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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Inspiration Is Not at the Next Exit

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , , , on July 23, 2012| 8 Comments »

Don’t be so gullible. There is no ‘perfect moment’ lurking around the corner, another hour will not make a difference, it matters not whether we’re sitting in a cluttered house breathing in dust or staring out a mountain loft window, absorbing a breathtaking view.

If we’re going to write something believable, marketable and applausable, we’re going to do it poolside, seaside or on the back of an envelope, billside.

Convincing ourselves; if things were different, we’d sit down and write, is wrong. The fact is, if it’s in our blood and we’re born to do it, nothing will get in our way.

Dissuasion is simple. It’s a sedentary activity. It could be seen as lackadaisical, slothful even. Being encouraged to head out for a walk is reasonable, but cheering someone to sit down at a computer is, at best, questionable.

None the less, it needs to be done. Someone should stand up. Someone should shout out. Someone should put his foot down. Someone should don a lick of devotion.

But we’re the someones. There’s nobody here but us chickens.

We’re standing alright, but in the way. We don’t believe. We lack confidence. We’re afraid. We’re our own worst enemy.

So step aside and sit down. Magically, invisible time will be found, surroundings, no matter their attributes, will melt into our story and those all-consuming tasks will be put on hold.

They say you should keep your friends close and your enemies closer, so tie yourself to a chair and start cheering.

A ruse…

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Empire State of Mind

Posted in Blogging, Hardship, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Travel, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , on July 16, 2012| 6 Comments »

Sometimes, and let me be clear, only sometimes, I don’t think I’m bitchy enough to be a writer. (That alone should be enough to spark more interest in my blog than usual)

I was on a plane to New York last week. My daughter and I pre-booked our seats and got to the airport (absurdly) early for check-in. Long story short, we were well prepared and took every measure to insure we were sitting together and that my girl got the window seat she’d been dreaming of.

As we approached our seats, we were met with a stare of frigid disappointment. A mother sat with her tot on her lap and said;

“Oh, we were hoping you wouldn’t be together.”

“Sorry?” I asked, confused.

“My son and I are seated apart, so we were hoping you were going to be able to switch with us.”

“Ah,” I said in an understanding tone. I looked at the little boy, no more than three. I could feel her pain.

I turned to my daughter, only a child herself, and was met with her pleading eyes, but before I could say anything, she relented; “It’s okay, the little boy can sit with his mom.”

I could see she was troubled, only being eleven, but sensing the gravity of the situation, she knew he needed his mommy just a little more than she did.

“Are you sure honey? I asked. “You don’t have to switch if you’re worried. The seat’s yours after all.”

As we were having this conversation, a mere formality, the outcome of which we already knew, we were interrupted by the woman; “’She is just that much older. My boy really needs to sit with me.”

As I absorbed what she was saying, the flight attendant piped in; “Yes, she is older. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Amidst the blink of an eye, and some unnecessary tongue flapping, what had started as empathy for the woman and her child was now bordering on resentment and flirting at the edge of anger within me. I was being bullied.

“It’s alright,” I answered, slightly exasperated. “We’ll change seats.”

We settled into our new digs and I leaned back, glad to be out of the limelight. An aisle separated my girl and I. We looked at each other and smiled. No big deal.

Two hours in, she reclined her seat, startling, but not (even close to) disrupting a woman behind her. The woman’s wild curls bounced and her eyes widened behind her very round, thick-rimmed glasses.

With a cluck of her tongue, she looked down her nose and over her specs at the person next to her.

“This is why I wouldn’t switch with them in the first place. I’m a writer”, she claimed with an exasperated tone while stroking the keys of her laptop. “And you see”, her voice all high and mighty, “I still can’t get any peace!”

So, maybe Ava and I couldn’t cuddle, whisper or giggle and perhaps she couldn’t rest her head on my shoulder while she was sleeping and she obviously didn’t get her much anticipated window seat, but we were going to New York, we did hold hands during take off and landing, we had the comfort that came from doing what was right and I would still be a writer…bitch or not.

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Red Solo Cup

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Music, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Songs, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on July 7, 2012| 4 Comments »

There was a time I was sure my holidays would include twenty-first floor, plush hotel rooms, clinking crystal glasses, Saks and Tiffany’s, white linen, azure water and yachts off the coast.

