The Story

Before my sweet husband died, I liked white wine, specifically a light Germanic Riesling. Something about sticky honeysuckle paired with minerals while arguing with acidic lime was very exciting for me.

But after my husband’s death, I didn’t want excitement. I wanted soothing. I needed melody, something with body while I myself withered away. Mother tried to tell me to drink tea, as if that would do anything at all. Uncle Pete offered me a sip of his whiskey, but it bit back as it always had.

My hippy sister made me a strange tonic from her garden, it was all bubbly and tasted like vinegar. My less hippy sister gave me a handful of unmarked pills from her pharmacist husband. Though I appreciated the gesture, I’ve still got every single one in my medicine cabinet. My brother told me to take a shot of vodka, and get a hobby, like knitting.

Out of spite, I did, and I knit him a thong for his birthday. Unfortunately, the satisfaction from his panicked blush in the crowded room was only temporary. My rows and pearls were perfect, yet my heart was still frayed.

I tried turning back to my Riesling, but that wouldn’t do. Just as the first notes lifted from the glass, I knew it wasn’t right. I’d seen the love of my life placed into the dirt, and I was sure that was enough minerals and acid in my throat I’d ever need.

My only solace was among the leathery aroma of his closet, where his favorite onyx-studded belt still hung, and the smell of his cologne wafted off his shirts like a vanilla, pepper spiced ghost. What I needed was the taste of his lips when he’d find me at the gallery, soft and distinctly masculine and herbed from the rosemary crisps he snuck while listening to the artists I brought in that week. I needed the sultry deep colors he caused in my world when he touched the back of my neck at the dining table, promising a long dessert. I needed the warmth he left in a room, from the lingering smoke of his outdated pipe he insisted was classic, to the laughter he caused in every social circle.

I needed my husband.

I needed my husband.

I needed my husband.

The only other option was to untie my own line from the mooring of this life, and I just didn’t think my family could take that. So, like a good woman, a good widow, I did what needed to be done.

He had always been so proud of me. Whenever we hosted a new patron or budding artist for the gallery, he’d always find a time in the night to boast “There’s not a piece in this world she can’t get her hands on. If she wants it, she’ll have it. And you’ll see it in the gallery!” Then he’d laugh his big laugh and our guests would be laughing with him as he refilled their glass. It was charming how confident he was in me. And of course it helped that he was right.

So, after a few busy weeks of planning and scheduling, I returned to the gallery. I was afraid I would have to reestablish myself from quite low after so much time spent away, but the loyalty I had built there was still very strong. All the way from the haughtiest benefactor to the sweet, strong-backed workers who heaved the weighty sculptures to and fro, I was still offered trust and favor. And I would be thankful for each and every one.

My family noticed the change in me immediately.

“Oh dear, this is wonderful! I think getting back to work is a healthy decision.”

“There ya go kiddo, that’s a little smile I see.”

“I’m so happy, you’ve got a little color back in your face!”

Unlike the previous years, I did not spend my days working until dusk at the gallery, awaiting the sound of my husband’s Oxfords to come clicking across the marble to whisk me home. No, I took myself home in the afternoon so I could spend the rest of the day working in his old study.

And so it went. From the small sliver of window I allowed to escape the curtain, I watched the seasons change. Do-gooders would come see if I needed company on holidays or special occasions, knowing the firsts without him would be the hardest. They delivered champagne for New Years, Chambord for my birthday. But these well intentioned gifts sat untouched by the door. Because I didn’t need to try another salve. I wasn’t truly without him, not now. It was what comforted me as I worked.

A full year after my husband’s heartbreaking departure, I decided to throw a celebration of his life. A party he deserved that I had been unable to give him closer to his funeral, due to my dismal state.

I invited everyone who had ever brought cheer into his life: both our families, his old college rowing teammates, his partners at the firm (well, the ones he liked), the rotary club, every artist who had stepped foot in the gallery, their muses, and their patrons. I made sure our old neighbors and new neighbors could make it, the butcher from his favorite organic farm, the owners from all the vineyards we toured on both coasts and Europe, even the caterers were told that once food was set out, they were encouraged to join in; not a soul was to be left out of celebrating the one I cherished above all others.

And of course I furnished all the delectables he loved. Sage-buttered brisket, garlic lamb pops, squid sautéed in their own ink, enormous slabs of velvet cake, the kind of food that’s ridiculous to eat in a large crowd of people, which makes it all the more joyous to do so. And of course, best served with red wine and it had to be his favorite, Cabernet Sauvignon. I had several bottles flown in from every good year and terroir left on earth so that guests could have their choice within the varietal, but it was my demand that if you held a glass, it was filled with Cab Sav.

The night appeared to be a huge success. There was dancing out in the garden to the same jazz music that had played at our wedding. Where I worried the food may be too heavy, everywhere I looked models and athletes alike enjoyed a second, maybe third, helping. Even Mother touched my sleeve as I passed by and gave me a small smile, which made me pause long enough to realize she was in the middle of one of her lavish stories. Everyone seemed to be truly cheerful, and that was the best way I could think to dedicate a festivity to my love.

Before the revelry could ascend beyond control, I stood in the doorway of the patio and clinked my glass. It wasn’t near loud enough for them all to hear, but slowly the attention rippled through the crowd until there was hush enough for me to speak.

“First, I must thank you all for coming, and for indulging a widow in celebrating such a great man,” there was a round of cheers, “I could go on forever about how wonderful my husband was, but you all know it’s true, and many of you were kind enough to speak so here a year ago. Instead, I hope you’ll indulge me once more.”

I heard a few clinks as the cue was heard.

“You’ll see that waiters are coming around to fill your glasses afresh. This has been the passion project I’ve been working on these past many months that has brought me both closer to my late husband, and back to life. In his memory, I’ve made our very own Cabernet Sauvignon blend. Just a small batch to start, and for all of you, our dearest friends, to have the first taste with me, tonight.”

An enormous cheer went up in the crowd, and by the time the applause died down, all glasses were full and ready.

I raised my glass. “To my love!”

“Hear, hear!” They called back, and drank.

As I made another round of greetings, I received many genuine compliments on the wine! This person thought it had a nice fruit-forward mouth, this other loved the spiced back. Yet another detected the tobacco I’d worked so hard to capture.

I must say it was very reassuring. I had a small worry all my work may have been a fool’s errand. But I had to agree with them, it was a satisfactory wine. I stole away to the study for a private moment with my second taste.

Swirl Yes, like a mist of plum over the blood red surface.

Sip The pepper hits first, then his vanilla, and the leather last.

Swallow And just as with him, it is the slight smoke that lingers, and the warmth spreading into my fingers.

Another sip, and I pick out the more earthy, mosslike tones as well. They hadn’t been my favorite when I settled on a blend, but I felt they were appropriate to keep, considering what I’d gone through to get them.

As I passed back through to rejoin my guests, I caught myself in one of the hall mirrors. I did indeed have a nice glow about me. They were right what they said- a little color back in my face. Though I could do without the stain red wine leaves on one’s lips.

Yet, what a small sacrifice to taste my husband again. Beauty may be in the eye, but flavor… that’s in the heart.

The Word

Tincture: (noun) 1. Medicine made by dissolving a drug in alcohol. 2. A slight trace of something. (verb) Be tinged, flavored, or imbued with a slight amount of.

Happy Hallow’s Eve!

This year looks a bit different for most people when it comes to Halloween, but that doesn’t mean we can miss out on the good stories. For myself, I am a scardy cat, but I still really love scary stories! I’ve wondered why that is for a long time. I think it has to do with the mystery, the intrigue. To actually be a scary story, it has to be well written. Think of stories that have truly spooked you- they’re all good authors, right? You have to know your way around timing and character, laying down the law and the land and a few clues to really draw someone in.

So attempting to write a scary story is actually really good practice for growing authors (such as myself). It helps you find that sweet spot of how much to tell readers, when to pull back, if a gotchu-moment is right for this one, when it’s not, etc. It’s interesting to say the least!

Today’s story was inspired by an actual TRUE story, themed much like the one above- a little sweet, a little spooky, and it is that of the Mother of Horror herself, Mary Shelley. If you don’t know what she used to keep in her desk, go check it out! Also just read up on Mary Shelley in general, because although she did not have the best life, she was a fascinating person that had really interesting things happen to her, and in between some of it she wrote Frankenstein.

The Story

My hand gets a little heavy with the newbies’ first glass or two, just a splash for that extra ounce or so. They’re often nervous, trying not to stick out, which makes them stick out even more, and I take it as part of my job to calm them down a bit. The ones hiding among a group of experienced tasters are even cuter, nodding along with the notes, trying to keep up with the different names and phrases.

I’m Head Vino Guide at Leonadi Vineyards, here just below Tulalip Bay. All that means is I’m the dude pouring your wine, and I’ve been here longer than the other dudes pouring wine.

Here, Cab Sav is king. But lucky for the red-shy newbies I adore so much, Riesling is prince, so there are still a few flavor notes with which I can wade them in.

For the sweet second-wife out with her new husband and adult step-kids, I point out the cool minerality left on the back of the tongue. She likes this word, and rolls it around in her mouth before swallowing. I wink at her coyly so she knows this is a good move. When we later discuss the Syrah, the step-daughter happily agrees with her that this is distinctly not “mineral-y”, and I feel like I’ve helped.

When the young man enters toting a very excited girlfriend, I point out the lime he’ll inhale before he even sips. He gets excited when his flared nostrils do indeed, and makes a note every time he finds another fruit throughout the tasting. Girlfriend appears very pleased, even mildly impressed. She pecks him on the cheek and I feel a whisper of it on mine.

