The Story

Caroline let out a long, happy sigh. Her last patron trundled out the door, and she waited half a minute before rushing to lock the door behind him.

Spring had finally overtaken the cold, so she was tempted to reopen the door after seeing the gentleman turn the corner. But she decided the fresh breeze was not worth the risk of a passerby thinking the bar was still open.

Weekdays were always quiet, and therefore always handled by a single manager. She’d sent the new waitress, Maddie, home an hour ago, but continued to serve the melancholy man until he was ready to leave. She didn’t always let people stay passed closing, but this gentleman had been in several times, never got obnoxiously drunk, and left a good tip.

She turned and leaned back against the door, surveying her little domain. There had been two interviews and a full bar audition to earn the coveted spot as a lead bartender here. Caroline had heard of an opening, and practiced for weeks after shifts at her old hole-in-the-wall bar to master her movements as well as her spirit knowledge.

The Swan was no place for flipping bottles of vodka high in the air to impress co-eds. This was the favored bar for both the quietly wealthy and the want-to-be famous of the city. These people wanted smooth over showy, flowing and easy movements that told them they were in confident hands. They needed someone who knew sorrow called for strong yet pure, and different joys begged for different flavors. One needed to be as cool as the marble curled in front of tall arched chairs; as peaceful as the azure walls stretched high to meet with crystal chandeliers that shimmered even in the dim evening. Yet still as warm and approachable as the overstuffed leather couches circled farthest away from the door, where the larger groups liked to gather. Caroline was proud to belong here, both in the rush of Saturday evenings as well as the hushed Tuesday nights.

These quieter evenings, or rather early mornings, when the seats were empty and the doors locked, that is when Caroline’s true regulars arrived.

The shadows in the edge of each corner and every doorway, those had been with her since she could barely toddle. They arrived each evening in her childhood bedroom to stay until dawn. When she’d lay down at night, she’d stare at them, wide eyed and determined to stay awake. She thought if she kept a watch on them, they could not creep any closer. If the dared to do so, she sprinted to the sanctuary of her mother’s sleepy arms.

Shadows followed her to her first apartment too, where there was no parental shelter. Part of the reason she took a job with so many night shifts was to avoid the eerie darkness waiting for her at home. Yet, her first closing night of her bartending debut, there they were. They followed her everywhere.

The knocks and wind-filled whispers had joined her as companions around her teenage years. With growing pains came growing anxiety, and the nightly random pitches were its soundtrack, her speeding heartbeat the metronome. She’d known then she was too old to still be afraid of the dark, but the sounds still shook her. A little scratch there meant danger, a bump here meant imminent peril.

The chill along the back of her neck joined her in the nights after her college graduation. Abroad and alone, nothing prepares the body’s system to lose the last safety net, so this chill happily filled in the void.

She had one regular that who no longer courted her, though. Though they’d left their shadowy accomplices, the hidden monsters themselves left her five years back.

Before that last long night, she had checked each closet corner and under the bed every day since she could remember. As she’d grown, she would try to creak open the closet doors as quietly as possible, so her siblings or roommates would not hear how childish her fears remained. Sometimes, she would have to recheck each dark space again when she woke in the middle of the night.

But he’d taken the monsters with him. After the last fight, in which he had said the only monster he saw was inside Caroline, she watched him walk out her door. She stared at the closed door for several long minutes, and then simply went to bed. It was only when she was halfway through the night she realized what she hadn’t done. But the sobbing and heartbreak were too heavy for her to rise and do her nightly rounds. The next night came, and she again felt no need to check. She knew there was no reason to inspect the empty spaces. Whether it was because he was right or he was wrong still weighed on her mind. Either way, the other monsters took their leave along with him.

A little older, a little more worn, she welcomed those she once tried to chase away. Sometimes the world was too bright, or the glare from a busy shift too painful, and the gloomy corners softened the pain around her eyes. They’d become more shade than shadow.

The bumps and thumps fought of the silence. Now they were only her sunless symphony.

She rolled her neck back and the chill creeping there cooled the steaming sweat from a long shift.

Caroline wiped down the marble bar, humming to the dark places. These were her regulars. These were the patrons she always served, and a good bartender was kind to her loyal customers.

The Word

Hello, reader! Though can stand alone, I think you'd enjoy the following piece more if you read Today I am Effervescent and/or Today I am Alveolate beforehand. Thank you, and enjoy!

The Story

Neal was simply exhausted. Thank goodness his shift was finally over. His back hurt, his feet hurt, and sangria had been soaking through his pants for the past hour and half. Damn bachelor party.

On top of that, Caroline had been distracted half the night watching over Pepper and that quiet chick, leaving him to deal with John’s date’s need to order every single complicated cocktail under the sun. If he’d had to blend one more godsdamn egg white, he was going to start foaming himself. But this was the second time John had brought the redhead in, a new record, so between that and the tips, Neal kept a smile on his face.

Mr. Silent Martini had come in again, too. At least this guy fascinated Neal. The gentleman always ordered whichever martini was on special, sipped it about halfway down, and then left. Now Neal understood saving some cash via the happy-hour method, but he was confused how someone could happily enjoy a mango martini, espresso martini, old fashioned dirty martini, and even the Valentine’s Day cran-raspberry martini with the exact same reaction: a little inhale of shock on the first sip, and then several confident swallows. The guy would then straighten the dark sunglasses he’d pushed up into his brunette buzzcut, even thought they hadn’t moved a single centimeter since he sat down. Exactly the same movements, every single time. It was an interesting enough ritual that Neal mostly forgave the guy for the wrong currency he dropped as a tip after signing the tab.

But the bachelor party had done him in. Eight dudes ordering pitchers of sangria until they couldn’t see straight. As instructed by the Mother of the Groom hours earlier, Neal called the Father of the Groom when the group began to repeat their old college fight song, and helped the older gentleman put each of the men in their hotel room in the Ritz across the street. He was thanked with a handshake and a tip that would pay his rent for the month.

Neal stood on the curb for a minute to breathe before going back into the bar.  The wind was cold. It was late in the season, yet winter was roaring with its claws still firmly hooked in the air. He was so very tired, and he knew his shoulder would remind him of the groomsmen’s weight in the morning. Neal shivered a little, but was glad to have a quiet moment in the dark.

His breath taken, he moved to cross the street back into the light and sound of the bar. Then he saw them.

He froze mid-step. Pepper was walking arm-in-arm with the quiet girl. No, quiet woman. Had he missed her face before? She seemed a little older than he’d thought, with intriguing hazel eyes that seemed to shimmer across the distance. He blinked, no- she was young like he’d thought. His eyes must have been as tired as the rest of him. Still, she had a little glow, a little spring to her step as she walked with Pepper. He was not surprised that Pepper seemed to glow a little too. She always had.

A BMW’s horn reminded him he was in the middle of the street.

