste my life, my breath fretting about what I have done.  I waste my life, my breath, worrying about what will come.  I waste my life, my breath, by not living here.  Right now.

In.

Out.

Perhaps that is why, when we become upset, we are reminded to count to 10.  To catch our breath.  All that deep centering breathing in yoga class?  They may be onto something.  The intense focus you feel swimming through the water, measuring your breath, aware of each gulp of air or when you are running hard, each breath a steady pounding measured by some beat deep in bones, here you feel alive.  In labor, they taught me to breath.  How my breath could reassure my body, over ride the pain, focus myself on the immediate need of a new life.  How can I forget this?

And yet, I do.  How many lifetimes have I missed so far?  Oh look, there goes another breath spent worrying about the past. How many lifetimes have I squandered, twisting my way through worries that loom on the horizon?  How many more lifetimes can I waste until I realize that the best place I can be, the only place I should be, the one place I can be happy, is right here, deep in this breath?

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

When I live in my breath, I am truly alive.

It arrived on Tuesday

It arrived on Tuesday, in a big shiny green box.
The box was big and green and had many locks.
“What’s in the green box with all those locks?”
I went back inside to put on some socks.
“Could it be a squid? Or a new kitchen shelf?”
“or maybe a bearded katroo or a magical elf?”
I looked the box up and I looked the box down.
“How can I open the box?” I asked with a frown.
The locks were big iron things oh mercy me.
How would I open the box without a key?
I tried to pick the box up off the front stoop.
I fell backwards on my keester, thrown for a loop.
For what did I hear in side the box with locks?
A snuffling and snortling, giving me the shock of shocks.
“Its alive whatever it is.” I said to my wife inside the house.
“But whatever it is, its too big for a mouse.”
“Is it the snorgle you ordered? Or the polka dotted Cylox?”
“No, neither of those would need to be locked in a box!”
“Is there a return address on the green box with locks?”
“I just found it. Here it is, Its from down by the docks.”
“Well then its probably a benthic squid or your sharp tangaloo”
“Nah, I’m full up on squids but it might be my Katroo!!!”
“Don’t be silly” she said. “Katroos don’t come from the docks!”
“This one might, because Katroos boxes need locks!”
You see Katroos are clever prehensile and strong.
And sometimes they can be vicious so don’t order wrong!!!
I needed a crowbar for that big green locked box, or even better, a key.
Where was my tool chest? I went to go look and see.
“Did you look in the envelope on top of the locked box?”
“I hadn’t even considered it.” I said a loss.
“Silly man.” My wife said. “Locks always come with keys.”
“Go back out to that green locked box right now please.”
Sure enough under the plaid ribbon in the envelope was a key
“Look here it is!” I said with glee.
“Well open that green locked box so we can get it off the porch!”
“Right away, but just incase it’s a flargon, could you bring me my torch?”
“Its not a flargon, silly man. “they’re afraid of the dark.”
You don’t put them in a box, you find them in a park.
The lid came off the box, as easy as you please and what did I spy?
Nothing but a breeze.
The lid popped off and I could hear a snuffle, but knew what to do.
Because right then and there I knew it was my bearded Katroo!
“Bring me the flour!” I cried, “So we can watch where it goes!”
It made a bee line into the house and then to the back yard.
We could see its foot prints in the grass it wasn’t that hard.
Even though the katroo was invisible we could follow it with ease.
Its tracks in the grass corresponded with the breeze.
“It is my Katroo! It will finally eat those pesky brown largus!!!”
“We’ll have great roses this year then. For the contest in August.”

So if your roses are plagued by brown largus, green floopis or purple pru
You should definitely order yourself a clever, invisible, bearded katroo.

Wrtie about taking a nap

After lunch, my belly content and my body slowing down from its morning high of productiveness, I climb the stairs. My four-legged companion, used to this daily ritual, has beaten me to my bedroom. Cleo is a nap’s greatest champion. I find her curled on her side, against the pillows at the head of the bed. She does that weird dog thing where she snores with one eye open, warily watching my every move, waiting to see if I will make her budge. Sometimes I do. Today, I ignore the dog smell and the residual black fur as I slide into cool sheets. I find myself instantly relaxing, my jaw unclenching, shoulders going slack.