The Bridge club comes in, and this time there’s a new member among us. After a happy wave and a swift update on everyone’s medical issues and grandchildren accomplishments, I am told this is Luanne. Her husband retired recently and Annette noticed at church that sweet Luanne needed some time out of the house, thus the Bridge club. They have come here almost every Saturday for the past two years, and I still have no idea if they actually play Bridge. Luanne, though charmed by the pear essence in her Sauvignon, is equally so with the spiced butter notes in the Chardonnay. I tell her she has quite the refined palette and accuse her of knowing more than she lets on. She blushes and the other silver birds laugh, pleased to have another in the flock.

I’ve been here a long time. Like I said, the longest of any of us. It wasn’t on purpose. I kinda landed here. Several years ago, I was gunning for top spot at a suave bar in the middle of the city, the kinda place where A-list celebrities hide in dark glasses and rich old women go to tell their stories to poor novelists. But I was knocked out of the running by some up-and-comer with “more the attitude we’re looking for.” While I was soaking my sorrows in a 2012 Keuka Pinot Grigio, that up-and-comer slid a napkin with a number on it over to me.

“I know you don’t want to work under me. And it’d be a shame to waste that pallet. My sister knows a guy up north looking for someone like you if you want some fresh air.”

And here I am. 

Fresh air turned out for the best, I think. I belong with the wine people more than I ever did the cocktail crowd. I can read these fellas now as well as the legs of a merlot down the sides of a glass.

You can see it in the swirl, the carry tells you everything if you look properly: the depth, the age, the blush, where it came from, where it’s going. Some are bright and joyfully effervescent. And I do love a bold, deep body that has aged into its place. But others are dark with too much density. There’s no need to carry such weight if you have the flavor to back it up, ya know? Or those that think their lack of complexity makes them cute and quirky, when really we all know they’ll just be put on the shelf until next summer.

Yes I know, there’s a certain joy and sophistication in simplicity. But there has to be a class to it as well. Take this young gentleman breaking away from his table. A few hours ago, he showed up with what looks like his date and the date’s family. It’s a fairly new romance, as he’s still trying to make impressions, but all parties already appear pretty comfortable. During the tasting he stuck close to said date, yet made sure to make several comments affirming the mother’s favoritism towards the peppery Petit Sirah. He’ll buy one for the table later as a thoughtful gesture. But oh how his face lit up when we hit the Barbera. I’d had a feeling since the beginning he’d want all those dark blackberries, so this is where I let my hand linger for just another moment over his glass. An extra drop for courage. After they all giggle and gush over their charcuterie board for a bit, here he is back at the bar as predicted. Hazel eyes and a genuine smile. When he asks for a bottle of the Petit Sirah, I know I’ve gotten another one right. A good man. Pairs well with the more emblazoned, does well to balance others. Uncomplicated, yet classy. 

Nothing like the heady cougar who has brought her third boyfriend of the summer and put it all on her husband’s tab. She’ll push the glass back and forth across the bar, barely ever taking a real sip, while her companion smiles coyly at her. She’s light, but astringent. He doesn’t know how long the flavor will last, and since he isn’t listening to my tasting notes, I can’t give him any warning. 

That’s the only time I suppose I get frustrated. I’ve been here a long time, longer than anyone else. I know these vintages, and can read the new ones fairly well. Take my word for it, if a sommelier like me makes a suggestion, you ought to take it.

The Story

Savor (verb) 1. Taste (good food or drink) and enjoy it completely. 2. Have a suggestion or trace of (something, especially something bad). (Adj) A characteristic taste, flavor, or smell, especially a pleasant one.

I have to admit to the pleasure of knowing I’m the wine snob among my group of friends. One of my friends recently pointed out that it’s the time of the year when I start the official campaign for us all to switch back to red wine, and she’s not wrong (although THIS year, time has meant very little, so stick with whatever colors suit you).

This character and I fought for a while. I couldn’t decide whether he needed to be playful or creepy with his ability to read people. You can decide for yourself which way he went. And he might pop back up again, get reworked, lean the other way. People do change, ya know…

Personally, I love people watching, but I think there’s a huge difference in doing so and actually being able to pick up on someone’s entire story. Are you able to pick up on people’s stories as they go by? Or do you ever wonder if people can sense a chapter of yours as you go by them?

I can’t wait for the day when sitting peacefully at a winery is a common occurrence again. It’s one of my happy places, not just for the wine, but because of the people there as well. Whether it’s Fall or Spring, it always seems to have an air of anticipation, and I’m always on the edge of my seat, and yet somehow relaxed.

I hope whatever you’re up to, you can find a nice place to people watch, or read, or just sit for a moment and sip, dear reader. Cheers!

The Story

Marcus was new to the city, and since his years in New York taught him to be a walker, he figured that was the best way to learn Georgetown as well.

So after a couple weeks of adjusting at his new firm and too many single-serve microwave meals, he woke up early on a Saturday, popped a couple reusable grocery bags in his backpack, and determined to find a local market of some sort.

It didn’t take long. The kind barista at Espresso Yourself was happy to tell a new resident about the farmers’ market, as well as the small butcher shop, and the produce mart down on Yarn St. run by a quiet Japanese woman that would hunt down any rare ingredient you could ask for.

Marcus was not disappointed. Arms laden with successful shopping, he struggled back to his apartment. He made a quick omelet from some of his findings before heading back out for more exploration. This time, sans backpack, full stomach, and a lighter step. With the markets identified, he already had a big win under his belt for the day, so everything else he discovered was just going to be icing.

There was a lot to see! The place was dotted with small monuments and modern art, a couple of little wine bars and clothes boutiques, several more little food shops. He stopped in a bakery because the smell wafting from the door was a siren’s call of fresh bread. A few minutes later, he was exiting again with a small paper bag of crispy sugared nuggets of goodness, half dipped in a hazelnut ganache.

He was so distracted by the baked goods and his luck of just one day’s touring that he let his feet lead him onward without attention. It wasn’t until the noticeable switch from poured sidewalk to grassy field that he looked up at all.

It appeared he’d landed in a small, but ornate, cemetery. The orientation at his new job had told him that many of the cemeteries in town held notable historic figures, and Marcus spotted a large plaque on a granite pillar a few yards off that most likely listed which ones resided in this particular graveyard. He thought to head towards it and read which ones, but stopped.

The small field felt serene, as if even in this busy city, he were interrupting a quiet conversation. At the same time, there was no forbidding unwelcome in the air, just a formalness. He understood somehow that stepping into the space would be alright, as long as he kept his manners and made friendly with the hosts.

The thought of all that seemed a little dreary for his spring day and warm sugared biscuits, so Marcus made a deliberate turn back towards sidewalk, city, and sound.

Sunday he spent happily cutting and prepping his fresh vegetables for the week, FaceTiming his mother to prove that there were indeed green things in his diet once again.

But the next weekend, after dropping off another round of finds from the farmers’ market, he let his feet return him to the small cemetery path they’d led him to the week before.

This day was sunny with clear skies. Marcus didn’t consider himself a suspicious person, but he figured if there was a safe day to enter a cemetery, it was this one. So over the threshold he crossed.

He recognized some of the names on the historical plaque: A few original Cabinet members, some other people he was pretty sure he should know, but had forgotten their acclaims sometime between AP History and that moment. At least he could tell his coworkers he looked.

He began to walk the grassy paths of the graveyard, the keepers of which were clearly tidy workers. The green paths were lined with rows of oyster white pebbles, dotted here and there with healthy rose bushes of every color from sunniest yellow to deep, solemn ruby. Each headstone, whether large and ornate or small and simple, was perfectly edged and kept from weeds. Some had been blurred by time, but Marcus supposed that was unavoidable.

Since his feet had led him here that first day, he allowed them again to turn him this way and that along the rows. He’d always had a fascination with names, and there were several interesting ones here: Irvington Mullen, Forrest Woods, Brogen Proudfoot. People came up with such strange sounds to call someone else. Whenever there was a newborn in his own family, they just plucked a name from somewhere random in the family tree and passed it down, sometimes rearranging a few syllables. But he was still impressed when he came across the column of James John Jacobston’s that went from the Ist all the way to the VIth!

He paused briefly under a cherry tree, admiring the different shades of white and dappled pink on its branches. He heard he’d just missed the peak bloom of the season, but this tree still seemed particularly pleased to show off plenty of blossoms. As he wondered if he should add some plants to his grocery list for his balcony, a large blossom set itself lose and began drifting away on the breeze. He watched until the petals landed on a granite tile, set just outside the shade of the tree. The name on it caught his eye.

Penelope

It was his grandmother’s name. He sidled over to read the details.

Penelope Smith 1921 – 2012 Brilliant and Beloved

Penelope Smith was even born the same year as his grandmother, but she had passed a year before his.

He smiled sympathetically at the plot, “Are all Penelopes brilliant and beloved by birthright, Mrs. Smith?” For his had been, as well.

Marcus saw the pewter vase by Penelope Smith’s marker stood empty. He wasn’t sure if this meant she was not visited often, or if they had simply wilted. Judging by the rest of the gardening, he doubted a brown flower would last long in this place before it was taken to be mulched. He stood a moment longer, feeling an odd connection to the unknown woman, and then he told his feet it was time for home, and off they went.

After another successful but relatively uneventful week of his new workplace, it was time for his weekend ritual, which Marcus was really loving. A caramel cappuccino to-go from Espresso Yourself, then a pass by the butcher shop (this time it was pork loin), and off to the farmers’ market.