By the time he was safely on the other side, the two ladies were gone, and he wasn’t sure why he’d stopped to watch them. The small part of him that wondered what they were up to was pushed aside when he saw the room still filled with patrons. Just one more hour, then he and Caroline could take off and leave the darkest hours before dawn to the next shift.

During a small lull between pouring tequila shots and refilling chardonnays, Neal wiped the various shades of liquor off the marbled bar. That’s when he noticed Pepper’s coat still draped across a tall chair. He realized when he’d seen her outside, she hadn’t been wearing it. Neal tried to never judge a woman by her age, but he thought one with Pepper’s laugh lines shouldn’t be just leaving their fancy coats when out to a walk in the dropping temperatures of a northern February. Perhaps Pepper was just walking the young lady to a cab and would be right back in. A deep part of him knew that wasn’t true. The same space within him suggested that evening had been Pepper’s last visit to their establishment.

Still, he gathered her soft mink and placed it on the employee coat rack in the back for safe keeping. Until she returned.

 

The Word

Apricate (verb): To bask in the sun.

Important word note from Dictionary.com: Latin apricatus, past participle of apricari “to bask in the sun,”from apricus “exposed” (to the sun); perhaps contracted from *apericus , from aperire “to open.”

I just like that this word to bask, can also come from both “exposed” or “to open” because those are the same thing, one is unwilling and one is willing.

Anyway 🙂

The Story

Heads I go. Tails you stay.

Tails

So she steps forward, shoots a fiery smile in his direction. He rolls his eyes, laughing, and takes her hand. It’s a long drive, but from the passenger seat, the trees pass by in a hurried blur.

She knows it’s kismet. She knows her guardian angel is glad to take some time off, to let this tall drink of sun tea watch over a bit.

When the road starts to curve, she ignores the bright yellow SLOW sign. She’s not afraid. He is safe in the mountains, on the roads she grew up driving.

They draw a square along the paper map. It’s fun to work with inked lines for the first time in forever, after staring at the lights of the GPS for too long.

There are boxes stacked on boxes, covered in tape and room labels.

“Bedroom”

“Master Closet”

“Kitchen”

“Basement”

There is trust stacked on memories, covered in lies.

“Yeah, only you.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“You’re wrong.”

“No.”

Then all of the sudden it’s too late and too much and not enough all at once. The realization makes her chest cold and her neck hot. There is a ring on her right hand. It’s not hers, but it’s not anyone else’s.

Heads

But at least she took the first step, as well as the last. Her words were the beginning, and the end. Pain sneaks in if she allows anything past the numb, but she pays the price a little to acknowledge the pride.

So she steps back. She turns the music up. There’s a half glass of wine and a world of power within her.

 

The Word

Consequence (noun): 1. A result or effect of an action or condition. 2. Importance or relevance.

I feel like I’m back in my childhood bedroom, writing in my bright blue diary with a pink gel pen, but we have to get those words out too, right? I’ve already said enough today. I think if I said anymore, it would just be cliche dribble. So I’ll let these far more experienced authors speak for me tonight:

“I knew I would hate my best memory because it would prove that people could fake love or that love could end or worst of all, love was not powerful enough to change a life.”
― Mona Simpson

“Angry, and half in love with her, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.”
― F. Scott Fitzgerald, (from The Great Gatsby)

“Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do, so throw off the bowlines, sail away from safe harbor, catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” -Mark Twain

 

 

The Story

Selene walked the path of stars. The air was always cool up here, but tonight there was a slight breeze through the shimmers. Her sister’s laughter floated along with it.

“Good evening, Dogoda.”

“Good evening, sister.” The wind whispered back.

Selene laughed as the breeze playfully twirled her sleeves It put her in a good mood, so she woke the dawn with a gentle coo, “Ushas. It’s time.”

“I see that it is,” A bright voice answered, “Thank you, cousin. Good day!”

“Good day, my dear.”

Selene watched the golden woman drift to the edge and coax daybreak from its slumber. Eternity had not dulled the splendor, to her, of the world shifting from the tranquil blues and grays to the victorious orange and pinks. Though it meant her reign was over for another day, it still filled her with hope.

And it did not mean her work was over. It never really was.

“Bez?”

“Hmm?”

“Come on, we’ve got to get the girls.”

“Hmph. You go get them.”

“No no, it was a long night and you’ve had plenty of rest.”

A pale hand pushed back long blond braids, “We’re entering spring. The nights are shorter.”

Selene placed a hand on her hip. “And you’re an immortal. Get up. Or I’ll ask Hypnos to take your place.”

Selene hid her giggle at the big blue eyes rolling upwards before Bezelea stretched and fell in beside her on the northern path.

They walked quietly for a moment. Too quietly for the younger goddess’s normal chatter.

“Bez, what’s on your mind?”

“Aren’t they getting worse, Selene?”

“…worse how?”

“They’re getting strained. More painful.”

“I don’t think so. I think there are just so many more of them now.”

They walked a moment longer.

The blond slowed to a stop, then shook her head. “No, it’s not that. The younger ones have seen so much.”

Selene returned to Bezelea’s side, tucked the girl into her chest. “There was a time when the younger ones couldn’t be young at all. At least now there’s a chance for children to be just that.”

“But only for a time.” Came the muffled complaint.

“A time we can protect. It makes all the difference.” She lifted her younger sister’s chin. “And you know that.”

“I do.”

“Alright then,” Selene took Bezelea’s hand and they walked into the home of the northern star.

The twins were already hard at work, fishing the dream catchers up from earth. Selene always admired their synced movements. Nuit had done the work all on her own for centuries, but the world had changed so that it wore her to near pieces. Thankfully, the Zorya girls knew that together they could pull the dream catchers from earth the same way. One from morning and one from night could take the same place as the goddess of sky.

Selene was immensely proud. These were her first daughters, and they were doing so well.

With a sigh, Bezelea sat beside them and began to release the nightmares caught within each dream catcher. Selene admired the creativity of the earth dwellers. Their need to protect themselves had their hearts creating shields from anything and everything.

Sure there were the traditionalists that knew their needs, knotted hide and hair with flower and feather to tie themselves to earth and their mind to the sky. Other hearts had to get a little creative, which had sweet Bezelea untangling wind chimes, knitted blankets, and the occasional set of Christmas lights.

Selene had done her part for so long, it was natural. Watching over the night was her joy, but here was her true task.

Each morning, Zorya Utrennyaya and Zorya Vechernaya together plucked the dream catchers up into the sky. Bezelea, with her gift of change from day to night, had the strength to unsnarl the dark illusions from the dream catchers. Then, Selene had to guide them.

Dreams were nothing to be thrown away into the universe. They could grow and plague the cosmos with dark deeds and cruel desires. Each had to be controlled, sent to the exact corner of shade where they could do no harm. Since dreams were a reflection of thought, they answered only to Selene’s reflection of her brother’s light. She alone could send them on their way safely.