Thoughts amble through my mind, eventually growing hazy and vague. I am aware of the curtain gently stirring in the summer breeze, and the distant sounds of kids playing. My lightweight cotton blanket is the perfect amount of pressure on my legs. My pillow, lumpy from years of bunching, is cradling my head. Cleo has now transitioned into slow rhythmic breathing that is sustaining and soothing. How could I not drift off to sleep with her accompaniment?

One final twitch before my body succumbs to sleep, leaving that disorienting phase between awake and unaware. Ah, bliss. And then……..the damn phone rings, piercing the peace. I jerk upright, my heart pounding. I am sure that it will explode out of my chest only to flop about the floor twitching and quivering. I inadvertently send Cleo crashing to the ground with a pitiful yelp. Gasping, I reach for the phone, answering it with a shaky breath.

“Hi Ma’am. This is AT & T calling to let you know about some wonderful new long distance plans you might be interested in.” I sigh and politely decline. I settle back down into my smooth sheets. Cleo has apparently forgiven me and jumps up, but opts for the foot of the bed, giving me a pointed look. Even as my heart rate slows down from its superhuman level, I know it is hopeless. My nap mode had been destroyed, not to be found again……until tomorrow.

Lighting the First Lamps

Lighting the first lamps was my favorite part of the evening.  Soon the nave would be filled with the sweet smell of incense and the sound of choir voices lifted in song.  Penitents would bend and scrap before the alter with their heads bowed low and the shuffle of sandaled  feet would rasp beneath it all.  But right now, I had the church to myself.  Silently, reverently, I awoke the chapel.  One at a time, I touched my flame to the wick and watched the gentle light spread and take life.  There were one hundred and fifty four candles through out the chapel.  It would take me the better part of an hour to trim and light each wick.  I did not begrudge this time I spent.  It was my meditation.  My place of prayer.  My moment before God, alone in His house, with His ear bent to my lips.  Sometimes I recited my favorite Psalm.  Other times my thoughts were a litany of pleas for healing for parishners, blessings for my brothers, requests for guidance.   Tonight, my mind was at peace and my soul rejoiced in His majesty and my heart sang His praises.  I had to have everything set for the evening call  to pray.  There, the last candle had fluttered to life.  Before I extinguished my candle, I paused on the alter steps and looked about me.  Shadows danced across the stained glass and across the alter.  I could almost hear the hum of the flame.  Satisfied that all was prepared, I blew out my candle and walked slowly down the aisle.  I took comfort in the fact that His eye followed me and I thought, just for a moment, that I felt His approval as I opened the church doors to welcome those who would seek Him tonight.

The place where wild pines grow

High up, in the dusty air. Living under the curl of the milky way by night and the dry orange light of the sun by day. Their feet rest in the smell of twigs, the bustle of beetles and the prick of their own cast off needles. About their tops crows bob and weave at chittering squirrels who have approached too close to a nest. Pollen and gossimer waft through the short upper branches.

The man sits at the base of one of the larger trunks in his ripped and faded red plaid shirt trying for one second to forget the hunger, the thirst. The abject weariness. Trying to appreciate this scene around him because he knows it won't last.

A pop from high up starts him, the grime on his neck chaffing between skin and collar as he looks up. Too tired for even a slight boost of adrenaline he watches as a pinecone drops and hits another branch below. Another soft pop.

He closes his eyes, one hand fumbling through a heavy coat that lays nearby. His fingers brush past empty mylar wrappers. He'd done this action at least a half a dozen times in the last ten minutes, hoping there would be something to eat this time, knowing he'd have to wait at least another half a day at least.

His canteen doesn't betray him at least. He takes a few modest sips at first. The way he was trained. He swishes the metallic tasting water around enjoying this all to brief respite.

The sunlight dims noticeably, then brightens and with that he knows he has to get up again. His arms, legs, back, neck, every connection, every fibre shouts when he stands.

In the far distance the puffy white clouds bring a smile. Those hadn't been there this morning. This were looking up. This hill may be lost but the next one may be saved.

He looks at the many fronts, the snaking creeks of flame in the valley below him swirling in eager anticipation of their next meal. There is something new, he can tell that there is an apprehension to the fire. The winds have changed. The breeze is behind him as well as the rain.

Grabbing his coat and shovel he is the first of the crew to rise. He makes his way down the hill picturing which stumps and bushes need to go. Which of the wild pines can be saved.

Across the railroad tracks

“I told you it was hideous. I love that look of horror on your face. It was worth the two hour trip just to see it. You want to jump in the car and race back to Chicago, right? Get back to civilization, great dining, and culture.