He’d grabbed several vegetables, a homemade hummus, and a fresh loaf of bread, as well as a cheese danish he’d already half finished, when he stopped by the sweet couple at the herb stand. The wife was walking him through how to make a chimichurri with the cilantro when the bushels of flowers caught his eye. He thanked her, prayed he could remember that word long enough to google it, and made his way to the flowers still unsure if it was a good idea.

Was it a weird-person thing to do to buy flowers for a dead person you didn’t know?

But, he’d wandered around in her cemetery… and he couldn’t buy flowers for everyone in there. And it’s not like there was tip jar for the gardeners. He decided it was much weirder to stand in the way staring at flowers arguing with himself, so he bought a handful of purple flowers with little orange faces that looked happy to him. He figured if he talked himself out of it, they’d look nice on his counter.

But he didn’t talk himself out of it. In a few blocks, he found himself, still laden with his full bags, in front of Penelope Smith’s grave.

“Hello again,” he murmured, then glanced up to make sure no one heard him. But the other visitors were far out of hearing range. Then again, even if they weren’t, he figured most people would assume he knew her and people talk to their passed loved ones all the time.

“These um, these are for you,” he set down his bags so he could properly arrange the skinny stems into the vase. He wished he had some water to pour in with them. Next time, he thought.

And he did, next time, bring a little water bottle with him. It had been a hot week, so he wasn’t surprised to find the gardeners had removed his flowers, as they had probably succumbed to the weather. This time he brought dark blue flowers.

“The gentlemen who run the stand say these are del-somethings,” He told Penelope, “I have to admit, I’m not great with flower names. But I hope you like them.”

He sat down at the bottom of her plot. It was a sunny day, and he’d grabbed an extra cheese danish from the farmer’s market. Marcus had been told that the winters around here were feisty, so he was to spend every single pretty day outside while he could.

“All my coworkers have kids and stuff. They’re at little league games and soccer tournaments today. I haven’t quite found my crew yet, ya know? So I don’t have much to do. I hope you don’t mind if I hang out here a bit.”

If she did mind, she didn’t say so.

When he finished his danish, he looked around, saw that Penelope was next to a Leonard Smith who passed in 2010, but the other surrounding names were all McKinns.

“Is that your maiden name, maybe? Or are you two on your own?”

Penelope didn’t answer, but she was still a pretty good listener.

Her listening became part of the weekend ritual. Spring was turning into summer, and he was starting to see squash and tomatoes at the market. He took up more trekking around the city, and even up into the nearby mountains to work off the danishes and the recipes he was experimenting with, but he always made sure to drop by Mrs. Penelope’s plot and tell her how his week had been. It made him feel better, for some reason. He felt maybe she liked to listen. And a small part of him hoped she was passing it on to his own grandma that he was doing alright.

The young men who ran the flower stand began to expect Marcus and finally introduced themselves, Dan and Lee. They never asked why he bought a bouquet each week, but when it became clear how hopeless Marcus was when it came to flowers, the lessons started.

“Now what is this?”

“An impatien?”

“No, hun, you’re impatient. Try again.”

“….geranium?”

“Ding ding ding!”

Marcus was very pleased with himself placing the fuchsia blossoms in Penelope’s vase that week. He told her he was taking Dan and Lee out for beers later as a thanks for the lessons thus far.

“Brews for blooms, is what Lee called it,” Marcus laughed. A breeze shifted a set of wind chimes hung on a nearby vault, and it sounded like laughter answering back.

Another week passed, and another. Soon, ears of corn and apple tarts were replacing the summer veggies at the market stalls. Dan demanded Marcus try the pumpkin butter from the bakery stand, and Marcus was glad he had relented. He grabbed an extra jar to send to his sister, as well as several pretzel rolls for his guests later that week. He’d been introduced to Dan and Lee’s group of friends and was immediately folded in as if he’d always been one of them. He was excited to finally host them all for a board game night and show off a few new hors d’oeuvre recipes.

A small drizzle was starting, so his usual stroll to the cemetery was instead a brisk walk, and he was glad he’d packed an umbrella with his bags that morning. He hoped it wouldn’t rain too hard that it would batter the petals.

He was placing a collection of different colored zinnias in her vase while telling Penelope Smith about the baked brie he was going to make for his guests, when there was a deliberate clearing of the throat behind him.

Feeling caught red handed, but then defensive, and then back to caught all in one second, he swiveled to see who the throat-clearer could be.

From his crouched position by the vase, the woman was both towering over him, and had quite the towering presence. His eyes filed up from her flats, to her dark jeans, past her sweatshirt announcing Georgetown Marathon 2017, to pursed pink lips on a mildly freckled face. But it was the arched amber eyebrows and deep brown eyes, like spilled cinnamon, Marcus thought, that made her so very imposing in the moment.

“Hello there,” Marcus managed.

“Hellooooo?”

It was a question, but Marcus was unsure what kind of answer the alluring woman wanted.

“May I help you?”

“I certainly hope so. Did you know my grandmother? The gardeners have said a gentleman has been coming all summer, and I assume that’s you.”

Marcus looked around. They appeared to be the only two in the cemetery that day. Not surprising, given the weather. But he’d actually never spotted the meticulous gardeners. He’d begun his own little inside joke that the cemetery kept itself this neat.

“Well, they’d be correct,” was all he managed.

“So you do know her?” The woman took a step closer. Her shoulders were calm, but the eyebrows remained questioning. It was clear she was suspicious, but didn’t want to insult a true fellow mourner.

“Um, sorta? I’ve, we’ve been… chatting.”

“Chatting?”

“Chatting.”

“She did like a good chat.”

“That’s good to know,” Marcus stood, feeling he’d gained a little ground in the conversation. When he did, he realized that although the woman was quite a bit shorter than he, the tall presence she gave off still very much remained.

“So you didn’t know her before she died.”

“No, not at all.”

The woman waited, glanced down at her grandmother’s name plate, and then back at Marcus, again arching an eyebrow as if to say, go on.

So he did. He hadn’t told anyone else, even as his friendship with Dan and Lee grew, even as Mrs. Garcia at the herb stand began to fuss over him like her own child, even as the baristas at Espresso Yourself learned his order and invited him to their happy hours, he had told no one about his little affair at the cemetery. It wasn’t that he was embarrassed at the oddness of it, alright maybe a bit, but it was also just a quiet little thing he had to himself.

But this was Penelope’s granddaughter. She actually had a right to Penelope Smith, and Marcus figured therefore a right to know why a strange man had been placing flowers at the grave for the past several months and talking to the stone like an old friend, just because he noticed a name.

The women listened, nodding occasionally. Marcus wasn’t sure if this was to agree or just to encourage him to continue. When he was finished, he waited for her answer. She stared at Penelope’s marker for another moment.

“Well… part of me is glad someone was keeping her company while I was gone. And part of me thinks you’re kinda weird.”

“I think that’s… that’s fine. Both seem reasonable.” Marcus paused, “back? So you do live around here?”

She gave him a warning look, “I do. Sometimes work takes me away for a while. I’m normally the one bringing her flowers,” she took off a string backpack and carefully pulled from it three yellow blooms wrapped in familiar paper. She moved to tuck them in alongside Marcus’s zinnias, and he shifted back to give her room. Doing so moved him out of the slight guard of the cherry tree and he realized the drizzle had turned to a steady soft rain, so he opened his umbrella.

“I couldn’t find sunflowers,” she said, Marcus wasn’t sure if she was still speaking to him, “but these looked like baby ones to me.”

“Sanvitalia,” Marcus said automatically.

She looked up at him, then back at the flowers, and gave an approving, “Huh.”

“That’s what they’re called. And uh,  I am called Marcus.”

She stood back up and held out her hand, “Hi Marcus, I’m Olivia, Penelope and Leonard’s youngest grandkid.”

“It’s nice to meet you. I really didn’t mean to… insult by hanging out here with them.”

Finally, Olivia smiled, “You didn’t. Really, I think it’s sweet. Weird, a little odd, but sweet. I’ve probably watched too many crime shows.”

Marcus laughed, and he liked the way it made Olivia’s smile brighten a bit more.

“Well, this may make it even weirder… but I’d love to hear more about your grandparents. Could I buy you a drink?

“Absolutely not.”

“…oh.”

“Well that’s a bit eerie, isn’t it?” She tilted her head, really seeming to ask him,  “We introduce ourselves over my grandparents’ graves and then we go for a drink like we’ve had a meet-cute or something?”

“I suppose so, I apologize.”

He felt the red rising up his neck into his cheeks. Of course she wouldn’t want to make a new friend in this place. What had he been thinking? She came here to mourn her grandparents and he asks her to a drink like some sort of-

“Damn it, alright.” She paused. “Grandma always said I needed to be more spontaneous, that I was too calculating for so young. Come on, weirdo. I know a cute bar a few blocks away.” She looked him square in the eye, “But if you murder me, I will be absolutely furious.”

He smiled again, “Totally understandable.” He silently thanked Penelope, telling her he’d bring the entire flower cart if any part of meeting this gorgeous granddaughter was her doing.

Olivia was retying her sting backpack, “I’m texting my friends so they know if they don’t hear from me in a while to be suspicious.”

“Excellent, I’ll do the same. Never know what a pretty girl might have learned from all the crime shows she’s watched.”

She laughed, “I like that. I think my grandma would have liked you.”

Marcus felt this was the highest of compliments for their short time together, and it emboldened him to offer his arm to her.

She didn’t take it, but did place her hand over his on the handle of the umbrella.

He nodded at the compromise, “Lead the way.”

The Word

Kismet (noun): Destiny; fate. (or as my father defined it, “a purposeful coincidence”)

It’s a little odd, that we got the news Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg passed while I was working on this story about a passing grandmother. Because while the Notorious RBG was a household name for the fight for equality, she was also a grandmother. Maybe that’s a little bit of kismet too? I pray for ease of spirit for all of us mourning her loss, especially her family and grandkids.

