Mrs. Brown

This is a very very rough draft of a short story I wrote for class. Let me know what you think.

Mrs. Brown

To Abby’s ears the doorbell chime sounded more like a bridal march than a typical ding dong. She heard her mother open the door to let him in and Abby had to fight the urge to jump up and down squealing, “Zack’s in my house!!” She promised that would come later, when Zack had left and she was on the phone with her best friend.

Abby knew she had found everything she could ever want the day Zack walked into her homeroom half way through freshman year. Abby thought he was the reincarnation of Cinderella’s Prince Charming with his eyes the color of Hershey’s milk chocolate kisses and his dark hair. For almost two and half years, her life goal had been to move their relationship past the point of polite conversation. All her attempts had failed so far. He wasn’t interested when she tried to be silly and playful or studious and somber. He didn’t seem to notice whether she played the badass or the angel. Her cheerleading uniform didn’t even work. Abby couldn’t figure out who Zack wanted her to be and his eclectic list of ex-girlfriends didn’t help.

She settled all remaining hope and positive thinking on tonight. She never imagined her fairy godmother would come in the form of Mr. Holcombe but she was certain he had assigned Zack as her partner for the history presentation so she could make her move. Her house was the only place where she felt free to just be Abby. There was nothing to steal his attention away and they had a week to work on the project, which meant seven days of concentrated Abby and Zack time.

Her mom called out the she had company and Abby checked herself out in her vanity mirror on last time. She had pulled her honey colored hair into a high pony tail, allowing loose curls to sweetly frame her heart shaped face. She hadn’t bothered with blush because her excitement infused her skin with a healthy glow. She did add mascara to her invisible lashes so they would bring attention to her lagoon blue eyes. Abby knew better than to use eye shadow, something she only got away with on game nights, so she settled on dabbing a little pale pink lip gloss.

She glided down the hall and into the living room. She stood far enough away from Zack that he could get the full effect of her athletic legs in her too short for school jean shorts paired with her formfitting white t-shirt. Abby caught her mom’s eyebrow raise at the shorts but no comment was made about them. She knew the lecture would come later but that she could handle as long as she wasn’t embarrassed in front of Zack.

Zack, who at this moment stood in her house and stared at her in confusion. “You changed?”

Abby panicked that her wardrobe change had given too much away. She tried to cover it up by explaining, “The house is so hot in April . . . I always change into lighter clothes when I get home . . . and classrooms are kept so cold . . . have to dress warmly for school . . . Have you met my mom?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brown introduced herself when she let me in.” He looked to wards her mom as he spoke but Abby noticed the smile playing at the corners of his mouth and knew somewhere inside he was laughing at her.

Abby was too caught in the agony of her humiliation to speak so her mom took over the conversation. “Will, Zack it was nice meeting you.” She settled herself on the couch. “I’ll just be reading here, while you kids work on your project over there.” Her mom pointed to the dining table only feet away in a small corner of the large open room that held the kitchen, dining area and living space. Then she picked up her romance novel and pretended to ignore them.

In all of Abby’s daydreams about this evening she never envisioned them sharing a room with her mom as she read Beyond a Wicked Kiss and Zack laughed at her. Completely disillusioned, Abby forced on her brightest game night smile as Zack pulled a chair out for her. He caught her eye as he sat down next to her and gave her a wink. Just like that her world went all unicorns and rainbows again.

Zack’s textbook clapped against the table top as he let it fall open and began to aimlessly flip pages. “Sooo the Berlin Wall . . . didn’t Hasselhoff perform there or something?”

“Um yeah, he sung at the fall of it.” Abby melted at the confused look on his face. Her confidence lifted at this chance to prove her usefulness. “I started taking notes as soon as Mr. Holcombe assigned out topic.” She reached over to Zack’s back and turned it to the right section.

“Uh, thanks.” His eyes skimmed over the page and then turned back to Abby. “So what have you learned so far?”

Abby pulled out her notes and moved closer to Zack so they could both view the pages between them. Then she recited all the information she had gathered. Occasionally her left arm would brush against his right one and Abby would get a thrill from the feel of his warmth and nearness. When she had exhausted the textbook’s knowledge, Abby brought her laptop to the table so they could research. Well, Abby researched, while Zack spectated. Sometimes she caught him not paying attention. She didn’t mind because it gave her an excuse to touch him. She’d bump his elbow with hers or tap her fingers on his arm and one time she shoved the upper half of the left side of her body into his.