There aren’t even stoplights in Le Roy. None are needed. Only 682 unfortunate souls call this place home. It’s not quaint. There are no bed and breakfasts tucked inside gingerbread houses or cozy wine tasting rooms soothing with jazz. However, the 7 Eleven is open 24 hours and is well stocked with Pabst Blue Ribbon, petrified corn dogs and Frito Lay chips. One dark, dank bar is at the corner of Highway 150 and Route 47, the main drags in town. There you’ll find shag carpet on the walls, a sticky floor and worn out booths. Russ, the owner is usually behind the counter, plying the town’s pathetic with booze, starting at 11:00 every morning.

I heard this town used to be booming. The grain elevator buzzed with activity. Farmers were well to do and full of community spirit. The grange hall was the place to be for dancing on a Saturday night. Downtown had three clothing stores, a bank, and a family run market where you could put groceries on your tab. Charming, yes?

Yea, I know. You are asking yourself how I escaped this hellhole. Most of my classmates got pregnant. Some became waitresses at the Denny’s on I-74. You’ll still find “boys” from my class working in the fields, barely scraping by, their bodies physically broken, screaming for rest.

See where I am pointing? Across the railroad tracks? That dilapidated house with the peeling gray paint was my childhood home. It looks about the same; maybe a little worse now, but not much. It was never a looker. The whole place used to shake and the lights would blink when a freight train roared by, making its way out West. I would sit at my bedroom window watching it with envy as it chugged by. I would wonder where it was going, what it was carrying, who would be meeting it to unload its hidden cargo. I wanted out because even in little Le Roy, we were considered trash. Our yard was barren and cracked. We had 3 rusted nonworking cars on the side of the place and slew of uninvited cats. People talked about us. They crossed the street when my mother and I walked by, our heads down to avoid eye contact and questions. We were never a part of them.

But that house is my salvation. It is why I escaped. What went on in that house crept up on me at first, like an odorless gas. I wasn’t looking. My mind was off on the topic of boys who would never date me and how to curl my hair like Cindy Crawford. But, that one night, I had no choice. I had to look the monster square in the face. And I knew the time was now. I wasn’t ready to go, but I had to. Otherwise, I might never get out. I’d be resigned to living my mother’s life, God rest her poor soul. And that fate wasn’t good enough for me.”

There Is A Place Somewhere Called Paris

She always saw herself in Paris.  The daydream had run through her mind so many times it had became part of her history.  It was a piece that made her who she was.  In her mind, she strolled down the Champs Elysee in late spring.  Surrounded by bobbing daffodils, she would break into a twirl of joy.  Grinning, she would spin about, her skirt floating above her knees, a hand pressing firmly on her beret to keep it upon her head.  Her shirt would vary.  Some days it would have a bold white and navy strip pattern with the collar erect.  Other days, it would be of beige military design.  Always she wore white sneakers without socks.  No socks were as important as the beret.  Socks were inconceivable in France.  Any sighting of a sock would knock her out of her ritual day dream and back into reality.  In the here and now, there were plenty of socks.  Socks to wash and sort.  Socks to tuck into draws and pick up off of floors.  Socks spilling out of shoes and carelessly dropped onto kitchen counters.  No, in her Paris, there were no socks.

While the world sleeps

I love the isolation of a black night. I feel invincible as I wander, creep, slink into the shadows, and duck out of the rare car’s illumination. There is something so powerful about being alert while the rest of the world is vulnerable and asleep. People, utterly defenseless, slumber away, thinking they are safely ensconced in their homes and beds. I prowl neighborhoods and break out in goose bumps when I see a cracked window, or better yet, try a random back door and find it unlocked. It is like being bestowed with a fine gift, so unexpected and yet so exhilarating.

Not to fear. I don’t really do anything indefensible during my nocturnal visits. I suppose if you awoke, you would scream bloody murder, maybe throw your lamp at me and try to grab the phone lying next to your bed. I would give you a good scare.

I don’t go on my jaunts to harm, only to challenge myself to drift in and out of others’ lives undetected. To enter a bedroom with its oblivious occupants, to hear their heavy breathing, to see them curled in the fetal position off in another world, gives me great pleasure. I have won. I have entered their private domains and have stood over them in their most helpless state. The moment is mine. I have the control to do anything. To me, there is no greater accomplishment.