But, since being a slick, single city chick wasn’t in my cards, another kind of holiday eased into my delusions; cookouts, critters, damp pillows, stained beach chairs and smoke riddled hair.

It’s another world, this roughing it. Electricity vanished, flush toilets a distant memory, don’t even mention showers and forget about cell service. Packing up almost everything you own to go live in the forest could be considered a tad indicative of on setting insanity. It could be perceived as an adventure one could do without. Weak at heart beware. Material girls stay home. Roughing it is, no doubt, rough.

Everything we do here is ten times the work it is at home; the dishes are dirtier after we wash them, we’ve been wearing the same shorts for a week, our legs are coated in a semi-permanent sheath of sunscreen and dust.

But then voices echo in the trees, laughter ascends into the balloon blue sky, fast-moving spokes whir past, an icy beer meets a fiery sunset and that one marshmallow gets toasted to crisp yet gooey perfection.

Friends have bonded, kids have played, the old-fashioned get dirty kinda play, the stars have aligned symbolically and physically and there’s nothing but time to appreciate every little gratuity.

It is another world; a tousled, less embellished one than we’re used to, but one that allows a cider while flipping flapjacks, an all day read and a whole lot of not being perfect and I’ll be honest, it fills you up, like a red Solo cup…so join the party.

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Stay With Me

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on July 1, 2012| 4 Comments »

I could be convinced. It’s the end of June, the kids are out of school and the smell of grilled meat wafts through the air giving way only to the scent of fresh blooms and newly snipped blades of grass.

So I suppose it’s true, summer has arrived and rain or shine, wet or dry, hot or… lukewarm and at times, down right chilly the season has brought with it a flurry of excursions, adventures and undertakings.

There will be picnics, barbeques, weddings and water, airplanes, tent trailers, road trips and renos. We’ll see tourists and tan lines (let’s be optimistic) and it just wouldn’t be authentic if we didn’t encounter a few salt-stung heart aches, skinned knees, sunburns and slivers.

I’m building up to something. Can you tell? It’s called foreshadowing and if you’re feelin’ it, I’m on the right track.

My knickers are in a bit of a twist. What’s listed above isn’t a compilation of my imagination. These are things that will actually occur in some form or another and they will be all consuming. You guessed it; how’s a girl to blog?

Reduce, reuse, recycle, that’s how. When necessary, I plan to plagiarize myself; take things I’ve already toiled over, and let’s face it, I’ll toil over them some more before posting cuz that’s just how I roll, and publish them.

My hopes are that this will be a win-win. My past endeavors will undergo a bit of spit ‘n’ shine and there will still be something for you to critique, err, enjoy.

All jokes aside, I beg you to stay with me. Did I actually use the word beg?  Why yes, yes I did. No question this blog has become a big deal in my life. I love writing it, but frankly, I could do that for just me, myself and I.

And I’ve come to realize that if you weren’t here, that’s exactly what I’d be doing.

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Lost in Translation

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Uncategorized, Writer's Block, Writing, tagged , , , on June 24, 2012| 6 Comments »

Lose me and I’m yours. Powerful words welded into sentences, zigging here and zagging there, spinning me in circles and propelling me through mazes hoping to never find a way out are on my Goodreads list.

Compositions making me forget that our (stupefying) Visa bill is on its way or that I’m waiting for the dryer to finish its cycle will forever hold a special place in my heart.

Passage into an imaginary world is largely due to description. In my (humble) opinion, it’s almost all we writers have when trying to entice readers into our wildly whimsical minds.

Description is kinda my thing. I can get very caught up in explaining how “the freshly painted wooden stool glistened in the sun like a shiny, red-skinned apple against a soft carpet of moss-green grass.” Some could say it’s overkill, but poof…there it is. You see the stool, don’t you?

I could have said; “The stool had just been painted red and someone had set it on the grass.” You may still be able to see the stool, but not quite in the same way and your mind would have to do most of the work.

Not that working your mind is a bad thing, but reading (for pleasure) is supposed to be effortless and having to do too much of the imagining is sort of redundant. You may as well write the book yourself.

I’ve heard people say; “Ugh, the description went on and on. In the end, I just skipped through it.”

What a shame. The author has taken what should have been an all-consuming, riveting experience and turned it into an arduous, irksome chore. It hurts my heart.