But it was exhausting work. The fear flowing through each idea and image drained her. There were those who felt attacked by monsters, those who felt exposed by friends. There was the fear of not belonging, of not knowing oneself. Too much pressure. Not enough trust. But the hardest were the ones who felt trapped. Selene’s whole existence was freedom to float between the stars. She could gaze upon the world through her light or rest in the shade Yggdrasil bathed her in from time to time. So the trapped, to her, were worse than the damned. Or at least the same.

She sent these dreams as far from the world as she could. A black hole in a universe so far it was still nameless, and she prayed to any of her family that would listen, that there those nightmares stayed.

Her hands weaved and waved for hours, chaperoning these warped affairs and imagined strifes.

Then, a snag- a sharp pain against her finger. Like a paper cut, small yet pulsed as if it were an arrow wound. She paused, plucked the fancy from the stream and examined it.

At first, she thought it a violated memory, as it was too bright to be some sort of shaded dream. But she looked closer. It was just a young man, standing on a grassy hill. He would throw a small blurry object, and a brunette pup would race it back to him. The man would laugh and throw it again.

“Bezelea- what is this?”

“What is what?” The younger girl did not look up from her sorting.

“Bezelea, look. Zorya. Please, a moment.”

Bezelea froze as she registered the concern in Selene’s voice. Slowly, like a cuckoo clock winding down, the girls came to a halt, still in sync.

“What is this? I feel no fear. No hate. It’s just a dream. A cute one at that. Why is it here?”

The three goddess were quiet.

“Girls. Zorya, where did you get this?”

But the girls didn’t answer then either. They both looked to Bezelea.

Selene waited.

“This… this is what I meant earlier.”

Selene’s eyebrows furrowed, “When we were talking about the young ones?”

“Yes, Selene.” Bezelea twirled the end of a vintage veil she had been combing through.

“But this one… looks so happy. You said they’d seen too much.”

“And they have,” She pulled another illusion from the veil. It too was bright and airy. Within it, a bride’s point of view flashed between the eyes of her father, the aisle at her feet, and the eyes of her moments-away husband.

“I don’t understand. Tell me why these have been caught along with the dark ones.” Selene was stiff, scared of the guessing game the world seemed to be playing on her.

“Momma,” Zorya Utrennayaya whispered, “They are scared of their happiness…”

“…because it is gone. It hurts them.” finished Zorya Vechernaya.

Selene stared at the dreams. She shook her head.

“No, no this isn’t right. I will speak with Somnus. This has to be Phobetor’s doing, this time his games have gone too far.”

Bezelea reached out and grasped Selene’s hand before she could go, “The girls already spoke with Somnus. His sons have no part in this.”

Selene slumped against the sky, “So they are… truly afraid of the night now. Even sweet dreams are bitter?”

The three girls nodded.

“Not all…” answered Zorya Utrennayaya.

“…but many.” whispered Zorya Vechernaya.

Selene nodded slowly. Her eyes seemed to glaze, but Bezelea knew those eyes were soaring over the stars, searching the earth for the confusing pain. And by the quickening pulse in Selene’s temple, it was found.

“They still need their rest…” Selene spoke softly, almost to herself.

“Yes, Selene. So we keep to our task.” Bezelea tried to fill her words with comfort, as the moon goddess had done for her so many times.

“Yes, Bez, of course.”

The twins stared at each other for a long moment, and then at their mother. “Perhaps we do not have to send the bright ones so far away…”

“…perhaps we could hold them near. In case one day they will bring joy again?”

Selene offered a small, sad smile. “Yes, my darlings. That is a good idea. I will find a place for them where they can offer the light they are meant to.”

Bezelea offered Selene the next beautiful dream, this one of small footprints on a sandy beach, and Selene held it for a moment. She weighed it in her hand, as she did each nightmare, but instead of sending it away, she tucked it into her robes. And she did the same with the next, and the next.

When it was time for Bezelea to cover the world in evening, Selene kissed the forehead of each her daughters, then walked with Bezelea to the edge of day.

“What will you do with them?”

Selene’s grin was that of a worn mother, one who knew weight so her children would not.

“I am the reflector of day, my dear. If these will not light the minds of our earthly bound, then they shall light their paths. It is the least I can do.”

Bezelea left Selene there, at the edge. But as she slowly peeled back the day into dusk, she saw the moon rise with a grandeur she had never witnessed before. Selene had taken each and every dream into herself and now shone nearly as bright as her brother. Bezelea was in awe, and when she looked below saw she was not alone. There were children giggling in driveways, allowed to stay out another minute due to the bright nightfall. Lovers held hands, unafraid, through a forrest path. A young girl turned off her night-light, and opened her curtains to the moonbeams instead.

Bezelea heard a soft laugh behind her, saw Nyx’s slow steps approaching.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” She asked the night.

“Yes,” Nyx replied, “quiet joyful. Sweet dreams, young one. Sweet dreams.”

 

The Word

CHIMERA (noun): 1. (in Greek mythology) A fire-breathing female monster with a lion’s head, a goat’s body, and a serpent’s tail. 2. A thing that is hoped or wished for but in fact is illusory or impossible to achieve

PHEW we got some mythology learning up in here tonight!

If you even kiiiiinda enjoyed this short story, go read (or audio book) American Gods right now. Though I’ve had this thought long before I listened to this book, Neil Gaimen has a much more polished writing than I (shocking, I know!) but plays on the idea of all mythology gods on the same playing field. He is where I first heard of the Zorya twins, and I loved adding them to my story. (Also- what a good story/sequel name right? One is Zorya Utrennyaya and the sequel is Zorya Vechernaya? DIBS.)

I love the night in spring. It is pretty in all seasons, but I am either a reptile or some sort of perennial flower, so I like to be under covers for most of winter. The spring is when the night and I get reacquainted. It’s beautiful, really. And even in a city lit 24/7 like mine, the stars and moon pick and choose times to be dim or bright (don’t come at me with that science stuff, this is a writing blog! 😉 ). I hope this is why. I hope those happy memories we sometimes turn away from become our guiding lights. I like the idea that the stars are worried for us, and are watching closely to make sure we are alright down here.

Pleasant dreams, sweet reader. May they at least light your way.

The origins of the gods rewritten in my story today:

• Selene (Greek) – Goddess of the moon, sister to the sun god
• Dogoda (Slavic) – Goddess of the west wind, and of love and gentleness.
• Ushas (Hindi) – Goddess of the dawn
• Bezelea (Linthuanian) – Goddess of the evening
• Zorya (Slavic) – Guardian goddess of the auroras; morning (Ut≠rennyaya) and evening star (Vechernaya). Sometimes associated with the North star
• Nuit (Egyptian) – Goddess of the sky
• Somnus (Roman) – God of sleep
• Phobetor (Roman) – Demigod of fright; son of Somnus
• Nyx (Greek) – Goddess of the night

The Story

It had been a nice date. But as they were driving home, top down on the Ford Coupe, she had to admit the evening had not been as dazzling as she’d hoped. The gentleman was kind, had opened doors and pulled out chairs, yet the spark was noticeably absent. He clearly noticed too, as he’d switched from his charming manner to a more casual, jovial one. She appreciated that, and though disappointed in a lack of romance, looked forward to the addition of a new friendship.