“Sorry. I guess the Berlin Wall isn’t my thing.” Zack softened her with his please-don’t-beat-me puppy eyes.

“No, I get it. But we have to do it,” Abby empathized. Sighing, Zack nodded and glanced at his watch. He started to speak and her whole body tensed knowing he was going to leave but he was cut off by the bang of the garage door hitting the hallway wall. Between the anxiety Zack caused her and the abrupt noise coming right behind her, Abby couldn’t keep in her shriek as she simultaneously turned and jumped to her feet, which toppled her chair over with another loud bang.

She watched her little sister rush towards her as her mom yelled, “Lorelei and Abigail! Have y’all lost your minds?!” The commotion had pulled her away from all the wicked kissing in her book.

Lore stopped in front of Abby. She had the bottom of her shirt pulled up in a makeshift pouch. “I need you to take them.” She held out the shirt so Abby could see the squirming mass of shiny pink inside. Abby jumped back and hid her hands behind her back.

“No way am I touching that!”

“They’re baby opossums and you have to.” Lore tried to approach Abby once more but she skittered to the other side of the table.

“Here. I’ll take ‘em” Zack offered, holding out his shirt the same way Lore did.

Caught up in her own disgust, Abby had forgotten that Zack was there witnessing her family’s oddness. Now all she could do was pray that someplace existed where she could apply for a new family as Lore dumped the tiny monsters into Zack’s shirt. Abby felt nauseous from watching Lore put her hands over Zack’s and pushed them into his abdomen, closing the pouch. She then ordered him to keep them warm and ran down the hall to her room.

Abby knew she needed to do damage control before Lore returned so she forced herself to move back around the table and picked up her neglected chair. “I’m sorry about my sister. She’s uh passionate about animals.” Zack gingerly sat down as she spoke and she returned to her seat.

“No problem. I think it’s sweet.” He smiled at her and cradled the wriggling bulk in his hands. She thought she would be relieved by his acceptance of the situation but instead she felt more nervous.

Rattles, clangs, and thuds kept coming from Lore’s room. “She’s probably searching for her orphaned animal kit.”

“She had an orphaned animal kit? Can you buy those at a store?” Zack questioned with mirth in his voice. She could only hope his humor wasn’t at her expense.

“No, Lore put it together herself. She’s been rescuing baby animals for years so she eventually created a kit to make things easier.”

Her explanation brought a soft smile to Zack’s lips. Abby’s stomach twisted painfully. Before she could analyze what was wrong with her. Lover came back with a plastic container. Standing at Zack’s other side; she made a home for the opossums out of a small tin can and a bit of cloth, which she places on a heating pad for warmth.

“You’re not worried about roasting the little guys?” Zack asked as Lore put her hand into his shirt and fished out one of the opossums.

“Of course, that’s why I constantly check the temperature.” Lore spoke as if she was talking to a four year old. Abby buried her face in her hands but Zack responded, “Ah, smart.”

The three remained silent-Lore in concentration, Zack in fascination, and Abby in horror- as Lore collected each opossum from Zack’s shirt, administered fluids, and then tucked it into the tine can. When the ordeal ended, Lore carried her new patients into her room and shut the door without a backward glance or thanks or good bye to either of them. Abby couldn’t even be certain that Lore knew Zack’s name.

She looked towards him to gauge his reaction to Lore’s rudeness and found him chuckling to himself and shaking his head. When he noticed her watching him, he stood and began to collect his things. “I guess I better get going.”

Oh right, you can leave now that the freak show is over. “Yeah, it’s getting late,” Abby mumbled and organized her own papers and books, no longer about to look at him.

“See ya at school. Nice meeting you, Mrs. Brown.” And then Zack was gone.




Abby figured Zack would never speak to her again. He would most likely avoid her as if her family’s level of crazy was contagious. She wondered if it was possible to give a group presentation with the other member of the group standing on the opposite side of the room. Mostly, she worried that Zack would tell everyone else at school about her weirdo little sister. So when Zack stopped her in class the next day with the offer to drive her home so they could work on the presentation, she almost fainted from relief. She feared that if she spoke she would jinx everything so she accepted with a smile and a nod.

Overwhelmed by the mixture of relief, joy, gratefulness, and excitement, Abby remained silent for most of the trip home. Zack filled the silence by flipping through radio stations. Somehow he landed on an oldies station right as Herman’s Hermits began to sing, “Mrs. Brown, you’ve got a lovely daughter.” Abby recognized it immediately and blushed.