Descriptives should have us eating words slowly, savoring the different tastes each one leaves behind. We should feel like we just watched a really great movie and didn’t realize there were subtitles. Good descriptives should leave us praying there’s always one more page.

I write to find myself, but I read hoping to get lost. I leave the (mind-numbing, oppressed) map in the glove compartment.

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A Life She Didn’t Mind

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , on June 19, 2012| 6 Comments »

One by one, overhead fluorescents were snuffed; computer screens extinguished, corner office doors shut tight for the night. She sat on, her screen now the only light in the room, its bluish blaze illuminating her paper-white skin and inflaming her tiny cubicle.

She sipped at her green tea, now cold, while going through case upon case, hi-lighting important points and snippets of court transcripts that may have otherwise been overlooked by the distracted lawyers she worked under.

She massaged her sleepy feet one toe at time, while scrolling through site after site, researching proof for each red inked comment she’d written in the sidebars of every document.

When the last smooth, manila folder thwacked the pile that had mounted on the grey-carpeted floor, she stretched her arms up as high as she could, the skin on her hands protesting as the cracks widened with the pull. Handling paper in a dry office all day long took its toll; the raw, tiny slice on her right pointer finger squealing just enough to make her wince.

She got up and wandered slowly; a laze in her stocking’d step, through the grid of carpeted, shiftable dividers across the office to the glamorous window engulfing the entire West-side wall of the firm. It framed the charcoal city skyline etched against the cobalt sky.

Entering the office at nineteen, it had been the first thing to catch her eye. A window to a world she hadn’t really explored, and even now, at twenty-nine, she still came up short.

But, over the years she’d spent in that office she’d acquired her tiny, but decorated just the way she wanted, apartment in Yaletown and a wardrobe that boasted not one, but two little black dresses. Although they’d only been worn, covered with a blazer, to the office so far. A freezer full of Lean Cuisine, a little grey cat that she loved to bits and out one of her windows she could see a corner of the Keg rooftop patio which provided her with hours of entertainment on a Saturday night.

Exhaling, she turned away from the view, knowing it was time.

The sleety kitchen tiles filtered their cool through her nylons, her feet gliding over each one frictionlessly. She took a shiny, white mug from the cupboard and garnished it with a silver stirring spoon and the content of two brown sugar filled envelopes. She plucked a mandarin from the fridge and a packet of shortbread cookies from the drawer beside it. Snatching spray and paper towel from under the sink, she headed back out to the cubicles.

Coming to his, she stopped, heart thudding, imagination conjuring up his kind, green eyes and bobbing Adam’s apple.

Carefully, she set her supplies on his chair and went about wiping his desktop and dusting his screen; the floral smell of potpourri scented cleaner filling the space as she sprayed.

Taking the mug, she set it to the right of the monitor, its spoon clanging as she put it down, plastic crackling as she laid the cookies and mandarin beside it. She scrawled a happy face on a post it with a Sharpie and stuck it to his mug.

Finished for yet another night, she was, as usual in a hurry to leave. The laze gone, she now scrambled to put away the cleaning supplies, sort the manila folders into organized piles on her desk, grab her coat and whip on her flats.

Out in the fresh air, inhaling deeply, she smiled knowing there’d be a few people adorning the Keg deck on this beautiful night, her kitty would be waiting at the door and tomorrow, he’d be wondering, like he had every morning for the last three years since starting at the firm of one hundred and twenty employees, who the crazy nut in the office was.

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And The Nominees Are…

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Lists, Non-Fiction, Relationships, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , , , on June 14, 2012| 16 Comments »

It’s a cozy little place, this blogosphere. At first, I was tentative, holding out. Afraid of scrutiny and criticism yes, but exposure…now that was the scary, no…terrifying, Walking Dead zombie, trapped in a sinking car, hanging off a ledge clinging to a loose rock kind of fear I had of this place…this place, that I now think of as home.

Inhibitions on the back burner, I feel excited to cast out my thoughts and words. My heart pounds as I click my stats and wait for views to appear. It skips a beat when that icon turns orange showing I have a new comment, like or follow. Yes, I admit it. I post. I wait. I hope.

But, like everyone else, I was once unsure. It’s a very bizarre conundrum; loving… longing to write but scared shitless someone might read it.

I’ve come a long way. When I was a child I scribbled stories and ripped them up, afraid, even to keep a journal. Not for fear of my thoughts being read, but that someone would know I’d been writing. The confusing feeling haunts me to this day.