“So are all the gals in your suite English majors?”

“Not all of us, just most. Zenith is planning to go into nursing, so she dances between math and chemistry.”

“Oh, a dancer- think maybe we could double with her sometime if I bring someone for you?”

Billie laughed, “Of course! Though I meant dances between classes, I’m not sure if she can handle a swing.”

Todd grinned at her, “Oh I can teach a girl to swing, but she’s got to know how to move between things first.”

Billie laughed again, and they began to discuss the different double date partners they could find for one another.

Two blocks from her dorm, Todd slowed the car for a stop sign. The warm buzz of a city afternoon flowed into the car. There were other Friday night dates walking by with ice creams, discussing their hometowns. A young co-ed called her beagle to heel. A few rowdy boys sat outside a sandwich shop, loudly comparing baseball stats for anyone to hear and be mildly impressed. Two young men in their Navy fatigues waited at the intersection to cross the street. It was a perfect southern evening, with a crescent moon threatening to show her face a little early over the palmetto branches, and a cool breeze beginning to sweep the stale heat of the day away.

Todd waited patiently for this turn to go, but when he put his foot on the gas, Billie stopped him with a hand to his arm.

“Todd- who is that.”

It was more a demand then question.

Todd followed her gaze to the Navy privates. “Oh they’re in my command. You talking about the taller one or the shorter one?”

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“Alright, the taller one then!” He laughed, “That’s Jerry Johnson. Says he’s from Graniteville. Sorry to say, sugar, but he’s got a fiancé back home.”

Billie smiled mischievously, “Well Todd, that’s too good a nose and too nice a hairline for my children not to have ’em. So I’ll just have to introduce myself.”

“There’s no stopping you,” Todd chided her, but still pulled over to the corner. “Jerry! Connor! Come jump in! This is Billie and we’re going for a float at Hannigan’s.”

The shorter, stalkier man didn’t hesitate, “I’ll never say no to a good float with a pretty gal!”

Jerry Johnson still stood on the sidewalk, considering.

Todd waved him in, “Come on  Jerry, you’ve got time for a soda with us!”

Billie met his eyes for the first time- hers blue as the first crest of sea at dawn and his the last rippled waves at night. She felt him reading her, calculating, wondering. She knew he saw what she did; the promise of future. A bit of undeniable destiny on the corner of Spring St. and Main.

“Yeah,” He said slowly, in a drawling agreement to the rest of his life, “I’ve got time for that I think.”

The Word

Serendipity (Noun): The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.

Some of you have heard the shorter, FAR less fictionalized version of the above story. My Nanna, Billie, met my Poppa when he was already engaged. However, she wanted that strong Southern nose and long legs on her babies, and he could not resist those deep blue eyes and “the prettiest smile in Columbia” with a brain behind it to boot!

I, of course, switched around a few characters and romanticized a bit. I think they’d both forgive me for doing so, and can almost hear Nanna’s rounded laugh at my interpretation. I’ve wanted to tell this story for a while, and it being the first story I’ve written since she passed, it felt like a good way to honor her.

Though Poppa’s originally-intended may disagree, this change in Poppa’s fate is celebrated constantly by my family. Nanna is a sweet but mischievous lady, in the very best ways, so although others who have met her are surprised to hear such risky romance paired with her loyal church going and PTA attendance, and her firm farming roots, we’re not all that surprised 🙂

Enjoy the crazy chances the come by, lovely readers! Do as Ms. Billie did and ride fate’s wave!

The Story

Sometimes she flips her hair, considers dying it black. She’ll stare in the mirror, pick up the deep amber eyeliner she bought on a whim. She could go a little wild tonight. Put on the dark, cut her eyes at the bouncer.

But it’s late, and she has work in the morning. So she sets the eyeliner down and tucks her toes back into her slippers.

 

Then there are the times she takes the curve on a mountain road too fast, and for a second she’s free. The wild streak of her soul pulses.  She could turn the music up, windows down, and let that streak take over. Her right foot itches to release her from every responsibility; to push down until she escapes.

But her exit sign appears, so she releases the peddle and flips her blinker switch.

 

Occasionally there are moments when the temptation is too much. When it should lighten the burden, it’s a heavier weight than the world itself lying across the back of her neck, pushing uncomfortably into her shoulder blades. To run, to go, to walk away from any and everything that knows her name.

Yet the phone always rings or the door bell sings or the tea timer alarms and she remembers she can’t. She’s not sure why, but she can’t.

 

And it’s not like she is unhappy. In the morning she answers the baby’s cry with calm reassurances. Or she puts on her uniform. Maybe her heels. She drives the kids to school. Or sits at her desk. Or clocks in at the podium. Her students, her coworkers, her patients all depend on her. It’s rewarding. She saves lives. She saves coupons. She fixes the report, fixes the lunch boxes. It’s the little things, the big things, that remind her where her place is. It’s a comfortable place. It’s fine, for now.

But there’s always the sometimes. And tonight, with cool air and a mild headache, might be the sometime she finally takes.

 

The Word

Metanoia (noun): 1. The journey of changing one’s mind, heart, self, or way of life. 2. Change in one’s way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion.

VERY short short-story today. Maybe more like a poem? It’s words, and they feel right.

I was talking to my friend last night. We’re very different and very the same and we’ve felt these feelings all the time. I’ve rarely spoken to a person who hasn’t. That “oh, to be a bird” feeling is so universal and I just wanted to see if I could put it to words. I think it’s one of those ridiculous being-human things!

I’ll write something a little lighter again soon, promise 🙂

Until then- enjoy your journey, lovely readers!

The Story

She was being ridiculous. Yet her fingers typed madly at the keyboard, researching, copying information, filling out forms.

This was not part of the plan. But her body drove her to the office. Her voice spoke, her mind retained. All while she clamored in the background, still unsure of this leap while already in the air.

How could it be done right? In time? She inquired of the redecorated room, the approving agent, the sun each morning. Each answered there was plenty of time, and all looked more than well.

Am I enough for this? Someone thought so. A young someone, who lived far away, and needed someone who was more enough than could be. A someone who gave approval, a date, a hope.

Too much, too fast. Her heart disagreed, and beat hard against her chest in a joyful dance when the final papers filled her Inbox.

She couldn’t do it. The ink of her last signature vowed she would.

No. “Yes!” she answered to the urgent phone call late one evening.