“You know this song,” Zack half-asked, half-accused.

“My grandma and aunt have sung it to me for as long as I can remember. Please, feel free to turn it.”

“Why? I think it might be my new favorite.” Zack turned it up a little bit. “These guys get me.”

Abby’s inner cheerleader did hands free back flips. Surely, this was the moment that Prince Charming would declare his undying devotion to her. Zack bobbed his head to the music. Well, maybe after the song ended, he would tell her that he likes her. Nope, now he’s flipping stations again. Abby began to consider that this time Cinderella might have to make the first move, when Zack finally opened his mouth to speak.

“Why doesn’t Lore go to our school?”

The abrupt change of topic angered Abby. She had been on the verge of unloading two and a half years of secret longing and he wanted to talk about her sister.

“She’s still in the 8th grade.”

“How old is she?!”

“14. She failed Kindergarten the first time.”

Her explanation wasn’t completely true. Their mom had kept Lore back a year because of difficulties with her speech. Abby had dealt with similar speech problems but at a lesser degree. For reasons she didn’t care to explore, Abby kept these details to herself.

“When does she turn 15?”

“In June.”

Abby hadn’t realized how tense Zack was until she watched him relax at her answer. “Who cares about Kindergarten anyway?” Zack smirked at her.

Abby was furious and she couldn’t figure out why. In the past, she had broken up with boys for being mean to her little sister. Shouldn’t she be happy that Zack was so accepting of Lore? But she wasn’t happy instead she felt violent. Zack pulled up the gravel driveway to her house and she jumped out the truck before it was in park. She needed space and time to sort out her feelings. It angered her that Zack followed her into the house to do homework. Stupid presentation. Stupid Mr. Holcombe. Stupid boys. Stupid little sister. Abby slammed her book bag on the kitchen table and began rifling through it.

“Did I do something wrong?” Zack looked so bewildered that Abby forced herself to calm down. Good job proving to him that the crazy in your family is contagious.

“No. Sorry. Just something else on my mind.” Abby made herself sit at the table and gather her history notes.

“Okay.” Zack perched on his chair and studied her movements.

She laughed. “Seriously, I’m fine.” Then she buried her anger beneath their school work. Everything went smoothly for the first hour but then Lore came home. Zack had to ask her about the opossums, which Lore was eager to talk about. She even brought them into the dining room so Zack could help her feed them. Fortunately for Abby’s blood pressure, the opossums only needed so much attention. Then Lore was putting them away and heading out the door probably to find more orphaned animals.

As soon as she left, Zack commented that he needed to head home and packed up his things. Abby’s anger made her restless so she followed him out the door. They both stopped to watch Lore’s short frame stretching and jumping to try to reach a branch that was a good four feet about her. Lore still when she noticed them.

“Hey, you. Lift me up so I can see into this bird’s nest.”

“His name is Zack.”

“Yeah, Zack. Help me.” Like every other animal, Zack obeyed Lore. The urge to kill returned to Abby as she watched Lore climb on to his shoulders. It took less than a minute for Lore to check on the chicks and then find her way back down, which was good since Abby couldn’t breathe while her sister’s thighs were so close to Zack’s head.

It was when Lore’s feet touched the ground that Abby’s life stopped. All her dreams came crashing down. And she realized she wasn’t a princess. Because that’s when her Prince Charming kissed Lore. Right in front of Abby as if she wasn’t there or worse as if she didn’t matter. The violence in Abby was reaching for something to throw at them, when Lore broke away and put all her weight behind a blow aimed for his mouth. “I didn’t ask you to kiss me!” She yelled over her shoulder as she stormed into the house.

Zack touched his bloodied lip and looked at Abby in disbelief. “Your little sister is psycho.” And that’s what made Abby snap. She grabbed up handfuls of gravel and launched them at his head. “Don’t talk about my sister!”

“You’re both psycho!” Zack yelled back as he ran for truck, ducking under the rain of the rocks and dirt that Abby kept tossing at him. Abby could barely make out Lore’s giggle over the roar of Zack’s truck racing out of the drive way. She turned toward her little sister.

“Come on, Sissy. It’s time for dinner,” Lore said, holding out her hand. Abby took it and Mrs. Brown’s daughters sauntered back into their home.

Let me do my one, two step

Step 1 - Location, Location, Location.

I have spent the week narrowing down where I want to live in Britain.