There are some words I like so much that I wait until I’m sure I’ve gotten the right inspiration for them, that I’m doing them justice. This is one of them. Kismet is one of those revered words that means so much to me.

No matter your belief system, it’s simply mathematical truth that for every moment to occur, billions upon billions of seemingly unrelated ones have to happen before it. So when something special ‘random’ happens- that moment your eyes meet hers, you catch the heirloom he almost shattered, you and your soon-to-be new best friend reach for the same peanut butter jar- the universe has worked its ass off to get you there. I love that. Whether it’s true or not, I love the romance of every tiny movement trying to create those sunrise, heart race, crescendo twinkles of time for us.

(and personally, I do believe in it) 

So go forth, lovely reader. And take flowers with you!

A continuation of Today I am Wretch...

The Story

“She came out of NO WHERE!”

I did. I really did. I might be getting too good at this.

“I saw, lad,” Jacob was wiping peroxide across Conley’s shoulder blades. Conley’s super speed applied slightly to his healing, but the Queen of Diamonds had gotten him pretty good this time. As if she’d been in a mood for him being an ass lately or something. Huh.

“You saw? You were out there? That’s really dangerous, dude.”

Jacob paused and looked at me across the room. I was at the stove making a generous stack of chicken quesadillas to fill up ‘Sir Steam’ after his loss, as if that would make up for my causing it. I shrugged my shoulders back at Jacob’s unspoken question.

“Conley… it’s on Reddit already. An’ it’s not good.”

Mattis, our only friend left still strong enough to spot Conley at the gym, cracked his knuckles as if to challenge the keyboard warriors himself, “You’re going to have to get back in the public eye pretty quick before this takes off.”

“It’s already taken off.”

They all looked up at me then, and I did my best to stare back at them calmly before steadily adding another tortilla to my pan.

“What do you- tssss OW, Jacob! What do you mean?”

I turned back around to answer Conley, and it really was hard to see him in pain. I was upset, but really hadn’t meant for him to go down that hard. Even from across the room I could see the bruises still blooming across his cheek and down one arm.

We’d gotten into it in the middle of the street. Like a couple of losers.

That’s why I’d been so mad. Here’d I’d been, working my ass off for how long? to create this sophisticated arch nemesis for him, this slow burn of a woman to come out of the woodwork- not some cheapskate Mole Man, but a Queen! Late nights designing, plotting, scheming, webbing into the networking of more established villains to portray someone worthy of the hero he was destined to be and he-

He.

He’d been too godsdamned busy at a D level celebrity party to take the bait to stop a small yes small but still fire at my uncle’s apartment complex. MY UNCLE. Had I set it? No of course not. One of my contemporary’s had done that, without my previous knowledge. Said contemporary is now out of the game for… the foreseeable future.

Conley had been informed about the fire. He could have gotten there in time. He’s SUPER HUMAN FAST. And due to my uncle’s status in the art world, there would have been lights, cameras, fan fare. He could have made a moving speech to the press about how this one “meant something more” because of his dear friend’s family (which also would have you know, been nice to have me and my uncle fawning in the background looking innocent and all). But do you know what he said? You know what got reported back to me by another contemporary (because of course there were villains at a D list celebrity party, who do you think the host was?)

“It’s just a little flame. That’s what the fire department is for. Can I have another spritzer?”

CAN YOU HAVE ANOTHER SPRITZER? I’LL GIVE YOU A SPRITZ.

And that’s why, when after I’d moved my uncle to my own home until the fire department cleared his complex for good measure, and was walking back to check on his crazy ass cat lady neighbor because he begged me to, I saw Conley walking tipsily on the street with some entourage behind him, and couldn’t help myself. Here, this whole time, my goal had been to create such an entourage for him, to encourage a fan club just like that one. And he was soaking up their two-bit worship instead of doing. his damn. job.

The irony was not lost on me. And my new barbed-laced gloves were not lost on his face.

The face which looked quite gloomy even as I placed a large stack of quesadillas before him.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, retreating back to the stove, “it’s already on YouTube. And there are some TikTok dances about it.”

“…dances?” He muffled between cheesy mouthfuls.

“Yeah,” Mattis pulled up the app,  “Like, apparently some kids got video from a window. And some people thought the Queen’s lasers made cool sounds… so they like, set it to music.”

Conley flipped through some of the videos, cursing occasionally and taking angrier and angrier bites out of his food.

“They’re taking her side!”

Jacob began cleaning up all the astringent stinking paper towels, and I stood to help him, just now realizing how much work he’d had to do on our friend. Staring at his shoulders as I followed him to the bathroom, that guilt felt even heavier. I hadn’t factored it in when I was beating all of my resentment out on Conley.

I grabbed Jacob tightly by the wrist as we washed our hands to get the remnants of blood and hydrogen peroxide off. I didn’t know whether there wasn’t enough air in the room, or if I just couldn’t force it down my throat.

Sweet Jacob didn’t hesitate, in a swift movement he pulled the door closed, and me tightly into his chest. My body shook, as if it was trying to literally shake off the entire day. From worrying about my uncle, to the fury with Conley. Then, (can I face it?) enjoying the fight for the first time, only to see the ripple it’s had on Mattis and Jacob… I- good gods. I wanted my mom. My knees began to lose any strength to hold me up. I was going to fall, and then barf, and then maybe never get up again.

Thankfully, Jacob’s arms were still holding me upright, and that was another thing to feel terrible about. This was all because of me, yet here he was being so kind and caring.

He of course misread my concern, “I know you’re scared for ‘im, hun. We’re all worried. But he’s strong, this is jus-a blip. It’ll be alright.”

I pulled back enough to look at him, and staring up into his sandstone eyes, I wanted to just tell him everything. Simply blurt: Actually, I’m only a little worried about Conley. I’m really worried about my sanity. ‘Cause I’m the bad guy, and I’m getting too good at it. And I’m so so sorry you’re covered in our friend’s blood and Mattis is having to strategize again and it’s all my fault!

But I couldn’t say that. Not only for how terrible cliche’ it would be, and Uncle had preached against cliche’ as long as I can remember, but because I’d chosen this burden. I was a big girl who decided to be the Queen of Diamonds, and I would have to keep my big girl pants on through this too.

Not just that, but I’d already caused my friends so much trouble today; asking Jacob to bear this with me would just be causing more.

So instead, I said what I could:

“Thank you. I don’t know what he’d do if you weren’t always here to sew him back together.”

He squeezed me tightly and kissed my forehead. I felt his smile as he whispered into my hair, “If we, weren’t here.”

The Word

Retch (verb): 1. Make the sound and movement of vomiting. 2. Vomit

(noun): A movement or sound of vomiting.

What does it mean, to be really good at doing the wrong thing? Is it still called a Gift at that point? I wonder.

The Queen of Diamonds is easily one of my favorite characters to work with, but also a hard one! She has so much to think about, and so many warring intentions. I think working with her challenges me as a writer, which is both good for me and scary.

Because the other thing about her is that her story isn’t really… hers? It’s also Conley’s. And now Mattis’s, and Jacob’s, and also her Uncle’s*, and her sister’s, and she knows that. It’s something we all have to remember sometimes. Yes, our actions are our own, but the ripple effect, hits every chapter of the loved ones around us. The Queen of Hearts is just hitting them with lasers!

So happy reading, and happy rippling, lovely readers!

Anyone figured out who her Uncle is yet?! I’ll send a special treat to the first person to guess right. Send your guesses to me via the Connect page 🙂

Hello lovely readers! If it's been a while or you're new here & you'd like a refresher on The Called, visit Today I am Remora or Today I am Daedal. But don't feel obligated- immortals really don't feel the need for a timeline, so neither should you.

The Story

“Gods BELLS it is cold!”

“…where are we?”

“More like when are we?”

“The next one to say something useless gets knocked the fuck off this mountain.”

It was godsdamn cold. I didn’t know where or when we were, but cliché questions get under my skin. We arrived together onto what looked like a lesser peak of a wintery mountain range. So we all had the same information, and judging by how fast those dark clouds were moving, we had more important issues than the timeline.

“Is everyone still in one piece?” I cared more about McKoi and Genile but I was looking at Fendoialin. The old wizard was more hunched than usual, wrapped up in his gray robes and pulling a familiar plum scarf around his head. I had no idea how old his bones were, but a snowstorm couldn’t be good for them. To his credit though, he looked up at me and gave a sturdy nod.

“I’m not sure I would call this one piece.” McKoi’s pack had gotten blow open in the shift from the entrance site to the mountain. He was attempting to gather the journals, med wraps, and random weapons back into his bag.

“Not what I meant, private. Stuff aside- anything broken?”

“Yes!”

I pulled my feet out of the snow and ran across it to Genile, but where I though she was clutching a shattered elbow or radius, she was cooing over a broken telescope.

“…really, private?”

“It can see over curve, sergeant! I had to fight a siren for this!”

“I meant YOU, you miserable lot! Is anyone here in PAIN or unable to move due to a bodily injury that needs healing in the CURRENT moment?!”

“…no.”

“No, sergeant.”

Fendoialin grunted and shook his head.

“Sergeant-” McKoi was looking upwards.

“Yes, I saw the clouds, we gotta get off this mountain quick as we can.”

“But your gem,” Private Genile started, “and the tree sent us up here.”

I hefted my pack from one shoulder to the other, taking Fendoialin’s off his back, (the hell is in here? heavy as a boulder!) experiencing no protest from him for the first time in a century. “I don’t care. We can’t hunt for a Champion if we’re frozen to death.”

