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Archive for the ‘Short Stories’ Category

Only You

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , , , on April 9, 2013| 6 Comments »

Through the fog, it vies for my attention. I can barely see it just below the surface of the sand. Grains scattered over the exterior, it’s mottled, difficult to visualize. Dust surrounding, settling, my view is nearly blocked.

People walk past, not seeing what I can almost see, busy, distracted. Although the sun skips on the water’s tips, a haze keeps me from seeing clearly.

I stab and strive, but can’t reach it.

The longer I wait, the deeper it drives. Rooting itself in the bottomless beneath and I fear I will miss my chance. Never see it again.

I beckon passersby, begging them to nab it. I wave and yell, scream. They take no notice of it or me, oblivious to my struggle.

I reach out for what I’m sure will be my last chance and its edges finally hint at my fingertips.

“I am yours,” it murmurs, “and only you can keep me from sinking.”

Only You

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Senseless

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Parenting, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 31, 2013| 4 Comments »

Sweat trickles right past his finger and I wonder if he can feel it. I doubt it, because he pushes harder, burying his nail into the soft of my spine.

It hurts. I don’t move.

“Whaddya think yer doin’?” His whisper is cruel, seething.

I sit silently, facing front. Inching so slightly. Hoping he won’t realize I’ve lessened the pressure of his poke.

“Think yer so smart, huh?” Push, push, push.

“Ya big suck…all goody two shoes.” Pffft…

 

His spit spray wets the back of my neck and I regret my ponytail instantly.

The kids are playing kickball on the gravel field. I sit on the grass, bagged lunch at my side. Left of the field, near the fence, there’s a dip. I position myself just right. I am almost invisible. I pick at my peanut butter covered crusts. Daydream about being anywhere else.

My eyes are closed.

When I open them, the red kickball is bouncing away, slowing to a roll at the edge of the grass. Stops at his feet.

For once, I have to take my glasses off so I can see. Takes me a few minutes to realize they’re cracked. My only pair.

The skin on my forehead is split open from hairline to nose bridge. We’ll mend it best we can, the Doctor tells me, but this is going to leave a scar.

Kickball

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Help

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Hardship, Inspiration, Life, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged , , on March 23, 2013| 12 Comments »

I sit outside a coffee shop on callous concrete, hoping someone will give me something, anything, money, food, a coffee, kindness, but it’s bitter out and they are all understandably numb.

Men in unyielding suits talk on their phones and hold doors for capable people. I watch women with big hair chatter and chide, wrinkle their noses and throw half full cups into the trash as they skip away.

Not one looks at me and I too, feel less.

I cup my hands ‘round my mouth and savor the small touch of hospitality my warm breath provides. The air gets colder, my muscles stiffer, as time ticks on. I sit motionless, unable to think of much else other than where I’ll be in a few hours.

“Hey, can you hang on to my dog?” My body tenses at the unexpected voice so close to me.

I look at the little curly haired dog, and up at the little curly haired boy.

“I need to grab something real quick and he can’t run super fast, so if you’d just hold him for me…”

“No problem,” I agree, not sure what choice I have as the half-pint runs off without waiting for an answer.

The dog climbs up onto my lap. His belly is like a hot water bottle, his sandy fur a cozy coat. He stretches upwards and licks my face, his tongue soft and velvety. I feel myself loosen a little, a strained elastic slipping back to its natural state.

The very next person to come out hands me a five-dollar bill.

“Say no to drugs.” he laughs half serious, the next, a cup of steaming coffee and a few crumpled bills. “Cute pup,’” she smiles. “Buy him a treat!”

By the time the boy returns, I’ve had a sandwich, a conversation and the shake of a hand. A shop employee even leaves a bowl full of fresh water for the dog and a handful of broken cookie bits.

“Thanks for watching Jack,” the boy’s tone is raspy, breathless. “It would’ve taken me way longer if I’d had to drag him along.”

He hands me a somewhat grizzly sleeping bag and a greyish pillow. “Here, they’re yours.” he tells me.

“What? No,” I say, shocked. “Where did you get these?”

“I gotta go,” he says, grabbing the dog. “I can come back tomorrow though. People are way more generous when Jack’s around.”