First, I researched the safest and most dangerous places to live in England, which is how this map came about:

Key: Green=safe and red=dangerous

Then I looked up the location of publishing houses and advertising agencies (where I hope to work one day). Of course that lead to the creation of another map:

Key: I think red symbolizes the publishing houses and yellow symbolizes the advertising agencies but I don't remember exactly . . .

It doesn't really matter because after I put the two maps together - like so:

I discovered that

a. I know oh so little about British geography,

b. I am not a cartographer,

and c. the counties of Kent, Suffolk, Essex and Norfolk (roughly the big green circle) are safe places to live and house publishing houses and advertising agencies.

Once I had these four counties selected, I searched for places to live in these areas. In each county, I found loads of flats and houses that offer a room to rent with prices comparable to what I pay now (many of them included utilities)! Yes, this does mean that I will be sharing a living space with complete strangers. While this idea would bother me if I was looking in the U.S., I find it oddly comforting in the context of Britain. I believe I will have a better chance of making it with other people (especially locals) than on my own. I know absolutely no one across the pond and I am certain to need guidance along the way.

All and all I think it was a very productive week. Granted, I still only have a vague idea of where I plan to settle but that will become clearer other the next 15 months as I search for employment. The important thing is that this whole adventure just became a little more possible.

Now what was step 2 again?

12 Steps to a Better Life

Now to explain the relevance of my previous rambling post about travel and Britain. I have decided to move to England in August 2012. I know it is completely insane and that I am most likely setting myself to fail horribly in a foreign country far away from the people who love me but I have to try. I am terrified of my decision but I am also scared of graduating. In this time of economic crisis, my future is just as uncertain here at home as it would be in England. I am majoring in creative writing. My dream, my passion is to be a novelist. I have chosen a career path that completely depends on strangers' believing in me. If I am going to fail, then I would rather do it in England so at least one of my dreams would have come true. And if I succeed, how much sweeter would that success be in a place I hold so dear. I realize that I am romanticizing a country I know little about and that I will most likely be greatly disillusioned when I get there but I must discover these things for myself. If I never go to England, it will always be this magical fairyland in my head so isn't better that I learn the truth? I must go.

To make this happen I have developed a multi-step plan.

Step 1 - Figure out where the feck I am going to live in England (pretty important). I know I do not want to live in London because the cost of living is too expensive and also because I am simply not a big city girl. I hope to find employment at an advertising firm or a publishing house. Therefore, the first step involves researching regions that offer an affordable safe place to live and that contain an advertising firm or publishing house.

Step 2 - Price flats in the region I am going to live, price airplane tickets, and figure out how much this adventure is going to cost me.

Step 3 - Sell a kidney and do whatever else it takes to afford to move to England.

Step 4 - Make sure my passport hasn't expired and figure out how to get a work visa.

Step 5 - Write, write, and write some more. Try to get as much of my work published in the next 15 months as possible.

Step 6 - Exercise, diet, and otherwise do what I can to lose weight (perhaps it's not essential to my survival in England but I want to look as hot as possible).

Step 7 - Get an internship for Spring 2012.

Step 8 - Try to develop contacts at the businesses where I want to work in England.

Step 9 - Apply to jobs in England and try to arrange to have a place to live waiting on me.

Step 10 - Figure out if it would be more stressful for my anxiety filled dog to be left behind (with a loving person to care for her) or to fly with me to England.

Step 11 - Decide what I'm taking with me, what I'm having shipped to me later, what I can sell, and what to do with everything else that I own.

Step 12 - Kiss my mama goodbye and fly away.

My 12 Step plan is still a work in progress. I will most likely add more steps as this journey progresses and the order of my steps will get switch around. Still this is what I will be working towards for the next 15 months and I will definitely keep posting as I move forward.

My plan, humor, and romanticized prose is hiding the fact that I am oh so scared of the path I have chosen so please feel free to comment with advice, encouragement, even criticism (I am hard headed and nothing makes me more determined to do something than being told that I can't do it). Also, should a British reader stumble across my little blog, I accept any and all mockery of my ignorant American beliefs but I do ask that with your mockery you will include tips on places to live and work and any other knowledge I will need to make it in England. Thank you.

Dream Big

I graduate from college in a year (very scary) and my apartment lease will be up a few months after. My roommate and I have agreed that it would be for the best if we go our separate ways at that time (not so much the end of the friendship, more like the end of us living together for the sake of our friendship). All of these changes have led me to come up with a pretty insane plan but, before I explain my plan, I must tell you my dream.