“We can’t exactly-”

“OKAY,” I rounded on Genile, “we can’t hunt a Champion if we’re frozen ALIVE either. Better, Private?!”

I held her stare until she looked down at her feet and gave me an apologetic, “Yes, Sergeant.”

“We could make a little ice hut,” McKoi offered, “dig into the mountain-”

“So you know what range this is, McKoi?” I dropped both packs to the ground so I could stand at my full height, even if it was still a few inches below his.

“No, Sergeant.”

“Then you don’t know the season. The chances for avalanche. The local fauna, and if it wants to eat us. We go down the mountain until the storm has passed. And if anyone speaks again while my feet are still on snow, I rip their jaw off and don’t put it back on until I feel like it.”

Several breaths passed. I waited to make sure there were no further responses. Then closing my eyes, felt for North, felt for the way down, hefted the packs, and started walking.

It was moments like these, when my neck was hot from anger and embarrassment, that all my centuries of age felt like nothing, and I was young and inexperienced again. As if I hadn’t earned my stripes over and over again. And I couldn’t get Captain’s voice outta my head.

“They’ll follow you blindly when it matters.”

The day had ended with a particularly unpleasant fight with some hadishuns, and many of the Called had taken tough hits that would heal slowly. We’d told the entire crew to take the night, sleep it off, and we would be the night watch ourselves. It was rather nice the few times the Captain and I got a moment alone to speak without a private near by. 

“Sometimes they still speak back to me, Captain. How do you do it? There’s not a peep when you give an order.”

Captain Collins lifted her brow at me. 

“Okay well, Jones talks a lot, but we still always do what you say.”

The Captain took a long drag from her pipe, and it made her look so old and wise in her unwrinkled face, that for a second I could imagine her in a different place, in a normal life, and I wondered if she missed it. 

“Well your leadership training isn’t really complete. And you know it. And since you know it, they can smell that on you.”

I laughed, “Oh good, a smelly sergeant. And when do ya think my training is going to be over?”

She winked, “When you’re the Captain.”

The Word

Direction (noun): 1. A course along which someone or something moves. 2. The management or guidance of someone or something.

What I wouldn’t do for Jack Sparrow’s compass sometimes, ya know? If you’ve seen the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, you know it doesn’t just point North. And sometimes, we’re more than a little lost.

Sergeant Teak is a lot lost. On the top of mountain, with no bearings, and even the meekest of The Called are challenging her commands. It’s not a great place to not be able to spot the North star.

I think in times like our world is going through now, it’s hard to feel like we’ve got direction even while on a defined path. We feel like Jack Sparrow when the compass is spinning wildly (what do I even want?) and Sergant Teak on the top of a mark-less mountain (and where they hell am I?).

I don’t have the answer. I’m walking along, myself. But I think Sergeant Teak is right about one thing- you can always rejoin the path after rest. When you’ve settled, when you look down at your compass, and it’s stopped spinning- pointing one way and you’re ready to go again.

Happy travels, lovely readers. Maybe the skies always be clear when you need direction.

The Story

The steam rose slowly, stretching up towards the ceiling, unraveling towards the ceiling like a waking creature.

She didn’t mind if she never rose again. She turned the nozzle over further.

The scalding water raced over her body, angry tracts in its wake where her skin disagreed with the temperature onslaught. But her bones needed the heat; her heart and her headache needed the heat, so she just made a mental note to use her good lotion as an apology, should she ever leave the shower.

She let herself lean against the back wall, and the shock of the still-cool tile while breathing in the fresh steam almost felt like life. But it was quickly gone again, so she slid all the way down until she could stretch her legs out and close her eyes while still feeling the torturous, blessed spray.

Her hands played at sudsing her body. That’s what one does in a tub, but it wasn’t really why she was here. What needed to be cleansed tonight could not be done with her Coconut & Mango Sugar Scrub. But she pushed the little bubbles around as if it might.

Gradually, the steam pulled the hiccup from her chest that had been stuck there for three days. It was a painful release. As the heat filled her, it pushed out the slow, dull tears that too had been captive. She’d hated the weight of them within her, but the forced acknowledgment of them, even alone, seemed worse.

Then, as if she were the heirloom kettle out on her stove, the next hot drop hit to send her over, but instead of a whistle, a wail exploded from deep within her chest to meet the blistering air around her.

But it felt could to feel both the scratch on her throat from her scream at the same time the hot water attempted to sooth it, so she screeched again, and again, until it collapsed in on itself into a sob.

Reaching out and thrashing at the water, begging it to both hold her and leave her alone at the same time, as if she were once again a young girl fighting a night time bath.

She was so behind on the things that needed to get done now. She’d been on a schedule. How far behind track was this? Years, at least. An entire plan redrawn again. Some of it her fault, some of it not. Some things she’d thrown out, some things were just accidentally, irreparably lost. The few things gained could not yet be dwelled on from the depth of it all.

It just HURT. And she was tired of it hurting. She wanted to crack open her chest and just pull whatever that dark pain was out. Let the water get in.

Finally, she was just tired. She blew all the snot from her nose the hard crying had caused, thinking how that part was never included in the movies. It was gross, but she could breathe again.

She laughed. And it felt like a little joke from the universe to make her smile.

On purpose, she forced a deep breath of steam in. She wasn’t better, but that bit was out of her, for now. She closed her eyes and leaned back against the tile again.

“Oh Peter,” she whispered, “it was a rough day today.”

 

 

“Momma?”

One more little breath, “In here!” and she heard the confident footsteps of her daughter gallop closer, then stop at the door.

“I’m home!”

A smile split over Liza’s lips. There wasn’t always the Hallmark or Gilmore Girl magic in being a single mother, but there was something about the exuberance of a child simply being pleased to arrive in your presence that just… helped.

She slid from the tub and quickly wrapped a towel around her waist so she could open the door to shout down a response, but found her daughter still there in the hallway.

“Oh! Good,” Liza planted a kiss on the top of rebellious brown curls, “I’m glad you’re home. I was just freshening up. How was rehearsal?”

“Terrible, sorta.” Big round eyes stared up at Liza, dangerously blue and filled with so many worlds. But there was still joy there, and Liza would not project her own difficult afternoon on her child; she swore it to whoever was listening and everyone else too.

“Uh oh, well let me get some pants on and you tell me about it while I show you the mess I made in the workshop today-”

 

The Word

Bloom (verb): When coffee grounds come in contact with hot water, they release carbon dioxide and often bubble and expand. Coffee blooming is the act of dampening your coffee bed to provoke this release of carbon dioxide.

I’ve missed Liza, and even though she was having a hard day, was so happy to visit with her again. If you need a little reminder for where we’ve seen her last, here are her big hits: Today I am Carry, Today I am Susurrus, & Today I am Steady.

I have a Chemex pour-over that has seen a few different lives. It has lived at a lake in South Carolina while my parents were dating, then had to sustain the entire family during weekend trips there. It moved to different cities in Virginia, may have dropped by Pennsylvania, and now it’s here with me, on my counter, suspicious of its Keurig neighbor.

Making a great cup of coffee does not come naturally to me. But one morning last Winter, all the elements finally came together. I heated the on the stove water in a kettle. Poured the first few drops as slowly as I could over fresh, course grinds into the sleeve of the Chemex. I waited. The bloom- that first whiff of heaven meant it was time to pour the rest of the water in, and so I did.

Renewed faith, in a mug. Spiritual awakening, sweetened with sugar. Strength, but creamy.

Sometimes all you need is a little steam to release whatever is tied up inside.

Happy heating 🙂

 

P.S. – A little news: There’s now a notification email list! Pop on over to the Subscription page to sign up!

The Story

“So what you’re saying is…”

“Yep.”

“Judas was…”

“The first.”

“The first one.”

“Yep.”

“Judas.”

“Judas.”

“As in Judas Iscariot. The Betrayer. Least of the the Twelve disciples.”

“Yep.”

“Was the first vampire.”

“Righto.”

“….”

“What?”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“How am I wrong?! Think about it!”

“I am thinking about it! That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard in my life!”

“Vampires gotta start somewhere!”

“Vlad the impaler is a MUCH more reasonable start.”

“That’s too commercial.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”

“It is! But Judas- that even makes sense. God isn’t about letting people off easy.”

“Oh! Oh, now you know what God’s thinking.”

“Just look at Cain! Marks him and sends him off. You think He’s just gonna let Judas hang himself after turning over the Only Son? Nah.”

“Nah? That’s what God says. ‘Nah.’“

“I think God might say ‘Nah.'”

“But that’s Old Testament God you’re thinking. This is New Testament God we’re talking about.”

“Just because all the characters changed doesn’t mean the author did.”

“Well now you’re just throwing around fancy phrases to sound right.”

“You caught me.”

“I did. Because other than the betrayal, you’ve got no backing.”

“Wine is blood, blood is wine. Last thing Judas has? Jesus’s wine, that He says is His blood. What do vampires drink? Blood. What is Jesus? Son of God. Son? Sun like in the sky. Vampires drink blood, can’t see the sun. Boom, case closed.”

“Speaking of drinking- I am never drinking with you again.”

“…You’ve been drinking? Dude we’re on the job!”

“I always have to drink around you, man.”

“Then you are inebriated and can’t argue, so I’m declaring myself the winner, again.”

“Thus also proving my point, making me also a winner, again.”

“…”

“…”

“BA hahahahah har haha har hahah!”

“Heh heh heh heheh heee heh heh heh hedy heh heh.”

“Ahhh ha ha aaahhh man, just another day watching the world go by, eh?”

“I don’t know, they say this one is it.”