A couple of years ago I did the NaNoWriMo challenge. I wrote and I wrote. It was a huge part of my life for thirty days. I could in fact say that it consumed me. But…I didn’t tell anyone. Obviously, I had to explain to my immediate family why I was less than present, but besides them and the one friend I was taking the challenge with, I told no one else. And, I did not, could not even tell those few who knew about my undertaking what I was writing about. I wrote sixty thousand words and each one of them, my spooky little secret.

I have a similar squeeze when I finish someone’s make-up. When they look in the mirror or stand in front of the camera for the first time, my body seizes and I feel despair that my art is about to be unveiled and subsequently, examined.

Now, I’m posting for the world (hardy, har, har, I wish) to see.

Yes, I’ve come a long way.

The fear has subsided. I still flush as I hit publish, much I’m sure, like a performer about to hit the stage for the…what number is this…twenty-fifth time, still slightly wet behind the ears, but bolstered. Bolstered, thanks to viewers, screaming fans, readers, commenters…pick your poison. They’re all reassuring.

One of the first people to throw my name and “writer” together was P.C. Zick and I am truly grateful to her for that. I am also very grateful (in no particular order) to the following bloggers for many different reasons; their friendship, their support, their writing, their endeavors and their honesty, just to name a few:

1. P.C. Zick http://pczick.wordpress.com/

2. Saige Wisdom http://saigewisdom.blogspot.ca/

3. Lesley Richardson http://www.standingnakedatabusstop.com/

4. Year of Austere http://yearofaustere.wordpress.com

5. Nicole Jane Home http://blog.nicolejane.com/

6. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot 4 http://whiskeytangofoxtrot4.wordpress.com/

7. Sylvia Behnish http://www.thecreativenesswithinme.blogspot.ca/

8. Lewis Thomson http://lth0ms0n.wordpress.com/

9. TK Butterfly http://teekay16.wordpress.com/

10. Rachel Carter http://rachelcarter.me/

11. Ashley Jillian http://ashleyjillian.com/

12. http://secretdiaryofadublincallgirl.wordpress.com/

13. Bethany Lovell http://froggology.blogspot.ca/

14. Adam Martin http://livelikeagrownup.wordpress.com/

15. Carole Bell http://ringmybell-cybell.blogspot.ca/

Write it – Walk it – Own it

Surprisingly, I’ve been nominated for the Inspiring Blog Award and the above fifteen bloggers are my nominees for the same. The named fifteen are now asked to pay it forward, so to speak. Write a post citing your nomination, a link to my post, fifteen nominees of your own and seven things about yourself. (although mine aren’t in bullet form, I believe I’ve woven at least seven in there somewhere, and if it’s less, don’t rat me out)

Thank you Patricia for the vote of confidence and for inspiring me to write today.

Thank you Bloggers, for overcoming whatever challenges you face in creating and relaying your craft to others. It’s an inspiration to us all.

Thank you readers, for perusing my murmurs and mutterings and making me feel like they’re worthy of a tiny piece of this sphere.

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But Sometimes it Hurts Instead…

Posted in Blogging, Getting Famous, Inspiration, Music, Relationships, Songs, Uncategorized, Writing, tagged , , , , on June 6, 2012| 8 Comments »

I am overly emotional today, so I feel that a post with an Adele reference is in order.

Don’t worry – we can still get along. I’m sure we can agree that the woman’s got pipes, regardless of how we may feel about her personally.

So, yes…Adele. She’s got pipes, but it doesn’t end there. The girl’s got guts. She has the backbone it takes to write down her deepest, most private thoughts and feelings and send them off into the universe for all to enjoy…and judge. Oh, guts I tell you.

I’ve probably listened to way too much of her and don’t lie; you have too. We’ve all done the “Rolling in the Deep” sixty times in one day, thing. I won’t force concordance; I will simply overlook any denial. (If I weren’t such a professional, I might insert a winky face here with a dash of LOL)

I stumbled upon a snippet of her ‘live in concert’ last night as I was heading to the dinner table. Of course I’ve seen it before, but last night, this particular part stopped me in my tracks.

There she was, black dress, sixties hair, lashed to the extreme, (lovely, but extreme) the spotlight drifting down in waves, powdering her with stardust. Either that, or she was about to be hoovered up into the mother ship, although in Adele’s case, I’m pretty sure it was stardust.