He takes off so quickly I barely have time to notice his dirty fingernails, his hoodie full of holes or Jack effortlessly keeping up alongside him.

What I do notice as they trot off, is that I now feel more.

homeless boy and dog

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Desire

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writers, Writing, tagged on March 4, 2013| 13 Comments »

She rubbed the sticks together. Back and forth, back and forth, fast as she felt she could, keeping them pressed as tight as her muscles would allow. Her shoulders ached and her braids swung to and fro with momentum. Try as she might, nothing but a thin trail of smoke came of the friction she was struggling to create. She was weak, became dejected. Gave up.

She went about her day, gathering wood, beating mats, washing clothes, fetching water. Busy, she tucked the failure in the far corner of her mind, ignored, not quite forgotten.

But the next day, she tried again, hunting for dry, skinny twigs, propping them up with rocks and dirt. She scraped two of them together faster and harder than the day before until her fingers became red. Raw. Dust swirled all around her, suffocating, hindering. Still nothing. She ached and threw the kindling down in defeat.

That night she lay resting and thoughts melted into sleepy dreams. She endured fierce fervor, fuel and flashes. She toyed with passions, promises, pledges and purpose. She suffered dedication. She endured commitment. She breathed success.

Rising the next morning, she was wiser, shrewder. She’d try harder. She would not give up, for her dreams had reminded her, where there’s smoke there is fire.

Desire

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Our Story

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Metaphors, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writers, Writing, tagged on February 22, 2013| 2 Comments »

She wrote thousands of words.

And unlike most other times, it took very little effort. They flowed as quickly as her willowy fingers could scroll them over the page. She didn’t look them up or second-guess, she simply wrote and wrote and as she did, her heart pounded with euphoric anticipation.

Within minutes the story had taken on a life and turned into something she alone, never could have conjured. The characters were vivid smudges of color on the chalky paper. Each one weird, wild and wonderful. Much to her delight, they twittered, twirled and twinkled in front of her very eyes.

Descriptions were riveting and the plot, engrossing. All awakened at her fingertips and she relinquished control of what was happening.

They took over. Grew more animated, more tangible. She felt a draft as they hurried past, saw the pores of their skin, smelled the booze on their breath. Heard them swallow as they ate the food from their plates.

She reached out, wanting to touch what seemed real, but her hand was slapped away. A feeling hard to describe, covered her like a blanket of ice.  Her skin erupted in fear and her heart, still pounding, skipped a beat, maybe two, in shock.

As she stared in horror, the longhand scroll she’d so relished penning, rose up off the page united, and slowly, deliberately made its way around her thin, long neck.

“This is our story.” the robust rope seethed. “You can’t force us to do anything.”

The linked words were frayed at the edges and as they tightened, the delicate skin on her neck began to burn with the friction.

“Your words are ours now. You are ours now.”

As she lay limp, breathless and seconds from lifeless, her once enraptured heart finally stopped beating as she herself, became a part of the story that was never really hers.

Rope 3

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Now Two

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , on February 21, 2013| 14 Comments »

The cut on her finger hurts like a son of a bitch. One of those tiny slices so fine it’s almost invisible, but oh, it throbs and stings. As she squeezes the skin around it open and closed it moves like a beak. She imagines it’s squawking; a relentless seagull tormenting her.

“I want that fry. I want that fry!” he goads, angrily swooping to and fro against the brooding, clouded sky.

She looks around for the French fry, but finds nothing. The bird screeches louder and louder. She covers her ears and rocks back and forth.

“Go away!” she whispers. “Please go away.”

She swats at the air around her head, catching her frizzy hair between her fingers, pieces of it slithering through her slit skin. Taking a long, kinked strand, she pulls it taut until it snaps. It falls to the floor, once one, now two.

“You see?” she asks, “You see what I did to that piece of hair? You’ll end up just like that hair if you’re not real careful!”

But the gull taunts on.

“Squawk! You don’t need that fry! You’re way too fat to eat that goddamn French fry! Squawk, squawk!”

The bird’s incessant cackling simmers into salty grains of laughter that spill down and stick to her slick skin. Swiping away, trying to rid herself of the bitter granules, she slowly realizes that she’s the fry.