But when daylight arrives, everything is transformed. The sunshine washes us in comforting warmth, erasing the anxieties and fears that arise late at night. All of our lives are on display, with us engineering what we want others to see. People are not real during the day. They are each playing a role. It is only at night when their true selves are allowed to come out and play without the constraints of self-made images. And that’s when they’ll find me, waiting for a chance to meet.

Write About A Black Dress

Every girl needs a Little Black Dress.  It's a wardrobe staple.  Stylists will drone on and on about how you can dress it up for the office and then switch up your accessories for after work.  Every store stocks the LBD.  Oddly enough, most are short, ending anywhere from upper thigh to mid calf.  The LBD I needed was much harder to find.  It had to reach my ankles.  It needed to be loose fitting.  Long sleeves where also desired.  Most LBDs just didn't fit the bill.  For you see, my LBD would not be worn to the office or cocktail parties.   My LBD would be worn by a witch.

Yes, I suppose it is a bit of a stereotype.  But we witches are big on tradition and so black dresses are simply required.  I had spent the last two months looking for the perfect LBD and was getting nervous.  My first meeting of the SW Oregon Coven (Suburban Chapter) was only two weeks away and I had found nothing.  I was tempted to call Trina, my trainer, and ask for help but I balked.  This was a simple task.  I could call the moon's strength and hear whispers on the wind, surely I could locate one simple piece of clothing!  My roommate, Kat, came to my rescue.  I concocted a story about a boy and a first date.  She was more than happy to take me on a whirlwind shopping spree that spread over three counties and five malls.  She didn't exactly support my decision to purchase such a voluminous garment and to appease her I also picked up a hot red skirt that she claimed could be paired with anything.  I had no idea where or when I could wear it but it was easier to fork out the $59.99 than to try and argue.

When the night of the gathering arrived, I found myself standing in front of my mirror examining my ensemble.  The dress was perfect.  Long and dark with a full skirt that twirled beautifully.  I had slipped on my favorite pair of black leather Mary Janes and my mother's pendant.  The effect was perfect.  Sam sat next to me on the bed and watched my primping.  I wasn't sure but I thought I saw a gleam of approval in his feline eyes.  Sam had found me on my sixteenth birthday.  It was the day my mother died and I inherited her gift.  For the last four years, he had turned up on my bed every night.  While my outfit may have been vintage witch, Sam was not.  He was not black.  Instead, he was a beautiful white Persian with true blue eyes.  He had a very bad habit of leaving long white hair all over my bed and shredding my curtains but I didn't mind.  Trina believed my mother had sent him to watch over me.  I don't know if I believed that or not but sometimes, late a night, the idea gave me comfort when little else could.

"So Sam, do you think I'm ready for this?" I asked him without turning from the mirror.  Sam paused in his grooming and blinked at me three times.  Then he silently jumped off my bed and headed out my bedroom door.  With a deep breath and a last look in the mirror, I followed him out of my room and into the night.

Alone In Her Room

I stood, one last time, alone in my room.  My desk, made by my father, sat along one wall.  Across from it were the bunk beds I had slept in since childhood.  My sister and I spent many long nights whispering secrets between ourselves.  I smiled as I saw myself jumping off the top bunk onto a pile of pillows below.  How we never broke anything was a mystery.  My walls looked bare without my pictures.  I had packed all my photos of friends and memories carefully.  My closet was half empty.  Mostly lonely hangers and the odds pieces of clothing that didn't make the cut.  This had been home for 18 years.  I knew the way the windows rattled during a storm, how the headlights from passing cars swept the room and made shadows dance on the walls, the way to turn the door knob so it wouldn't squeak and wake my parents.  I knew the room wasn't going anywhere; I was.  It would be waiting for me, ready to welcome me home for Christmas break and the long summer months.  But as I stood there, that last morning, it changed from the place where I live to the place I had lived.  Just like that.

I grabbed by last bag and turned to walk out.  I paused at the light switch.  Above it hung a cross stitch of a fawn with the dates of my birth swirling around her that my mother had stitched.  I had walked past this picture countless times but on this last day, it caught my eye as if for the first time.  In that moment, I lived the definition of bittersweet.  One foot eager to head to college, meet an unseen roommate, and embark on the next phase of my life.  But my other foot dragged behind, unsettled at leaving my well worn desk and sturdy bed.  But the hesitation was merely momentary and with a quick flick of the wrist, I hit the switch, picked up that last lingering foot, and walked away from my home for the first time.