“You’ve never been the type to be optimistic, Mark. I’m surprised.”

“There’s always time to start.”

“And you think that time is now?”

“This time feels different, don’t you think?”

“Something in the air, like a storm?”

“Now who’s being too commercial? No- no. It’s all adding up, the chess pieces in the right places, I’ve been watching.”

“And I haven’t? What are you seeing that I’m missing?”

“Nothing, it’s just that you’re looking without seeing, like usual.”

“Hey now, don’t go hurting my feelings just because I’m right all the time.”

“I’m serious, Bernie. Things are changing, pieces are moving. Queen to D2 and all that.”

“You really think so? But there are still so many pawns on the board.”

“There always are. Right before the last three moves. There always are.”

A much younger man begins to stroll past the two, but his gate slows. A step past them he stops, considering. Then he pulls a dark leather wallet from his slacks, adding up a few bills, then replaces the wallet in his back pocket. He offers one of the bills to Mark, and one to Bernie.

“Bless you, Sir.”

“Thank you, young man. Hot one today, stay safe.”

The gentleman nods in return and bustles on without a word. The two wait until he was out of earshot to continue their conversation.

“Stay safe?”

“He’s in much more danger than we are, you have to admit.”

“That’s true enough, but we ought not to let it on so easily.”

“Hey, you cover the crazy the majority of the time, it’s alright for me to sound it this once.”

“You think they’ll be alright, the ones that pull this kinda stuff?” Bernie waved the green Lincoln like a tiny flag.

“Who knows? Our job’s just to watch. I think it’s worth trying, I would if I were them.”

 

The  Word

Yes, their names are Mark and Bernie. 100 points to the first person who gets this reference before scrolling down*

 

 

 

 

 

*Bernardo and Marcellus, the guards who are joking around at the beginning of Hamlet. They are so good at joking around and Shakespeare’s habit of implying similar characters when they’re in similar pairs and using similar actors and therefore implying similar characters. Thus, they are rumored as inspiring such duos as these guys and these guys BECAUSE they were all intended as a combination of these guys and the reader’s metaphorical this guy. Enjoy your reading 🙂

But are these guys guards? Watchers on the wall? Or just a couple of polite homeless dudes? Is it possible to be both in this world?

 

The Story

I didn’t make any plans past 19. Not in a sad way, but in stupid-movie way. I thought surely by then I was going to be a rockstar or a rich business tycoon, and an agent or partner was going to red carpet me into the future. They’d sign the papers, I’d make the masterpieces. Everything works out and I wouldn’t worry about a thing.

But it turns out the future is just going to work and then the grocery store and getting your heart broken over and over until…

Until what? Someone comes along who is also tired of dreaming and is willing to deal with the same amount of shit you are? Like sure come here and screw up my plans and wreck my Tupperware drawer and love me and make me need a shed you’re not allowed in because you don’t know where the shovels fit correctly.

I mean I remember one summer night I was spending with my cousins, we were just outside at the fire pit talking about bad teachers and other high school stuff that didn’t matter. And we start to hear all this shouting coming from inside. We couldn’t imagine what the adults could be arguing about. It was so noisy, the pitches piping up and down with Aunt Becca’s screech and Uncle Leo’s bellowing reply. Had someone cheated or something? A few minutes later, Uncle Leo came outside with us, with a big sigh, pops open a beer and take a quick swig.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Ah, Neal, I got a good word-walloping.”

“What’d you do?”

“…I uh, I put the nice blue plates with the casual white plates. Made the stacks all slant, they coulda fallen apparently.”

 It not being my parents that had just raised hell over some dishes, it was easier for me to ask the obvious question- “So?”

This was apparently the most hilarious thing Uncle Leo had heard in his life, because he started to chortle, and that turned into a laughed that lasted until he coughed before finally answering me.

“Oh buddy, I hope you understand one day. I hope you get the blessin’ of being stuck with someone long enough that one day you stack that plates wrong and it sets her right off.”

All we kids just kinda looked at each other. And then he went back inside, and there wasn’t any yelling. In fact, the next time I saw Aunt Becca and Uncle Leo, I remember thinking they were being pretty gooey and gross.

I don’t know if I really want anything anyway though because sharing the bed again sounds awful but sharing a spot on the couch sounds real nice and I just want someone I can hold without worrying where my arm should go. But none of that comes without the first several weeks of small talk nonsense that drives me nuts. And the kinda people who don’t wanna do the small talk don’t wanna do the big talk so it’s not like you can skip any of-

 

“Neal.”

“Yeeeees?” Neal knew he was in trouble, and not just for drifting off. Caroline only said his name like that, as if it was painful forcing it through her gritted teeth, when she was truly on fire. And he knew her scale- drifting off only got a shoulder tap or a cherry aimed at his forehead. So this was gonna be good.

He stretched out his most innocent smile as she walked away from her customers to speak to him.

“Why do you insist on putting the highballs on the top shelf?!”

Neal bit his lip to stifle a laugh. He’d known earlier when he’d gotten out the new glass shipment that he was going to cause her to fuss.

“Well, sweet Caroline, they’re highballs. I figure they should go on a high shelf.”

This only fanned the flame in her eyes, which Neal found incredibly amusing. His angery manager then pulled herself up to every inch of her small frame against his much taller one. And though he stood almost a foot above her, she still managed to be quite imposing.

“You will pull down those damn glasses to where I can reach them, and then you will wipe every damn one-”

“Well I already-”

“Every damn one, and after shift you and I will be on glass duty together to refresh ourselves instead of leaving it to the busboys, MMKAY?”

“Alright, alright,” Throwing his hands up in defeat, Neal waited until she turned back to her customers to let the little laugh out. Even knowing the consequence, Neal wasn’t too upset. He’d still gotten a funny rise out of her! And she’d calm down by the end of the night; she might even be fun and tell some of her stories and drink tricks while they did dish duty tonight.

So he hummed as he took a tray over to the high shelf for his highballs.

–

“You know, you could just tell her.”

“What’s that?” Neal looked up from his new stack of glasses to meet the eyes of one of his regulars, Mr. Silent Martini.

Or, Neal supposed, Mr. Usually-Silent Martini.

“Ah, never mind. What’s the special tonight?”

“Bikini Martini, sir, splash of coconut rum and grenadine. Feelin’ up for it?”

The dark dressed man smirked a bit, pushed his shades up into his buzz cut as per usual, “Will it have polka dots?”

Neal laughed, not the fake one he usually gave for a bad joke and a good tip, but a real one because it was so unexpected from this guy. Neal cut his eyes down the bar for Caroline’s reaction, but she was too far out of earshot to see this monumental change in their stoic martini man.

“Sadly no, sir, but she’s still pretty with a few layers.”

“Pour her up for me then, Sir Neal.”

Neal nodded and grabbed a shaker. He decided to capitalize on the unusual conversation.

“So you haven’t been here in a while, we’ve missed you at happy hour. Work kept you busy?”

Another might have missed it, but Neal’s trained bartender eye saw the twitch in Mr. Martini’s jaw at the question. So work had been the wrong angle. He knew Caroline would not have made that mistake right off the bat. She had a way of feeling out what was off limits with customers. It’s why all the coolest peculiars were her regulars. It was part of the reason he always asked to train with her, he wanted that smooth back and forth too.

The man finally offered a quiet “…you could say that.” But the dark eyes of the near stranger didn’t give away anything else.

“It was still winter last time we saw you I think,” Neal tried again, pouring the first layer of the martini, “you more of a cold weather guy?”

Mr. Martini stayed quiet that time. Neal pressed his lips together, knowing he’d been beat. He slowly poured grenadine over a spoon into the glass to create the second layer, pressed a slice of pineapple around the rim, and lightly floated a cherry on top. Cursing himself for missing a good conversation, he slid the martini across the marble bar. But in the last second he thought what would Caroline say?

“There ya go, one Bikini Martini, no teeny weeny, hold the dots. Enjoy, sir.” And with an unexpectant smile, he went back to wiping his glasses, to wait.

That’s what Caroline always said: People want to talk. That’s really what we’re here for, to listen, but you gotta wait. No one wants to be rushed into their story. Everyone wants an audience, everyone wants the lights down, the curtain call, and then…

“I never know how long my travels will keep me.”

Neal tried not to drop the highball in his hand from excitement, “Oh yeah?”

“Yep. Winters are quieter, I get local business. But things sometimes pick up in the summer, gotta go here and there. I like to drop in though to my usual places, see if all is still as it’s been.”

“See if the local bartender still remembers your drink?” Neal winked, and got just the slightest smile in return.

“Exactly.”

They worked quietly for a bit, Neal on refilling spiked teas for early birds of Book Club and Mr. Martini on his drink. But now it was a comfortable quiet, as if they were moving in tandem, on the same team while the world moved on a different plane.

After several more sips than usual, Mr. Martini spoke again. “I meant what I said earlier.”

Neal paused shaking a Blue Lagoon for John’s flavor of the week, “Hm? About traveling?”

“No, about Caroline.”

Had they spoken about Caroline? Neal thought back. Had he expressed out loud wanting to bartend like her? Had he told this guy about-? Surely not. Neal had not drank on the job since he was in college, he must just be losing his mind.

“I’m sorry sir, what about Caroline? You need her for something?” He looked up at the man, concerned for a second that something was wrong with the service and caught his gaze. Neal realized he hadn’t really held eye contact with Mr. Martini before. He couldn’t decide the color, but he was shocked there were so few wrinkles around them.

“No no,” The man pulled his shades down and began rummaging through his pockets, “you could just tell her.”

“..tell her what?”