Long and droopy, now cold, she falls to the floor. The nasty gull comes real close, and spreads his great, gray wings. They span across her from tip to top. His beak sharp and piercing drives right into her middle and she can feel him lifting her.

As they fly higher and farther away, her other half gets smaller and smaller on the ground below.

Once one, now two.

Seagull with a french fry

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Small

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Poetry, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , on February 18, 2013| 10 Comments »

Sad and hidden

She wrapped herself in the crooks of looks and nooks of books, cloaked her face with hair misplaced, hid her smile, for a while, in the cover of much denial.

She grew small it seemed. Making her way, suppressing things dreamed. They laughed at things she thought she’d hid. Talked of things she never really did.

Friends were enemies and enemies the same, taunted by voices not knowing her name. Lonely a thing she came to grasp well. A soft blanket she knit out of personal hell.

She didn’t know kind and missed out on close. Pieces of heart limply strung by a ghost.

Until a day one reached out. Offered the help she’d long lived without.  A strong hand extended, a friendship made. A thing never had, a wish that wouldn’t fade.

It’s all it took to live and love and because of this she rose above. The hurt, the pain all overcame. The weak, the cursed, all reversed.

She ate from the orchards of strength and pride, found a new life, chose to decide. To believe she had worth and deserved a new birth. To start things anew, become what is true.

Not one to forget what it is to be small; she’ll be never be far. A net for a fall.

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Weight

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Inspiration, Life, Poetry, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on January 23, 2013| 10 Comments »

I rubbed and polished it with my cloth fresh and new, unsuspecting and ever willing, still stiff and crisp. The more I scoured, the brighter it shone.

I took it everywhere. I kept it in my pocket, under my hat or tucked into the toe of my right shoe. At night, it rested underneath my downy pillow, just below my dreaming mind. In the shower, hot soapy water spilled over it, suds trailing the day’s slough down the drain and deep into the pipes.

For a while, well, years really, I barely noticed it apart from the effort it took to make it glisten. But as time went on, my polishing cloth grew black and flecked with holes, limp and lifeless, and what was once light became cumbersome, too big to keep in my shoe or under my hat.

More years passed and despite great efforts, my ratty cloth, now a rag, didn’t bring even a hint of shine, its once brilliant gleam forever lost under many layers of shadows and clouds.

The days, months…years slipped by and it lived on, more than lived, it thrived, growing bulky, bigger, heavier and harder than ever before. Once coveted and craved, now clunky and colossal.

Towing it behind, I trudged through the murk and came to a stop. This was the place…the point where I couldn’t carry it anymore, my body refusing to take one more step.

After years, a lifetime, I, at long last, let it go. Heaved away, it spiraled outwards in a frenzy of rejection and I watched, waiting for it to descend to the dismal, dreary bottom. Drained, exhausted, it took me some time to realize that it was not sinking; it was instead me, rising to the top.

Weight Lifter

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Vegetables Are Good For You

Posted in Blogging, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , , on January 17, 2013| 17 Comments »

Her thumbprints are still in the bread. I can see them, little oval dimples through the glossy plastic wrap. My hands shake as I unfold the flimsy, sticky film protecting my sandwich. The sandwich she’d made me this morning. The sandwich we’d argued over. The sandwich I am now eating at midnight.

“I don’t like whole wheat bread. That’s all I’m saying.”

She’d stood at the counter, morning light from the window ghosting her custard colored hair, her hands busily dispersing the zero fat spread she’d bought to replace my mayonnaise.

“It’s selfish, Darren. Your cholesterol is high. If you want to leave me, you can just say so. Slow self-sabotage is much too drawn out.”

“Well, I’m my own self to sabotage.” I’d said. “I don’t like whole wheat bread and I don’t like fake mayo. Why bother eating?”

I’d watched, my anger mounting, her fingers sinking into the fresh brown slices as she aggressively wrapped, chucking the finished product into my bag alongside the veggies she’d spent her morning washing and cutting.

“We bother eating, so we don’t starve,” she’d gritted tightly, “and we eat healthily, so that we don’t die,” she went on, “and we don’t die, before our time if we can help it, Darren, so that we don’t desert the person who has graciously chosen to spend our whole, assumedly long lives with us, while they’re still in their early forties!” Picking the bag up, she’d forcefully pressed it into my chest as she walked out of the room.