And then there was silence. Just her and the body that knew better in a silent room. Soft pastel couches lined one wall under a mural of undisturbed sky. Had she been able to move, she would have sat on one so as not to faint.

If there had been a moment to run, it passed when the door across from her opened.

“Mrs. Lindbogen?” The smaller, stouter woman inquired.

“That’s me,” she whispered, more to the bundle than the woman.

“The birth mother is very ready, she’s already signed her forms. But there are still 48 hours before it’s finalized and the petition can begin. You understand?”

“Yes, of course. I read everything.”

The stout woman smiled, “Excellent, I love a reader. The more information the better, I always say!”

The bundle passed to Liza. She tucked it into the cradle of her left arm, as she had practiced with her cat, her neighbor’s corgi, and a bag of brown sugar (her mother said it was far more accurate than flour) for the past several weeks. At this point, she could have cradled a wet eel with no trouble at all.

With her right hand, she pushed the heather gray blanket back to reveal an angry red nose under cherub bright eyes.

“What is her name?”

The stout woman looked disappointed for the first time. “She doesn’t have one yet. The birth mother didn’t want to. So that’s up to you.”

“I see. I just thought she had one already.”

The woman approached Liza, placed one comforting hand on her back, and another under the baby’s shoulder. It reminded Liza of when her childhood preacher had welcomed new members into the church: one hand on the communal fountain, one on the newly integrated.

“No, no she doesn’t. And a name is an important thing. Did you have any picked out, just in case?”

“One. I just thought…”

“Well it may fit. Sometimes it helps to say it out loud, hear how it sounds.”

“Alright.”

So Liza waited until the small babe with the angry red nose and large curious eyes looked at her again. They held each other. Blue eyes to brown, and a whole universe in between.

“Pepper,” she whispered, with a hum of certainty, “Her name will be Pepper.”

“Well that’s adorable, I love it!” The woman squeezed Liza’s shoulder before letting go, collecting a folder from the table Liza hadn’t noticed before. “And what inspired such a name, if I may ask?”

Liza stared down into those deep blues. Without her asking, her body shifted the babe to her right shoulder, began to sway slightly. The first few hours of life are so exhausting, and she felt the smallest of snores confirm so against her neck.

“My late husband’s grandmother. He was the oldest of eight, so she raised him while he helped his parents raise the others.”

The woman nodded, and an understanding of lingering grief and hopeful faith passed between them.

“These forms can wait,” she said, “I’ll give you two a moment alone.”

There would be many moments alone for the two of them, Liza knew. But this would be the first. A cry cut into the quiet, and she answered with a calming coo.

More than enough. More than enough.

The Word

STEADY (verb): Make or become steady. (adjective): 1. Firmly fixed, supported, or balanced; not shaking or moving. 2. Regular, even, and continuous in development, frequency, or intensity. (exclamation): Used as a warning to someone to keep calm or take care. (noun): A person’s regular boyfriend or girlfriend.

First- to anyone who is reading this and has been through the adoption process: you’re awesome. Please excuse any part I have tangled, as I tried to weave official steps from different states/countries together so it could fit anywhere.

Alright second, the word.

When I was more reader than writer, I could not understand those who spoke so personally and selfishly about how what was going on to the people around them was affecting the writer. But I get it now. It is a bit selfish. But it’s also reaching out- it’s steading one’s self on a steep place where others have stood, and asking to be part of something bigger, to be one of the voices echoing back.

My Nanna is very tired. I got to see her smile this weekend, but she is very tired. So she and my family have been a part of every thought I’ve had these past several days. This also leads to thoughts on my Grandma, on the other side of our tree branch. You see, as much as it goes mostly unspoken to the men in our family, both sides have always been pretty matriarchal. The men may have run the household- but the women have ruled the world (or turned the neck, if you’re more into My Big Fat Greek Wedding quotes). I attribute so much of who I am to these women, and am honored to do so.

So why on earth did this lead me to write about Liza adopting a baby after Pete died? Well, because a little something like age or death has never stopped anyone in my family. Nanna still requires Chardonnay over Pinot Grigio even though she doesn’t know whether it’s five o’clock somewhere or not. Poppa’s still holding staff meetings in a sunroom at the nursing home. And I swear when I get up to heaven I’ll find out that Grandma has founded a travel-guardian-angel committee and Grandpa’s in charge of tuning harps. They simply can’t be stopped.

And it is my dream and goal to be the same. To be unstoppable, to allow life to continue to come at me in full force even when I would prefer it not. And it will. As Carl Sandburg said, “a baby is God’s opinion that life should go on.” So while Liza adopts her baby, let us adopt a new life, a new ideal and goal for our futures. Let us honor what was and what is with what’s to come.

And now my word is longer than my story, something I try not to do. But like Liza, someone else who knows better is leading my fingers today.

Live fully, my friends. Goodnight.

The Story

There’s a flash. So many streams of differing yellows and golds, a little white, a little blue. Oddly enough, lots of pink.

The sounds comes next, and it’s as if nature has stuffed a storm cloud into a popcorn bag.  Then uncomfortably warm, and a cackling, like angry static.

Then she’s eight again, in the back garden with her dog, and a voice calls out to her.

She’s ten and something is very wrong but all her aunts are proud. Her mother smiles. She’s cooed over and fed chocolate until she laughs.

Fourteen and her heart skips a beat over dark eyes and a roman nose.

Sixteen and that heart is only shards on a dirty sheet.

Eighteen driving fast, a skid, a bump, a nervous laugh, a kind cop.

Twenty one and dancing on a speaker, hip to hip with a sister she found in a stranger.

Twenty three and green eyes are searching back in hers. Her breath catches and-

WAIT. Who is that?

Oh no no no no no. If these are my last moments, and this is my life flashing before my eyes, he does not get to be here.

But- he was an important moment in your life, and-

AbsoLUTELY not. You passed right on by my first volleyball match and yet he gets to be here?

Well I was going to get to the volleyball.

And when were you going to get to the volleyball?

When you walked into the Olympic training facility for the first time, the day after you turn twenty-four. It impressed you.

Yes, but not as much as my first spike, which was at thirteen. That’s what got me addicted to the sport.

Sure, but I don’t think that moment is as big as some others.

Oh we include my first crush, which by the way only lasted a few weeks until I found out he thought my new haircut was stupid, but we’re going to skip over the first time I accomplished the sport that would change my life.

Look, this is my job.

Yeah, mhmm. Clearly your call.

I can’t go back now anyway. That was thirteen. We’re at twenty-three. It’s when you met-

Oh don’t you dare say his name I swear to God.

I think you’re being a bit irrational. This is what I do. I’ve seen your life, I know which of these scenes you should flash through in your last moments.

Yeah? Yeah these are going to help me on the other side of whatever?

Yep.

So these are the exact moments I need to remember who I am and where I came from?