“That you’re crazy about her. I know, I know-” the man put a hand up to stop the sound trying to leave Neal’s mouth, “you don’t know it yet. Or maybe you aren’t yet. But you do, or will be, or whatever. So when you are, or notice, you could just tell her. Then you wouldn’t be waiting around for someone to fight about plates with. You all already fight about the glassware.”

Neal stood stiff, carved into place as the stranger signed his receipt and placed several silver coins on the marble before nodding and calmly walking away. Neal’s eyes were the only part of him that could bare to move as he followed the man’s steps out the door.

“Ooooh what’d he leave us this time?”

Neal’s statue state shattered at the sound of Caroline’s voice in his ear and he dropped the shaker into the sink.

“Oh shit, sorry Neal, what was that? I’ll make it real quick.”

John’s date interrupted “It was my Blue Lagoon, honey, don’t worry I’m in no rush, right sugar?” The blond (this time) rubbed up against a bored looking John, “What are these, anyhow? They look Japanese, I’m part on my mother’s side, do you exchange?”

“No uh no, he just, um,” Neal tried to collect both himself and the coins as Caroline smoothly remade the drink and straightened up his mess, comfortable in his space. She moved around him quickly and close enough that he could smell she’d chosen a spicy, floral perfume tonight. Lavender, maybe? Normally he just pleasantly noticed. Right now it was suffocating him. …but he liked it?

“He’s a regular, so it’s alright,” Caroline cooed, placing the drink down and sliding it across the marble. Neal saw her nails were done in a peachy pink tonight, she must be feeling better. When she’s all moody she makes a point of using dark nail polish and she’d been in a glittery black for weeks.

…how had he not known that he knew all these things about her?

“Neal,” she turned away from the customers, placing a hand on his arm as she did when she wanted to speak just to him. He wasn’t sure he could take that right now.

“Yep? Yeah, hm?”

“Why don’t you take a five? You look a bit shaky, and I need you on it for the rush. Plus if I saw correctly Mr. Silent actually talked so I’ll buy pizza for our glass cleaning session if you tell me what he said!” When he nodded, her smile brightened and it made something move in his chest, so he quickly escaped to the fresh air.

And when he got to the street and was able to breathe again, he wondered if Caroline stepped in to cheer up her employee or her friend or the cute guy she worked with, and for the first time it mattered and it was all that damn martini man’s fault.

The Word

Wrangle (noun): A dispute or argument, typically one that is long and complicated.

(verb): 1. Have a long and complicated dispute. 2. Round up, herd, or take charge of.

OH my goodness! We’re back in touch with a few more of The Swan crew! Personally, I’ve missed Neal, so it was fun to work with him again.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock (and really, even a lot of rocks have been disturbed, hang in there Minnesota, and South Carolina… and all of Australia…) then I’m sure you’ve been wrangle (yep, all 3 definitions) yourself quite a few times the past couple weeks. I’ve also been it’s rhyme tangle, and I’m getting back into this blog to try to UNtangle.

Here, Neal’s got two arguments going- one with himself about what he wants, and one with Caroline about where the glasses go*. I’ll just be honest- I’m having this argument too. No, not the glasses, the do-you-look-for-somebody-or-not one. I like my space, and I like not asking anyone else how things work. But I get you, Neal, I too would occasionally like to argue with someone about what movie to watch. I think we all have one of those arguments going on in our heads all time. Think about what yours is. What’s your “do I even want this?” inner fight?

Neal gets an easy out with this internal wrangling- a mysterious stranger comes around and deals out another card before Neal can even say “hit me.” We don’t all get that, but we can hope for it, we can put ourselves in those places, open ourselves to it. However stay aware- because just like Neal, that doesn’t always solve the problem. It may clarify what you want, but it might also open up a whole new can of worms you didn’t even know was in the cabinet.

Here’s hoping though, reader. Good luck with whatever wrangling and untangling you’re doing, and watch out for strangers in dark shades ordering martinis 😉

*shout out to my fellow shorties, may there always be a step-stool nearby

Anyone sound familiar? If you need a refresher, these characters can be found in Today I am Apricate, Today I am Reconcile, Today I am Effervescent, Today I am Alveolate, and many more!

The Word

She was washing the dishes before bed, as was her usual routine, when it happened.

Just sponge on one side, her hand on the other, and in between them the glass gave up. It wanted no more, could take no more, of the pressure it was under.

Because of all the bubbles, there was hardly a sound when the one piece became many, so Caroline was quite shocked to see all the iridescent fragments falling into the sink.

She was even more shocked, however, at the tightness in her throat that grew as she picked between dirty cutlery for the shards of broken pink. It was just an old wine glass. It wasn’t even a particularly nice one. She’d gotten several of them 70% off at an after-Valentine’s sale at Target a year ago. (Caroline suspected they hadn’t sold because they were that old rainbow-pink that was very popular during the 70s, and today’s youngens were already reliving the 80s; drinking Blue Lagoons out of Hawaiian highballs. As The Swan’s lead bartender, it was her job to know these things.)

She’d tucked one, the now broken one, into her own cupboard, among the vintage glasses she’d saved from various high end bar closings she’s been privy too from the grapevine. It was clearly one of the lessers, but she liked having a truly girly one among all her classy pieces. Sometimes a gal just needs that.

The others she tucked into her gift box that stood in her closet waiting for holidays. Throughout the year she’d pull one out for an appropriate occasion:

One for her sweet coworker’s baby shower- filled with chocolate and tucked between cute onesies with a note, “I’ll come hold him whenever you need to fill this up!”

Another to her friend on a birthday with a bottle of Cab Sav and a plate of Caroline’s famous lemon squares because calories just don’t count on your birthday. That’s what her Nanna always said.

The last one she’d sent out just a couple months ago. A rainy afternoon had come through, and she’d felt a familiar pull in her chest that told her Calliope, her twin on the other side of the country, was having a rough time. Caroline didn’t need to know why, she just needed to help. Calliope liked dark, heavy duty glasses, stuff that could topple over while she worked on her sculptures. But this shiny pink thing would remind Calliope of her feminine side and her feminine sister, and that would make them both happy. So it was wrapped in an old t-shirt, and sent to the other coast.

Caroline liked the idea that when she drank out of her cheap pink wine glass, she was drinking with those friends, and all the other strangers that loved fun gaudy drink ware.

It wasn’t the fancy affair glass, it was the quick-grab, non-occasion glass. It was the glass that came out on Thursday nights when she wondered around the house thinking about redecorating. It’s what she drank out of when she was having an furious drink and didn’t want to have to politely set something fragile down in her own damn house. Or when she needed a soak in the tub on Mondays after a long weekend shift. So somewhere along the way, the glass had taken on a sort of prominence in its commonalty.

But there was no use crying over spilled milk, right? And a gallon of milk cost a dollar more than that glass had. So the tightening in her throat was probably just because she was so tired. And the water gathering in her eyes was certainly from the fight she’d had with Neal earlier. Or maybe she had a migraine coming on. None of it could have to do with the shards of a silly cheap glass sitting in her fingers.

Since that wasn’t why, Caroline let the tears fall as she picked through the soap bubbles to retrieve each sharp fragment. She allowed herself to gasp dramatically when one of the pieces cut her finger, even though it happened so many time through working up the restaurant ladders that she was pretty sure her fingerprints had actually changed.

Staring at the remnants of the glass in the trash can, she knew Calliope would’ve been able to turn the bits into something artsy. Caroline briefly considered rescuing them from the can to attempt doing art herself, but she’d never had the skills of her sister, and she’d just be sad to see the happy pink turned into junk.

The whole ordeal warranted wine. She finished the rest of the dishes in record time, then stomped over to the wine rack mounted in the dining area, selecting a bottle at random. Returning to the kitchen for the screw-key, she had the foil and cork removed in one smooth motion like an angry ballerina. But when she flung open the cupboard for a vessel, she didn’t know what to reach for. Did this count as an occasion? Or did one of her fancy glasses get demoted to the new casual spot? The big blue vintage? A be-speckled flute? The crystal birthday spout? One of the sets? Nothing felt quite right. Caroline closed the cupboard door in defeat.

But something about Calliope and the art piped back up again in her head, so she opened the next cabinet. The tears finally slowed as her hand wrapped around the thick clay of a spotted gray mug. It was an ugly creature. She’d found it on a shelf of oddities when visiting the warehouse of artists her sister worked in. Apparently it was their Oopsie-Shelf. Like a “so ugly you have to show it off” wall. The mug tilted to one side, the handle half folded in on itself. And since it had also fallen against the side of the kiln, the glaze hadn’t set correctly, leaving part of the mug practically ragged. It made Caroline laugh so much, the artists had insisted she take it with her.

And what good is being a bartender that knows all the rules of drink ware if you don’t occasionally break them? A bent mug could hold Merlot just as well as any glass, and far better than a broken one.

So she filled the mug up to its oddly shaded, uneven little brim, and went to turn the bath knob as hot as it would go. Somewhere, she was drinking with friends again. She was sure of it.

The Story

Shatter (verb): 1. Break or cause to break suddenly and violently into pieces. 2. Upset (someone) greatly.

If you’ve been reading along, you know I love the significance we can assign to objects (Today I am Foretaste for example). I mean, just think about heirlooms! There’s stuff, and then there’s STUFF, ya know?

I actually did shatter the glass in this story this morning. But I would like to again point out that no, I do not see myself as Caroline (or any of these characters*) although as a writer I do have that huge flaw of often putting myself in my characters’ shoes and visa versa. But trust, Caroline makes much more calculated life choices than I do, and can mix a much better drink 🙂

I was not super sad about it, just a little sad, but I did think about it for a second, and it made me think about my story Today I am Brew because these are both kinda of dealing with our feelings on the outside rather than on the inside, which is the opposite of what we do a lot of the time. So I guess you could say this story is kinda the baby of Foretaste and Brew, in a way?