However, I digress. This particular part halted me. She was singing Someone Like You. Yes, a torrid, gut-wrenching song at the best of times, but towards the end, she stopped and let the crowd sing. Now, I know she wrote this song out of heartache and heartbreak, so melancholy is an expected response, however, considering she’s sung it a bazillion times, one can only assume the wound has, at the very least, scabbed over.

No…her emotion seemed to stem from the crowd singing her song; more specifically, the crowd knowing her words. Words she probably wrote on soggy, tear-stained scraps at 3am, alone in the bleak of her grotty little flat, while she contemplated quietly slitting her wrists. But there it was; her painful story dripping off the tongues of strangers, emblazoned onto their hearts and now suspended in the rafters of the Royal Albert Hall.

(It all goes down here. Stick around till the end for the good stuff)

And, it made me think. It would be extraordinary to have people know us that way or, at least that version of us. We can give them all or we can give them bits, we can give them realities or we can give them adaptations. Whatever we’re serving, they want it. They wanna sit at our table and watch us eat, stand there as we have coffee in our robes and brush our teeth. They want to walk in our shoes. They crave our pain and desire our joy. It’s ours to give. We can hand it over. It just takes an iron gut.

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Lucky Thirteen

Posted in Blogging, Inspiration, Non-Fiction, Uncategorized, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , , , on June 1, 2012| 10 Comments »

Gusts whipped through my hair, sun scorched my darkening skin and my lips caught as I attempted to close them over my wind-dried metal grin. 

Houses dripped by like a painter’s palette caught in the rain as I whirred down the long, straight street in front of my house and as I fell, I knew the searing pavement would shave a layer off my knees, elbows and stomach.

~

I awake the morning of my thirteenth birthday to sun spilling warm light over the sheets. I relish the glow, basking as it sidles in to loosen me from my twisted, tissuey nest. Stretching lazily amongst the sprawl, I’m like a sock unraveling as it comes out of a warm dryer.

Until it hits me…my birthday! Sluggish sock cast aside, I’m on my feet in seconds, skipping the bathroom, scurrying down the blue-carpeted hallway and hitting the cool, cream-colored lino in record time; the floor’s creviced, fine brown contours awakening the souls of my bare feet.

I eat fresh, flaky croissants; scooping spoonfuls of raspberry jam from the jar, dolloping each jewel-like glob right onto the pastry before every bite. My tongue twinges with dripping slices of citrus, their spray watering down the comic section as Garfield and Calvin blacken my fingertips. I move on to the horoscopes.

Mom flits here and there, filling balloons, attaching rosy crepe streamers from wall to wall and spraying veils of lemon polish over the rich Mahogany.

Dad is somewhere below us in the garage, perhaps tinkering, sanding or sorting nails, gearing up to cut the grass. My brother, almost seven years my junior, is off doing God knows what, starting fires or torturing the dog.

A quick fluff n’ wash and I’m out. Racquet and ball in hand I’m ready to whack a few hours away rallying off the garage door, sure to get away with it today, being the birthday girl n’ all.

The gate squeaks when I open it and as I round the corner there it is.  Balancing on a kickstand, glistening in the sun; a brand new, powder blue, Raleigh five-speed; its white-taped, ram-horned handlebars making my fingers curl, its big, red bow making my heart thump.

The garage door opens, startling me and exposing my family.

“Surprise!” all three yell, “Happy birthday!”

Unexpected tears hover just behind my lids as they all smile out at me from the cool shade of the garage, my Mom snapping away, camera in hand.

Okay, so I fell.  Only one scar lives on and even it is barely visible now. We were together, the sun was shining and I felt like I was the luckiest girl in the world.

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Spinning

Posted in Blogging, Fiction, Inspiration, Music, Relationships, Songs, Uncategorized, Writing, Young Adult Literature, tagged , , , on May 22, 2012| 9 Comments »

Dewy flush adorned our cheeks as we shuffled and bumped in the tiny powder room, vying for equal mirror time. I didn’t stand a chance of course, being at least a foot shorter than her, but that didn’t stop me from trying.

Dead or Alive shrieked from the boom box sitting on the rug just outside the open door while combs, sprays, powders, shadows and glosses riddled the small bathroom countertop, trembling to the beat.