I love to travel. I believe this world is too vast and wondrous for you to spend your entire life in your hometown. Personally, I want to experience EVERYTHING this world has to offer. I want to wander down every path and then create my own. Still, there has always been one place in particular in which I have always longed to lose and to find myself.

For those of you who are not anglophiles like myself, this a map of Britain and Britain is where I have always wanted to be.

"Why Britain" is a bit difficult to put into words. For as long as I can remember, I felt drawn to Britain. It is a strange thing to yearn for a country you have never called home. Still I cannot deny feeling as if my life cannot begin until I get to Britain. Perhaps it can be explained by the recent discovery that my ancestors hale from England, Wales, Ireland, and Scotland. Not that the discovery itself made me interested in Britain-my fascination began long before this information came to light-but maybe the homeland calls to me. Or it could simply be the literary nut in me; the one who cannot get enough of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Spencer, etc. Or maybe it is my sensibilities as a writer, which makes me pursue a country so bursting with history that the very bricks and stones must sing about the adventures they have witnessed. Whatever the reason-be it all of these or none of them-the fact is that I have spent a good part of my life feeling like a misfit, like no one understood me, and somewhere along the way I came to the (possibly foolish) conclusion that Britain is where I will find my fit.

Which leads to the plan and my next post . . .

To Bring Oneself to Accept

This is my final assignment for my Narrative Techniques class. I was required to build on at least one of the short writing assignments I had turned in. This it was I came out of me. It was difficult for me to write and even more difficult to post. It's so close to reality that I wanted to stop writing every other paragraph but I pushed through. I've twisted the facts enough that I'm afraid of how the people who know the truth will react to it. If I have to post it, then today's the perfect day to do it. Still while this is based on real events, it is fiction. I never intended to tell the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To Bring Oneself to Accept

I watched the sunrise through the windshield of my car. I couldn’t see the water from where I the car sat but I had a perfect view of the sunlight hitting the sand. The beach was aflame with reds, oranges, and yellows. While I appreciated the beauty of the moment, I didn’t appreciate having to rise so early to catch it. I wouldn’t have crawled out of bed at o’dark thirty and driven the three hours it takes to get to Tybee Island, if it wasn’t for my dad. This part of the day belonged to him not me.

I came looking for my father, even though I knew he wouldn’t be there. I needed to feel connected to him. I needed to find somewhere that felt natural to talk to him. Some place that felt right when I told him goodbye. The beach should be crawling with memories of him.

I forced myself to get out of the car and headed to the water front. The winter wind had chased all the tourists away. Except for a handful of fisherman and some seagulls, I was alone. I looked for a solitary ghost hovering over the sand but he wasn’t there. I waited to feel some sort of presence with me but all I felt was alone. To my disappointment there weren’t even memories to haunt me.

Directionless I wondered over to the weatherworn dock and followed the planks all the way to the end of the dock, where I gazed out over the Atlantic. At the horizon, I found it impossible to tell where the sea ended and the sky began. This bothered me. My eyes couldn’t separate heaven from earth, though I tried. I lost time trying.

From somewhere out of the gray, a memory finally found me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a shiny happy moment from a family vacation. Instead, I sat in an uncomfortable chalky blue arm chair at my father’s bedside. The a/c had turned the tiny hospital room into an icebox despite the August heat wave outside. I knew it would be hellish when I returned to my airless car that had spent all day in the cement parking garage that might as well be an oven but I couldn’t complain. I had volunteered to do this.

By some miracle, I had my Dad all to myself today. Ever since his health had become so complicated that he was constantly being hospitalized, family and friends were ever present. Yet somehow they all had business they could not get of out. Even my step-mother was unavailable. So I was spending the day assisting dad in anyway I could, which mostly involved entertaining him.

He kept reminiscing about when I was a little girl. They were warm little anecdotes that I could barely remember. At the end of one, he gave me a wistful look and said, “You used to go everywhere with me, Nutmeg.” His words immediately filled me with bitterness. They implied that it was my choice. As if at eight years old, I decided I no longer wanted to spend time with him. I wanted to shout at him that he had left me. He stopped coming to get me. But he seemed so abnormally fragile lying in that hospital bed. I was too much like my mom to yell at a dying man, especially a dying man that I loved. Instead we both turned to the TV as so many unspoken words whirled around us.