Exactly. Now you’re getting it so-

Which is EXACTLY WHY he has no FUCKING PLACE here! He has NOTHING to do with who I am!

Well I would have to disagree.

You would, would you? You have no FREAKING CLUE who I am then.

So he didn’t effect you.

No.

Not even a bit.

Nope.

So your determination to become the best player internationally which led to your third Olympics and then to the shoulder injury and thus to your retirement and following coaching career which is how you met your current finance and his daughter has nothing to do with the fury and I’ll-show-you attitude resulting from the cheating and following heartbreak by this particular person?

…no?

I see.

Look these are clearly my last milliseconds. Can’t they just be filled with Lance and little Emmie?

That’s not how this works.

That’s not how your face works.

Excuse me?

Nothing.

Fine. May I continue now?

I don’t seem to have a choice.

Not really. I could give you over to the black abyss if you’d like but I do have some good shots of your first dance with Lance and your time coaching Emmie.

…Yes, I would like those, please. Very much.

Alright, but that means I have to get through some you-know-who memories.

Fine.

Fine?

I said fine.

Fine. Alright here we go.

Twenty three and green eyes are searching back in hers. Her breath catches and-

“Oh my God, Mia! Mia, are you alright? Baby please say something, baby please!”

You have got to be kidding me.

“Ms. Mia? Daddy why isn’t she waking up? Daddy what’s going on?!”

“Mia, PLEASE! Em get my phone- good girl, oh my god Mia.”

“Daddy is she gonna be okay?”

This is ridiculous.

“Hi hello? Yes please- send someone! I need an ambulance, a doctor, please!”

“Daddy why isn’t she waking up?”

“Yes ma’am. The southeast beach- in front of the Tower Apartments. Yes ma’am- struck by lightening. No no we’re safe the storm moved on fast. Yes we are IN A SAFE PLACE MA’AM YOU HAVE TO SEND SOMEONE NOW. Sweetie, Emmie honey I know, but you gotta be quiet I need to hear the 911 lady! Please don’t cry, it’s gonna be okay.”

Okay fine, fine, if you’re gonna bring the kid into it like that:

Mia’s eyes felt thick, heavy. Her whole body ached. Had she been running? Was this the end of her marathon? Maybe she fainted. God she hoped she crossed the line before fainting. But she couldn’t remember running. Just walking. Walking on something soft- sand. Holding a hand. A small hand. Emmie’s hand. A storm, hearing the static, pushing Emmie back towards the house-

“Mia! Oh my God, Mia! Yes ma’am, her eyes are open! Mia, baby can you hear me? It’s okay- it’s okay they’re coming. They’re coming it’s going to be okay!”

 

…well he was important. But I suppose I’ll discuss that with her another time.

The Word

Struck (verb): Past and past participle of strike. [Strike (verb): 1. Hit forcibly and deliberately with one’s hand or a weapon or other implement. 2. (of a disaster, disease, or other unwelcome phenomenon) Occur suddenly and have harmful or damaging effects on. 3. (of a thought or idea) Come into the mind of (someone) suddenly or unexpectedly. 4. (of a clock) indicate the time by sounding a chime or stroke. 5. Ignite (a match) by rubbing it briskly against an abrasive surface.

“Are you arguing with the narrator?!” -George of the Jungle (film, 1997)-

Well THAT was fun! Sometimes stories don’t have to have all this meaning and thought. Sometimes they can just be fun to write, and hopefully fun to read. Happy Sunday!

The Story

It was startling every time to how responsive the wet clay was to the minute amount of pressure from her fingers. It was the same every time for Karen when she got to her wheel; inspiration, then shock, and then a long trance of fascination as her hands worked, letting her mind watch without fully participating. Her thumb would curve the top until vases had the same pouting lips of a rich man’s daughter, or her nails would carve gently as the structure spun, finding design in the lump. Her palms, dripping orange and white and brown, reigned over the size and stance of her ornaments, pulling form from nothing, playing God and pretending not to notice how simple it was.

She was praised and paid well for the success those hands created, and her mother’s shelves were filled with the failures. Mrs. Mullen called the rows, that used to be the home of  her fine china, the “museum of progress,” seeing a beauty in the pieces as only an artist’s mother can.

Karen could feel the calm reaching over her and, not for the first time, fantasized a Patrick-Swayze moment, wishing she had someone to annoy and comfort her with one little “ditto.” But then she passed into the world of only wet and molding, finding in it the closest thing she had to peace since she had returned home. One thought stayed with her though, no matter how deep the spinning clay drew her in. No matter how many equality laws were made, no matter how she had tried to prove herself, male vets were heroes, wearing their battle wounds like shining medals. Yet she was just a one legged girl, covered in drying clay.

“I don’t see how shoe shopping is inappropriate.”

Karen was regretting leaving the solitude of her workstation in the basement. A snack from the fridge was not worth restarting this argument from the morning.

She sighed, knowing that she should squelch the rising anger. Her mother meant well, right?

“Because you cannot buy just one shoe. They do not sell shoes in singles.”

“That’s why we need to get you one of those fancy thingys.”

“Prosthetic.”

“Yes, a prosthetic. Didn’t they give you one?”

“They gave me one.”

“Why don’t you where it? Where is it? I don’t see why you can’t just put it under a pair of jeans, or we could paint it. Oh! We could paint it like one of your Monet-style vases, make it all flower-power!”

“Navy vets cannot be ‘flower-power’. It would have to be more ‘sea-weed-wonder’, but I appreciate the idea.”

“Look,” Julie Mullen pulled down a clay bowl filled with tea bags and set a pot of water to boil, “your arms are eventually going to hurt so much from those damn crutches that you’ll change your mind. When they do, we’ll go shoe shopping.”

A sound half scoff, half laugh, fell out of Karen, as it was the only answer to her mother. The woman had been doing everything she could to make her only child feel normal. Karen knew it couldn’t be easy to always appear so okay with the world as her mom did. Mrs. Mullen had lost her son to the war, and now her daughter was finally home yet wasn’t whole. She would have no daughter in law, and now the chance of a son-in-law was dwindling with everyday Karen hid in their basement at her workbench or in the back yard staring at the kiln.

“Okay, fine. When I get tired of looking homeless, we’ll go shoe shopping. But for now, I’m perfectly happy hopping around the house.”

Julie rolled her eyes, “I think the doctor said something about how that’s not good for you.”

“You were not listening to the doctor, you were trying to flirt with his cute intern.”

“She was adorable, and I have a sex drive,” Julie smirked as she picked through the cloth bags of leaves, occasionally smelling one before replacing it in the bowl.

“Mom!”

“Like you didn’t know that. How would I have created two children? Hate to tell you, but the stork story is not true.”

“I’m aware.”

“And I’m being a good girl, we’re getting dinner first.”