I hadn’t gone after her. I was a little hung over from the poker game the night before and besides, I was tired of her nagging. She thought she knew everything, always right. Heaven forbid anyone had a differing opinion or an alternate take on things.

Before I’d left, I’d thrown the bag of food on the bottom step with a scribbled note;

‘Think I’ll buy lunch today. A double bacon cheeseburger sounds great right about now’.

She’d be furious. A smile had hovered at the corners of my mouth.

I’d driven in to work, still ranting, wading through all the things about her that made me insane; my water glass disappearing into the dishwasher before I was done with it, the tied baggies of garbage she’d leave hanging off various doorknobs throughout the house as she cleaned, always onto the next thing before remembering to dispose of them, making the bed the moment I was out of it, closing any window for me to hop back in and forgetting to pay the bills, distracted by the kids or the house, the gas company forever threatening disconnection.

But by the time I’d pulled into the parking lot, I had mellowed. Pondering her flaws, I’d come to realize they weren’t really flaws. They were more like quirks. Quirks were okay, weren’t they? So maybe my glass vanished all the time, but that meant it was getting tidied all the time, as were the full garbage cans and the messy bed and the bills always got paid in the end. If she was busy with the kids or the house, I should be grateful, shouldn’t I?

As the car door had swung shut, I’d decided I’d been a selfish bastard and had practically run through the parking lot, eager to get the day over with so I could get back home to her.

Now, twelve hours later, so much has changed. I sit, chewing in time with her breathing, the ventilator’s accordion flip-flopping oxygen into her lungs. She’s not taking it willingly, grappling with the insistent machine. I can almost hear her; it’s not natural…inorganic. I can do it on my own.

She’d fallen after I’d left this morning, opening her head on the corner wall facing the stairs. They’d found her face down, my blood-soaked note between her slender fingers, the strap of my bag still looped around her ankle.

“…we don’t desert the person who has graciously chosen to spend our whole, assumedly long lives with us, while they’re still in their early forties!”

“I’m eating it, honey.” I whisper into the darkness. “I’ll eat whatever you want.” The sandwich sticks in my throat as I realize what she wants is for me to fight for her.

So much has changed since this morning but so much has stayed the same.

Sandwich

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Fat Free

Posted in Chick Lit, Creative Writing, Fiction, Life, Relationships, Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on January 2, 2013| 8 Comments »

“I know, right?” She agrees, clicking her tongue.

I try, but I can’t stop staring at her mouth. Her teeth are so white now, they’re almost blue and the effect makes her lips and tongue look like cream soda drenched cotton candy.

Am I missing something? Either I’m imagining our conversation or, all of a sudden, I’m in need of hearing aids. Either way, I cannot believe she’s ordering what she’s ordering. I grit my teeth as I hear her say;
“I’ll have the tomato salad. Ah, is there sugar in the dressing?”

“Yes,” says our server.

“Dressing on the side, then please. Actually, no dressing. None at all. And, oh! No avocado. I know it’s good fat and everything,” she flutters her polished nails, “but I’m completely fat free right now.”

“Yes, M’am.” Patiently accommodating, he explains; “I just want to make sure you realize it will basically be tomatoes then, with a little bit of vinegar, salt and pepper.”

“Yes, yes, fine,” Tasia agrees. “Wait, no oil, right?”

“That’s a given. M’am.” he says, head down.

I’m caught off guard. Only moments ago, we’d discussed chicks who want burgers but order leaves, ladies who ask for side dressing and use the whole portion anyway, women who only drink Skinny Girl cocktails…by the dozen.

Our waiter glances at me and I flush, instantly wanting to change my order. My medium rare New Yorker with sautéed garlic prawns now seems a tad excessive.

But, almost as instantly, I regret my brush with backpedalling.

I want the steak dammit, and the prawns. I don’t want to pay just as much for tomatoes with salt as I will for a real meal.  I do not want to be a fake bitch that drinks Skinny Girl. I mean, if I’m gonna drink Skinny Girl, I’m gonna mean it; a three cocktail cut-off, for sure.