It was strange hanging around a funeral home with only a handful of people around me. I had never before been close enough to the deceased to participate in the pre-visitation setup or the close family only time with the body. It struck me then, while standing in the mostly enclosed room with my father’s body, how odd it is that we spend hours gathered around a corpse dressed in suit. I approached the coffin and stared at the body. The sharp angles of his face were foreign to me and his nose was much too prominent. When my sister, Bea, came to stand beside, I had to comment, “He doesn’t look like Dad.”

“Meg, he stopped looking like Dad months ago.” I only nodded in agreement. Fucking cancer.

A tearing sound from the outer sitting area alerted us to the fact that our step-mother was no longer in the room with us. Bea and I rushed out the door already knowing what the sound meant. Our step-mother had discovered the photos from Mom and Dad’s wedding that we had included in the memory collage we made. Sure enough, our step-mother was ripping them off the poster board. As soon as she saw us, she began her defense.

“Your father and I discussed this. I know after all this time I should be okay with it but I’m not. I knew if you put picture like this up I wouldn’t be able to take it and he said I didn’t have to.”

Of course, she would base her argument on a conversation that no one knew for sure if it really took place to not. I considered stooping to her level and claiming that Dad told me I could put those pictures up but I knew it was possible that she was telling the truth. Dad typically said whatever necessary to placate his wife without any regard to how it affected his children.

“Give me the pictures back.” Since she hesitated, I added, “I’m not going to put them up. I just need them back.” She finally handed the pictures over. “You know I really don’t understand. You won. He left Mom for you. So then why does it bother you that Mom had him first?”

“Because for all those years Dad was screwing Mom at the same time he was screwing her.” I grimaced at Bea’s choice of words. She was eluding the decade and a half long affair Dad and our step-mother had before he finally left Mom for her. As our step-mother stormed off, I turned on Bea. “Seriously?! You just made Mom sound cheap and easy.”

Bea shrugged her shoulders. “She knew what I meant.” All I could do was shake my head.


Everyone behaved themselves at the funeral. A blessing after all the tension between Bea and our step-mother during the visitation. There had been another heated confrontation at the very beginning of that evening, which left everyone on edge. After that they stayed mostly separated with Bea bunkered down in the outer room and our step-mother keeping to the room with Dad’s body.

It surprised me how subdued my step-mother was during the funeral. I had been expecting a huge scene. All the times Dad had been rushed to the hospital or had to have an emergency surgery, she always fell apart and announced that she would kill herself if he died. Yet now my step-mother was calm and collected. Only shedding a few tears. I puzzled over this until a cousin explained that she had slipped my step-mother a valium that morning. Nice. Without a dramatic production from my step-mother to distract me, I was all too focused on my own discomfort. I felt like I was on display and everyone expected me to fall apart at any second. I hated crying in public. With everyone watching me, I found it impossible so I was sure they all thought I was a cold-hearted bitch. Anyway I had spent the last two years mourning over my father. I didn’t know if I had any tears left.

As Bea and I made our way from Dad’s graves side to the car waiting for us, we overheard Mom inviting our step-mother to our house for dinner. Of course, everyone planned to head to Mom’s house after the funeral. Her house was the closest to the cemetery. Plus, most of the people on Dad’s side of the family preferred Mom over our step-mother. Still, did she have to invite our step-mother? Yes, because she’s Mom.

“Mom’s a saint,” I said in response the angry look Bea shot me.

“Or a masochist.”

“Maybe they’re the same?” My suggestion earned a smirk from Bea.


The house was filled with people and food, when what I really needed was solitude. I still longed to feel some kind of connection toward Dad. There were so many things that needed to be said. He didn’t show up at the funeral home or the cemetery. I serious doubt I would find him in my bedroom but at least there I could strategize my next move.

I planned to grab some Wifesaver chicken-the quintessential funeral food that Bea and I refused to eat unless someone had died-and disappear upstairs. I managed to fill my plate and had almost made it to the stairs, when I heard my step-mother calling “Nutmeg.” Oh, she had better be high. I had no idea if my step-mother was better or worse drugged but I didn’t care to find out. Anyway I didn’t know how long valium worked. The drug could stop being effective at any second. I considered pretending like I hadn’t heard her but I was afraid she would follow me upstairs so I surrendered.

I could tell she meant to hug me but the plate in one hand and drink in my other thankfully deterred her. Sadly, they didn’t stop her from opening her mouth.