Also, this story is meant to be able to stand alone, but if you enjoy Caroline, I’d love for you to learn more about her and the rest of those that work or enjoy librations at The Swan by starting back at Today I am Effervescent!

Happy reading! And cheers!

 

 

 

*yes even that one. That one you’re thinking of? Also not me. But thank you for the compliment!

The Story

I stood a guy up tonight.

I also attempted to take over Atlanta with a gigantic laser robot I built by hand, but honestly I feel more guilty about the first thing.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t make it to the date. Or that I was running late, or ran out of hair gel. I did not even have a cool evil genius plan that needed tinkering with that evening. There was not an emergency in sight, none of that. It’s just that I didn’t feel a spark during the first date, but I still accepted the offer of a second because I don’t like conflict.

…unless the conflict has lasers. Then I’m all for it. Because I have to be; that’s my thing.

So this poor, perfectly kind and mildly interesting dude is sitting at a tapas restaurant on Westgate St, either still naively waiting, or cursing my existence while paying for his single glass of wine. Just because I’m a coward.

If I wanted to use my schedule as an excuse, I certainly could: There are deadlines at my regular job (villainy does not pay well, despite what you may have heard), I have friends’ baby showers to attend, my aging uncle to look after, and top that off with being an aspiring villain. After doing all that, I do not have much energy, let alone time, left for the world of dinners and dates, flirting and finding the right person for you.

And it’s not like I’m the lonely kind of single.

I have Baby, my calico. She’s a mutt, so not quite as fluffy as my film-personas would have wished, but sweet and soft all the same. She doesn’t sit and purr in my lap either. She more sits at my feet and screams when it’s bedtime. Which is actually really nice! If it weren’t for her, I’d work long into the night, as well as part of the morning, planning the world’s demise on my mini-Mac.

I have my Uncle Stew, a retired artist and full-time drama queen. He should be in hospice at this point, but refuses to leave his fancy apartment. He says it’s because all his paintings would never fit into a room in “one of those old-people prisons.” I’m sure it has nothing to do with missing his independence and the crazy neighbor lady he pretends to complain about. I don’t argue because he’s awesome and he makes the best gluten free muffins anyone has ever made in any world ever. So instead I just stop by, make sure he’s on his meds, clean up a bit, and listen to the retelling of his dramatic past in exchange for pastries.

I have my big sister, Martha. She is a totally normal member of society, an electrical engineer, great problem-solver. A few years ago she married LeAnne, another brilliant lady I’m proud to call my sister-in-law. They’re very inclusive, and make sure to invite me around for any festivities, from 4th of July cookouts to their National Cereal Day celebration, which was just bowls of fun.

But I have never been comfortable lying to my family about my alter ego. I’ve never been especially good at it either. There was one particularly uncomfortable conversation we had at their Tweed Day party, a day already made awkward by my misunderstanding that they meant the fabric, and I’d stumbled on an article that indicated the holiday was for the mobster.

“Did you see that asshole Queen of Diamonds set the court house on fire?” LeAnne tsked, “It burnt all the current trials, ’cause it was the weekend and they hadn’t been transcribed yet. I’m going to have to wait forever for that settlement from my fender-bender now.”

“Oh, dear,” I mumbled into my drink, “Maybe yours had already gone through that afternoon?” It had, I checked. I’m a villain, not a monster.

“I doubt it, we have the worst luck with those things. Refill, sweetie?” She took my glass and though I was happy with the refill, I was desperate for something to do with my hands!

Martha shrugged, “I mean, it was just the courthouse, not like she got anything big, no one was hurt.”

Yeaaaaaah, that’s crazy right? Let’s hope she isn’t just testing stuff on a small scale before escalating to make sure it works! Ha ha! Ha…

Martha’s neighbor Drew was rolling his eyes, “What a stupid name anyhow. Like, could’a been an Ace, or Queen of Hearts like in Alice- but the diamonds?”

“Well, I mean, diamonds are the hardest thing out there, right?”

Oh yeah that made them all look at me. Good job. Way to stay undercover, genius me.

“Also shiney though!” I continued, thankful LeAnne had returned with my glass and quickly taking a large swig as the group laughed, “Probs some girlie thing using daddy’s money to be naughty!” 

That sent them into another round of laughter, and I felt like I’d recovered the moment of uncertainty.

“You’re really onto something though!” Martha said after a moment “I just don’t think she can be that bright, she just hasn’t done much. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad we don’t have a big baddie, but she’s just not that impressive to be calling herself a queen.”

The next month, I burnt Parliament to the ground. Whose the family disappointment now, hmmmm?

No deaths there, though. Damn you, Conley.

Yes I have Conley too, my counterpart, and my muse. That beautiful son of a bitch.

Conley Curtain is the real name of the superhero that continues to thwart my endeavors. You may know him as Sir Steam. Other than the little smoke-screen trick he can do, he’s just a glorified version of The Flash, in my opinion that I share with no one. Most of these modern superheroes are. Lots of mixed genetics and hanky-panky in the Tower of Justice to blame, I’m betting.

But to me, he’ll always just be Conley, because we didn’t start here. We didn’t start by staring at each other across smoke and flame, his glare striking against my straight smile. Worse, we didn’t start as star crossed lovers or long lost twins, none of that cliche’ shit.

We were just friends. And then he went and messed everything up by becoming a “hero.”

More specifically, a boring hero. I mean you should’ve seen him when he first started- it was like a pilot episode of a CW show that doesn’t even make it to air. His costume was pretty good, as the girl he was dating at the time was an avid cosplayer. But realistic leg guards and sharpened vambraces (my idea, actually) weren’t going to hide the fact that he had only 1 of SuperMan’s many talents.

He caught a couple robbers, stopped a few muggings with his speed and endurance. Took a couple stupid races with Ferrari for the publicity. Sure, he was a star, but not a shiny one.

He was a hero without a reason: No tragic backstory, no catalyst, no horrific coming-of-age moment. People don’t like that. They can’t root for that, or feel sorry for it, or even pretend to feel a connection. After a few small saves and maybe a city-level parade, he would have petered out, and his alter-ego 9 to 5 would become his regular day. Maybe his natural speedy nature would come in handy tracking down toner for the company printer? What a waste. He was going to die a nobody. Or worse, a sidekick!

Conley taught me the streets and lingo of London when my family first moved here. He bought me my first order of chips, and only laughed for a few minutes when I stared at the pile of fries in front of me. Then Conley stayed up late with me when I had physics papers due- entertaining me with one-man renditions of SNL sketches. It was Conley that introduced me to my boyfriend, when I was too afraid to dance with the cute guy I’d been eying for weeks. It was Conley again who held me when that same boyfriend left me for a bartender from our favorite pub. Conley’s parents sent me Hanukkah presents, and mine fed him too many tamales on Christmas Eve.

He was basically my brother, and he needed something. Our group of friends rallied around him as best we could and got to brainstorming. We couldn’t lie about his past and make it more dramatic- the internet would destroy that in a matter of seconds. The bigger guys helped him bulk up at the gym, which helped his look a lot, and some others knew a few interview/marketing tricks, but these were only getting us so far- he couldn’t just magically grow more powers. Finally, a key ingredient occurred to me: an arch-nemesis. An enemy could arrive at any moment to foil a hero. Someone to stir the public into a frenzy so his comforting power would be more impressive, more necessary.

I couldn’t… I couldn’t just let him fail. He was my bro. He was my best friend. And any of us would do anything for a friend… right?

Right?

(To be continued)

The Word

Wretch (noun): 1. An unfortunate or unhappy person. 2. (informal) A despicable or contemptible person.

WhoooHOOO! I finally fixed this story!

I have been wrestling with this one for a while! Those of you that have alerts turned on (thank you! makes me feel extra special!) have had to deal with seeing this pop up occasionally and then the link will not work. This is because I keep getting really close to liking this story and then pulling it, adding it to its 2nd piece, pulling it, blah blah blah. Well, I’m finally happy with this 1st piece of it, so I’m sharing it with you.

Writers and readers have always been obsessed with the antihero, like all the way back to Greek Chorus days, but lately that convention has gotten lost among attractive villain personas. Guys? Marvel’s Loki* is actually a bad boy. Naughty. Not good. Misbehaves. One save maketh not up for everything-eth. Not an antihero. An actual example of an antihero in popular culture would be Captain Jack Sparrow from POTC because despite constantly wanting to do the wrong thing and care about only himself, he does the right thing because he can’t help but care about people. Good boy. An antihero.

Just wanted to say that out loud because it’s been getting to me for years 🙂

My challenge to myself with the Queen of Diamonds (ha HA that’s right you don’t know their name yet) is to write someone who is definitely a villain but could aaalso be an antihero? Now I know Megamind kinda already covered something like this but a) …I hadn’t seen that movie when I started writing this but like whatever shut up there are only 6 real stories in the world anyway** and b) I still think it’s important to challenge ourselves as writers/artists to create in our own ways, to build from the scraps our minds  and see where they take us, even if those paths have been trod before! So here’s my go at it, I hope you enjoy!

And whether you’re a hero, or an anti-hero, you’re a hero to somebody, and I thank you for that!

Happy hero-ing, reader!

*and like, actual Norse Loki might be too. But one can argue that he’s just doing exactly what his job is, so like is that bad? Ehhhhh that’s not my call

**take this link as you will! I think it’s interesting, and I was part of the generation that was taught that all stories did boil down to 8 different plots, but I’m mostly just being sassy.