“I’m good,” I tell him. I’ll live with whatever kind of fat I’ve ordered.”

“Yes, Miss. Excellent choice.”

“So, anyway,” Tasia starts the moment our server turns his back. “What have you been up to?” Her big, black-lined eyes tilt up and away from her Pellegrino, flickering over various parts of my being.

“Well, the shop keeps me…”

“Did you hear the waiter, by the way? I mean, he pretty much insulted me by complimenting you. Not cool.”

“I don’t think he…”

“He will not be getting a good tip from me,” she continues. “Not cool at all.”

I attempt to distract her; “You know, work, I’m consumed with trying to…”

“Oh my God. I forgot to tell you. Paul and Maxine? They split!” She almost looks happy announcing it and I feel a little sick.

“Weren’t they, I mean, married for like, ever?”

“Yeah, crazy, huh?” She manages to sip her bubbling water and maintain a smug look at the same time.

“Don’t they have kids? How many kids do they have…?”

“Two, three? I don’t know, God. I’m just trying to tell you, they’re done. He found someone else…had it going for a while, like, a couple of years while. So typical.

 

The corners of her super pink mouth are frothy, cream soda foaming over the side of a cup and I focus on that, not wanting to say regretful things.

“Sad.” I mumble.

Our meals come. Well, my meal and her salted tomatoes.

“Do you have bread?” She questions the waiter.

“Of course, yes,” he replies. “But I thought…”

This is simply tomatoes. I need a little more substance.” Tasia looks to me, expecting empathy, but I shift my glance to the topiary tree behind her. I decide it looks like it’s growing out of the top of her head.

“Definitely,” he replies. “I’ll bring the bread right away.”

“Whole wheat. Light margarine.”

My food looks delicious and the steam rising up, infusing my pores is mouthwatering. The garlic, the butter, the meat…all divine.

“Oh my, can you smell the grease? Insane, right?

What’s insane, I think to myself, is that you’re commenting while slathering even more margarine on top of that already thick layer.

“Maxine,” I interrupt. “Is she okay? Are they, you know, going to try counseling?”

“God, no. Are you crazy? He cheated on her, Em. You don’t recover from that.”
“Well, their history, the kids…anything’s…”

“Ugh! This vinegar is so bitter. How do they get away with this?” She moves her plate to the middle of the table and takes out her phone.

I think back to high school and lunches with Tasia. We haven’t seen each other in years, but not a lot has changed.

“Save me a seat!” she’d shout down the hall the period before lunch, already knowing I would. Just like she knew I’d give her money when she forgot her wallet, like she knew I’d rush to my locker, throw in my books and fight the desire to organize them to save a few seconds, like she knew I’d hurry to the dining hall to snag two stools side by side.

Like she knew I’d wait.

I’d wait while she chatted to Mel and Sean, wait while she flirted with Mr.Polson and wait while she butted the line to get her lunch ahead of mine, fanning the tenner I’d lent her earlier in Troy Danning’s face while she fiddled and fluttered.

“Ah, you’re such a sweetie!” she’d exclaim approaching our table. “Like Sawyer; always waiting for me. You just need a tail to wag. You’re the best, Em.

And with a flip of her ponytail, my head would sink as she’d plunk down her tray, straddle the stool and delve into whatever gossip was happening around us. I was sure to throw my sweater over my own spot, knowing she wouldn’t shoo anyone away if they tried to take it while I lined for lunch.

Looking up from my plate, I see she’s still tapping at her screen. I eat my grease in silence and, I have to admit, I enjoy every bit of it, the calories, the quiet and the calm.

“I bet he wasn’t getting any.” Head still down, she continues. “You know as well as I do, she’s a total prude. Remember when …?”

Wiping my mouth with my crisp, cloth napkin, I, possibly for the first time ever; cut her off;

“I really don’t want to get into it. We don’t know the first thing about their marriage. Speculating is definitely not fair.”

“Well, all I’m saying is…”

Instead of looking surprised when I stand, she squints, her huge, round eyes melding into selfish slits.

“You’ll have to pay, Tasia. I forgot my wallet.”

I swear our server gives me a nod of approval as I fling my purse over my shoulder and walk out the door, head held high.

Tomatoes

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