“You look so much like your father.” I had only heard that my whole life. “The eyes. The nose. The mouth.” Creepy. “You know you are always welcome in our home. You have to come see me.” Not happening. “Don’t you forget about me now.” That was the plan. “Your father and I are so proud of our little Nutmeg.” Please, make it stop. “And we love you so very much.” Okay, enough. Time to make my escape. “Oh, your father wanted you to have this.” The small buddle of cloth she held out to me stopped me in my tracks.

I didn’t know what surprised me more that my dad had left something for me or that my step-mother was actually willing to part with it. I set my plate and cup on one of the steps so I could accept the bundle. My step-mother took advantage of my suddenly empty arms and hugged me. I was in so much shock that I let her. She gave me a watery smile before moving on to bother someone else.

Aware of the bundle in my hands and the people crowding the room, I slipped upstairs without bothering to grab my meal. I wasn’t hungry anymore and I needed to be alone with my final token from Dad. I sat on my bed and carefully unwrapped the bundle. A giggle escaped my lips, when I found the round gold-rimmed reading glasses that had been hiding in the bundle. I still remembered the first time I ever saw my dad wearing them. He had taken Bea and me out to eat. We didn’t know he had glasses. We didn’t even realize he had put them on until we looked up from our menus and immediately started laughing. Cancer free Dad was short and round with a full beard that had gone white, rosy cheeks, and a receding hairline. With the gold-rimmed glasses the image was just too perfect. Bea and I were eating lunch with Santa! He had tried to act hurt that we were amused at his expense but the three of us knew our laughter pleased him.

I had started laughing all over again at the memory. Before I realized it, my laughter turned into sobs as I held the glasses to my chest. When I had composed myself, I studied the glasses and traced my finger around the gold-rimmed circle. Then Bea burst through my door.

“I’ve been looking all over for you. You can’t hide up here all . . . Are those Dad’s glasses?! What are you doing with them?” Bea’s expression made me wary as she sat down on my bed.

“The step-monster gave them to me. She said Dad wanted me to have them.”

“I wonder why he didn’t leave something for me . . .” Bea’s voice was deceptively light. I knew she was hurting and it was only a matter of time before that hurt turned into anger and jealousy. I had to think fast.

“Maybe he did but the step-monster won’t give it to you because you’re the mean sister.”

“I bet that’s exactly it! Oh, that bitch!” Bea jumped up and stormed out of my room. I knew I should for guilty for the chaos that was about to ensue downstairs but it was completely possible that I was right and at least I had provided the guest with some entertainment. As the undeniable sound of raised voices reached me, I realized that I didn’t want to miss all the action. It was probably just my imagination but I swore I heard Dad laugh as I left the room. My lips curved in a mischievous grin. Dad always was a bad influence.

Paradise

This exercise required that I write about a series of arrivals at different places-with no other explanation of how I got there.

Paradise

My breath caught as we came upon the island. It was all luscious greenery, pure white beaches, and crystal clear water. The scene looked like it belonged on a postcard or a movie set. A rainbow even stretched from one end of the island to the other. I knew I should find it hokey and cliché. In reality, the paradise inspired awe in me and it would be my homed, at least for a few days.

Natives crowded the length of the dock. I learned that I had arrived on a national holiday. I overheard one man as he complained about the absurdity of celebrating the birthday of a monarch, who lived on the other side of the Earth. I had figured he would be happy to have a day without work but he wanted independence instead of a vacation. I could respect his sentiments.

I stopped on the dock and watched the sunset with the natives. Then we waited for wild dolphins to approach. They came to this beach every night. I paid for the privilege of feeding one. The researcher gave me one fish and explained that the dolphins could touch me but under no circumstance was I allowed to touch a dolphin. Up-close, the dolphin was not that special. Nothing I imagined. The dolphin ate my fish and I walked away feeling under whelmed.

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It seemed like I stood on top of the world or at least on a step that lead to the top of the world. I looked down into the deep crater beside me. I watched the group descending its step sides until they became ants and I wondered how they would ever make it back out. On the other side of me were more mountain tops. Clouds filled the space between this mountain and the others. Someone near began to sing a hymn and I understood why the native tribes considered the mountains sacred.

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The outside of the marea intimidated me. Red angry faces covered the wings of the rooftop. Still, my hosts had invited me inside so I bolstered my courage and walked through the door. More angry pagan faces were carved into the walls but what surprised me were the cross and the portrait of the Virgin Mary that hung from the central post. It made me realize that the past cohabitated with the present in this sacred building.