Karen stopped picking at the linoleum counter and looked up at her mother, mouth open wide, “You have a date?”

Julie giggled, “Of course! Only took watching your father get girls’ for eleven years to learn how to be smooth enough to score!”

“When?”

“Well, the first one was a week ago, and we getting together again this weekend. We’re playin’ strip poker!”

Karen rolled her eyes as her mother began to cackle. She spoke congratulations and then dismissed herself, lying about a mug waiting in the kiln.

Yes, she wanted her mother in the dating world and finding someone to cuddle with. She had really liked the last few ladies that had filtered through her mother’s letters and emails, subtly reminding Karen that life went on back home as normal. But none of those women had quite been enough for Julie, the cougar of the King Fort, Washington. “Close, but no cigar!” her mother had written after each of her affairs had been kindly shown the door.

Karen had wondered if Dan, once two years older than her and now gone forever, had known about their mother’s love life post-divorce. The siblings had always been able to discuss everything, but not once did Dan bring up that he knew his mother had developed much more lively encounters in the dating world.

“Or discovered them, I suppose,” Karen mumbled to the wooden table that held all of her paints and broken pieces, waiting to be remolded into something useful. Her eyes found the picture of her brother hanging on the wall. It was him at his college graduation, a year before his death. The cords around his neck were numerous and though his smile was small, his eyes sparkled with pride at something to the right of the frame. Karen had been standing there, but she had cut the picture in two when he died. She still didn’t know why she had done such a silly thing, but it had felt right at the time. Those eyes were still shining though, and she wanted to ask him how scary it was to suddenly be the head of the house at nine years old. She had done so once before, but she’d felt even then he was leaving something out.

“I wasn’t the head though, Kar,” he said, rubbing the stem to his wine glass, “it wasn’t like Mom crumbled. In fact, she more of acted like it had freed her, ya know? The world hadn’t gaped open, it had just shifted a bit. Why are you thinking of that right now?”

It had been right before his deployment. They had been sitting around the house having an after dinner glass while their mother was off at “yoga class.” It was only after Dan’s death that their mother began to be open with Karen that yoga class was really meeting a short lady named Beatrice for a few drinks, and that yoga classes didn’t even really happen that late at night anyway.

Karen looked back at the picture. She decided Dan must have known. Perhaps Julie had just kept it quiet to her son because she felt he was handling enough, and perhaps his mother’s dating life would be one too many details to deal with before he shipped out to another country where there was gunfire and lots of worries.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a large squawking behind her, and after a short moment of panic, regained her balance and wheeled to rip a new one in the intruder.

“Mrkrow?”

Karen found herself staring into the dark eyes of Elixir, their pregnant Maine Coon.

“Can’t you make a normal cat sound?!” She yelled, one hand on the table and the other on her hip, attempting to give the cat the same stern look Julie had given when one of her children had done something cute but disobedient.

But Elixir just purred, wrapping herself around the one good leg until Karen picked her up and placed her on the table.

“Well,” Karen sighed, letting the feline rub fuzzy ears against her hand, “at least someone in this household is getting laid.”

“Mrrow,” came the answer.

“Hush. You can’t even talk right. House of broken toys, this one.” Karen smiled at her own joke. The cat had been the only one to live of their last pet’s litter, and was more capable of a croak than a meow, but as a teenager, Karen had demanded that the cat was simply trying to speak real human words. So the cat was kept, and her food bowl was placed where Mr. Mullen’s seat had once stood at the end of the table.

The next few days passed just as the last had, and Karen felt it was quite soon that she was watching her mother pick out earrings to go with the beige top that showed off her freckled shoulders.

“We might come back here later.”

Karen was lying on her stomach across her mother’s comforter, smoothing the wrinkles of one of the pillows, “For the strip poker?”

“Ha, no! That we’ll be doing at her apartment,” Julie made a point to turn and wink at her daughter before returning to her jewelry box, “For drinks, of course. I do not feel like being the lady hauling all the ingredients of a bloody mary around, so if she’s up for it we’ll just come over here afterwards.”

“That’s fine, I’ll stay out of y’all’s hair.”

“No!” Julie spun quickly, almost letting go of the pearl studs between her fingers, “you haven’t been able to get out of my hair for the past twenty-seven years, why would you start now?”

“I don’t wanna be part of your date!”

“You’ll be a part of it if I tell you that you are.”

Karen started slipping off the bed, “One day I’m going to do something like turn into a grown up and leave. Then what will you do?”

“You can’t get far like that, dear,” Julie called as her daughter left the room, “If you want to abandon your mother, you’ll have to get another leg!”

“Sweet Jesus…” Karen scooted down the stairs on her butt as she had as a child.

“Don’t use the Lord’s name in vain!” Came from the master bedroom.

“It was a prayer that my mother had a lovely date and leaves me out of it!”

That night the country music blared through the basement walls, almost loud enough to hide the sound of feet clambering down the stairs. Karen tried to ignore the people now staring at her work, quietly wondering why they were down there at all.

“And who is this adorable little fella?”

Being in the military, Karen had learned to assess a situation before she reacted to it. She briefly thought that she had been out of that mode too long, because she simply could not gather why the voice was male and why on earth he was calling her “little fella.”

So when she looked up to see the tall man next to a short blond woman and her own mother. The man was holding her cat instead of looking at the woman covered in clay.

“Um, it’s a girl. She’s pregnant.”

The three people laughed, as if sharing a little joke. Karen ignored this as well.

The man crossed over, extending a well-worn hand, “I’m Shaun, Lisa’s brother,” he said, as if that were an explanation to him still holding the cat.

“And I’m Lisa!” The small woman called, and she seemed to float over to Karen rather than walk.

“I’m all covered in wet clay,” Karen shrugged, not taking the extended palms.

“I get covered in worse every day!” Shaun laughed again, and Karen saw that up close he was rather handsome with his tan skin and hazel eyes. He took her hand firmly, and laughed at the squish sound the clay made between their skin.

“I’m Karen, Julie’s daughter,” Karen said as she stood to turn off the music, realizing only after she spoke how obvious this was. When she turned around from the stereo, she realized her missing limb was now very apparent and moved to hide slightly behind her stool. But neither of the newcomers were staring. Instead, they were inspecting all of her tools and half-finished projects.

“These are beautiful!” The small woman sang, and Karen saw that the siblings had matching color tones. She imagined their family photos were spectacular.

“Aren’t they?” Julie finally joined them and began a tour of the basement studio as if Karen had allowed it. Instead of protesting, she watched how Elixir seemed perfectly happy in this man’s arms. Ever since the thing had gotten pregnant, Elixer had been wary of strangers, but Karen swore she could hear the purr across the room.

“These are amazing! How do you manage to do such a thing? I’d just have a bunch of clay mole hills!” Shaun’s voice seemed to be mostly a laugh, and Karen was sucked in by the compliment and the free smile across his face.