Frankly, I didn’t need the mirror. I’d long since learned to mirrorlessly cake color and coif hair on buses, in backseats and down early morning deserted school hallways. Although it stemmed from faithlessness in my natural façade, it was a skill I was quite proud of and one that had come in handy many a time.

Eventually relenting, I sat on the toilet lid, hot vapors from the curling iron tickling my ear. I paused, cementing the curl with a spritz of Final Net as the spool of chocolate strands melted with heat. Shaking the iron gently, I loosened it from the hair, leaving behind a perfect sausage roll. Prepping the next coil, I tilted my chin to watch Jess, a master at her own ritual.

She used a fascinating, self-taught technique to apply liner, slicking it on as thick as she could get it, creating inch wide circles around her top and bottom lids. Taking a damp Q-tip, she’d swipe away the excess, leaving perfectly precise strokes behind to cocoon her diminutive eyes.

“You spin me right round, baby, right round…” Jess’ tall, thin frame bobbed to the music; her off-key crooning making me laugh.

“All I know is that to me, you look like you’re lots of fun. Open up your lovin’ arms. Watch out, here I come!” Although I couldn’t resist joining in, I barely finished the last line, giggles overtaking me.

“Quit showing off!” She complained, half serious. “You’re always stealing my songs.”

They’re hardly your songs”, I chided. “Unless you’re holding out on me and jammin’ with Pete Burns behind my back.”

“Do you think he’ll be there?” She asked, squinting at the mirror., fluffing her naturally curly, blonde hair.

“Pete Burns? I highly doubt it.” I teased. “Slightly rich taste for a good old North Side dance.”

“You know who I mean!” Her eyes widened, peeps of white speckling the muddy liner.  Do you think he’ll show?”

“Dunno…don’t care.” I sighed, hoping I sounded undoubtable.

The gymnasium was magically murky apart from the twinkle lights. They nodded and dipped as we walked under the archway and into the dance. The ceiling was flocked with pearly white balloons, their inflated heads and dangling strings reminding me of spermatozoa, compliments of elementary Sex-Ed.

“Jess!” I turned to smirk about the balloons, but she was gone, running after Sharon who looked ready to burst with the latest breaking news on the dance shenanigans.

I started to follow her, but froze. I could see him, his head swinging back and forth in front of the stage. That was it…I was stuck, breathless.

I watched him through the packs of gyrating teens, spinning girl after girl.

Jess kept coming back, begging me to dance to all our favorites. My legs twitched, knowing I should be out there having fun, but my eyes were cemented, unable to break away from his chestnut hair and tanned skin.

“Come on,” Jess whined. “The next song is the last and it’ll be a slow one. At least dance this one with me!”

I looked at her sparkly, ever-happy face and felt terrible. I’d been a total let down; the opposite of a best friend.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” I surrendered. “I don’t know why I’m wasting our night anyway.” Irritated with myself, I chiseled my stare, breaking it free.

Managing to conceal my dismay, I smiled and laughed as we bounced to Quiet Riot, my mind fleeting to the sperm-like balloons once again, as Jess hollered out; “Cum on feel the noise…”

As the song ended, Bradley Buchner hurried over to scoop her for the last number of the night.

“I’ll wait for you outside, Jess. It’s too hot in here,” I turned, but her nose was nuzzled in the crook of Bradley’s neck and Mrs. H was already hurrying over to separate them as I slunk away.

I punched the metal bar on the orange wooden door and my heart plunged into the pit of my stomach when I saw him sitting there on the steps. I wanted to slither back into the school, but he’d already heard me coming.

“Hey,” he said. “Where did you come from?”

“The gym. It was, uh, too hot in there. I needed some air.”

“You were in the gym?” he looked surprised.

“Um, yeah.” I said, looking down at my satin dress and patent pumps. Where did he think I’d been?

“Oh, yeah, I guess,” he looked away quickly. “It’s just that I was kind of keeping an eye out for you. I didn’t see you once.”

I had been hiding in the shadows, watching him all night, sabotaging my own chances of dancing with the boy I’d had a crush on for two years.

We sat silent on the cool concrete steps. Bonnie Tyler‘s echoey billows escaping the gym, drifting through the empty halls and out the door I’d left unguarded. Stars faintly twinkling behind the drooping, greyish white haze in the sky; the scene a ghost of the party inside.

I’d hidden; afraid he’d hurt me, but in the end, I’d taken care of that myself.

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