My hosts waited for me at the front of the room. I greeted them according to their custom by bumping my nose against theirs twice. This intruded on all my perceptions of personal space but not participating in such a greeting would have insulted my hosts.

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I walked along the cobbled street that led me from one city square to the next. Occasionally, a horse and carriage passed me. As I stared up at the historical homes bordering the street, I felt like I had gone back in time. There was no separation of past and present in this city.

I rested in one of the squares and took in the wonder of it all. Spanish moss hung from the ancient oaks. A statue loomed in the center of the square. In a city like this, every branch and stone whispers their stories to anyone who knows how to hear them. I closed my eyes and I listened.

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I walked down the streets of another city. This one was all concrete and asphalt and very much in the present. The bright neon lights chased away the darkness until I all but forgot it was night. The crowded busy streets left me feeling alone and homesick. I needed something green and natural to sustain me.

Then I stumbled upon the park. There was so much wild greenery here that I got lost in it. I did not mind losing my way. As long as I was with nature, I would survive.

Black Mud

This story comes with a soundtrack. The exercise required that I listened to a piece of instrumental music over and over again until a narrative formed in my mind. I chose Black Mud by the Black Keys, which I have included, and this is what developed from the music. Please, let me know what you think.




Black Mud

It seemed to take an eternity for my driver to bring the car around. I had spent the past three hours forcing myself to stay composed before the ladies in our country club and now my nerves were almost at their breaking point. These elite events always strained me. Between closely guarding all my actions to avoid making a slip in decorum and my mother-in-law, Barbara, criticizing every little thing I did, I always returned home with a headache. Today brought the extra stress of being stuck in a room with my husband’s lover.

Her name was Georgiana Worthington. She exemplified Barbara’s ideal woman and everything I had spent the past ten years trying to be. She was tall, blond, thin, genteel, and charming. She was bred to be the perfect wife for a power man and her husband was quite powerful and influential. As any perfect wife would, she hosted today’s luncheon to gain support for her husband’s cause. I wondered if that is why she slept with my husband. Had the plan been to woo the ladies with food and woo the gentlemen with sex? No, I could not see her husband agreeing to that idea.

Finally, I was alerted that my car waited for me but I could not make my escape that easily. Since she hosted the event, I had to speak to Georgiana before I left. Barbara spoke to her first. I watched Georgiana closely. Neither she nor my husband knew I had uncovered their dirty little secret. I had not made up my mind how I wanted to confront them. Right now, I only wanted to see if Georgiana would show any sign of feeling guilty. I should have known she was too perfect to give herself away. When she turned to me, all she did was make some comment about how lovely it always was to see me and she thanked me for my support.

I walked out of the room, amazed at Georgiana’s audacity. She truly thought she would never be caught. I was still reeling from her behavior, when Barbara said something that sealed everyone’s fate. “You know I had always hoped that my Thomas would marry Georgiana but then he brought you home . . .”

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I was late but then that was all part of the plan. Thomas waited for me inside his ancestral home, where the elite of the elite had gathered for one of Barbara’s legendary dinner parties. The second I walked through the door, I heard a gasp. I let myself smirk. One perk of doing everything necessary to achieve perfection was that I still fit into the skintight low rise jeans and tiny halter top that I had worn the first time Thomas and I met. I kept walking through the house without bothering to take in all the shocked faces around me. The tapping of my scarlet hooker heels alerted everyone to my presence and anyone I passed got an eyeful of the word “Wicked” stamped across my lower back. I had hid that tattoo for years but now I wanted everyone to see it.

I found my husband in the library with his parents and several other guests. They were all too stunned to speak. I grabbed a drink right out of a guest’s hands, while giving him a flirty grin. Then I winked seductively at Senator Schumer as I passed him.

“What do you think you are doing?” Thomas gritted out as he grabbed my elbow.

“You don’t touch me!” I shouted and then punched him in the jaw.

Thomas and I stared each other down as my father-in-law ushered all the guests out of the room. “I want a divorce,” I demanded.

“Well, thank God,” Barbara chimed in, “You will get you divorce but you are mistaken if you think I am going to let you walk away with anything belonging to the family.”

“Unless Thomas would like me to explain to Mr. Worthington that he has been sleeping with his wife, I will get whatever I want.”

“What do you want?” Thomas surrendered.

“Your balls in a jar.” Barbara hit the floor in a dead faint.