“Thank you, they’re real easy if you’d like to watch.” She surprised herself, realizing she had never offered someone such an opportunity before.

“I’d love that! How’s it start?”

Before Karen could settle back onto her stool, Julie appeared by her side, “He’s a vet too, ya know!”

“Pardon?” Karen asked more to Shaun then her mother.

Shaun shift his feet a bit, the first sign that he didn’t spend his whole day every day in that very basement, “Oh Juls, don’t say it like that- I could never do what y’all do,” He finished to Karen.

“What do you mean, what branch were you?”

“I um,” He finally set the feline down, and Elixir immediately began circling his legs, “I’m her kinda vet,” he gestured to his feet, ”rather than your kinda vet…”

Karen stared at him for a long moment, hearing the laughter choking her mother and the other woman. A heat rose in her neck and the light feeling that had been growing took a sudden nosedive. Shaun saw the change in her face and his mouth went very straight and grave.

“I didn’t mean-“

“No, it’s fine. I get it- the words sound the same. It’s funny because I’m a broken soldier and you nip the balls off stray dogs. Ha. So funny. Who are you and what the hell are you doing in my basement telling me a word-joke?!” She pulled on the table beside her to stabilize and began to escape, but the fury had made her forget her physical state, and when she tried to take another step, was reminded she actually could not as the concrete floor came closer and closer. She reached out for anything, but was obstructed from the table by a large body attempting to catch her. She found herself on the ground, hurting, pinned under a large warm object.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Pity a cripple.”

“I wasn’t pitying a cripple, I meant I was sorry to fall on you…”

“Karen! Baby, are you okay?” Her mother was by her side, searching every inch of her daughter for scratches or bruises.

“I’m fine, really. Get off. I can get up fine.”

Julie knew when to let her daughter be, so she stepped away and gestured for her two guests to do the same. Karen took a hold of a table leg and in one grunting motion, pulled herself back onto her foot.

The four adults stared at each other for a moment in silence, unaware what the next words to say should be.

“Mrrowl?”

Karen glanced beside her where Elixir had made it to the table top and was trying to nuzzle the anger out of her human companion.

“Mrrowl indeed, miss.” Shaun spoke, watching Karen’s face closely.

“Why don’t we go mix those drinks, Jul?” Lisa demanded, rather than suggested.

Julie hesitated, but followed with one last look at her daughter. Karen was making her way back to her stool, knowing there was not enough clay in the world to make this night go away. As she wet the stone again, she realized Shaun was still there.

“Have you ever seen Ghost?” His voice held a nervous note that had been missing earlier, but he did not retreat.

“Do not touch me.” But even through the racing pulse brought on by her anger, Karen secretly wondered if he was just commenting or offering.

“I wasn’t going to, not yet.” Shaun pulled a chair out from the table and, placing his elbows on his knees, leaned in closely to watch fingers work against colorful mud as he scratched Elixir’s chin, “but I’ve always been intrigued by artists. And eventually you’ll have to let me prove that I’m a little more graceful than that over there.”

Karen did not look up from the form beneath her palms. She was a broken piece of pottery. People didn’t like the usually like unusual. They didn’t like the awkward or tense moments that can come with the unusual. People did not hang around to talk to broken things after the jagged edges became so visible. Broken things are scary, unpredictable. And yet, there he sat.

“Ditto.”

The Word

Malleable (adjective): 1. Able to be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking. 2. Pliable.

PHEW it has been a while since I have TG’d so hard that IF. The past week(s) have been filled with several different developments (some good, some bad) in my life, and I’m so thankful that I’m not dealing with any of them on my own. All of these developments are asking for change or growth from me, though. And I have to say, I’m kinda excited about it. I know it won’t be easy, and I know that you’ll probably hear some complaints, but it’s like playing a sport- it’s no fun unless the competition is worthy!

But all that change and growth about to be demanded of me and those around me had me thinking… how much aware change are we capable of? We change over time whether we like it or not, because of situations and nature and influence. However, asking for change of yourself with purpose is an entirely different beast. This is the beast now in front of us, and for the first time, I don’t think being a wall of thunder and steel is going to serve me. I think it’s time to be the clay. It’s time to move and shape into new forms while stay whole. It’s time to move from material to art. And sometimes back again to take on a new, better, stronger form with advance structure, again and again and again.

It’s reshaping time. Karen shapes clay every day and had thought herself fully cooked. And when dry clay meets a hard surface? Shatters and shards. But wet clay just PLOPS, fine and dandy and still ready to go. She had only a millisecond between the basement floor and Shaun’s arms to decide if she was cooked or malleable. Sometimes that’s all the time we have!

Here’s to our new shapes, our reforming! Here’s to the artwork you’ll become.

———-

VIPS (Very Important Post Script): I do not know what it is like to be a disabled vet, and I am so thankful for the people in our world that do, as they have made a sacrifice for strangers that many would have a hard time doing even for those they love. So this story is pure fiction dedicated to those still in the midst of healing.

The Story

Oh, yes, hello! I’m Jamie. Mrs. Teage, right? Lovely to meet you. Sure, sure, I have a table over there already, actually.

Familiar? No, I‘m sure I just have one of those faces.

Yes, I’m sure. Would you like anything? I ordered a caramel macchiato, very sweet, I’d recommend it.

Oh, okay.

Well yes, I’m from Michigan, you may tell from my accent. Oh, never? Well it’s lovely. I do miss it sometimes, though it is nice to be a bit warmer!

Resume, yes. Here, I brought a clean copy. Or… was clean. Could you pass me a napkin? Anyway! I’ve been a nanny for about seven years now, I started for a professor of mine my junior year of college, then just continued through grad school- a little extra in the bank and I love the kids, you know?

A young boy and a pre-teen girl. Precious. The best.

Yes, they were very active. She did dance and volleyball, he was just getting started on karate- a little ninja in the making, haha! I went to all the practices and games. Never know when they’ll need me! So I was always there just in case.

Well they were artistic too. They get that from me, I think. Here are some of the cute little drawings they sent me during the trial, so cute, right? Phew, I guess they’re older now but I keep all of these little scribbles close- it’s like still having the little sweets around!

I’m sorry? Oh the, um, the trial. It was a minor hiccup, a misunderstanding, but of course everything feels minor when you’re in grad school, right? You’re still doing homework, but they expect you to do a full time job on top of it! Crazy!

Oh, yes, reference letters. This one is from a friend, a character-witness you might say! And then an old teacher, and- hm?

Well, I suppose the parental relationship with my last family did not end as amiably.

She just didn’t like that her kids ended up enjoying their time with me more than with her. But she was gone a lot. Even the kids noticed their old mommy was gone more than their classmates’ moms. I mean- that’s when it’s time for a nanny! Haha, but she was gone a lot so I spent most of my time there. A few nights whenever she had to leave town as well. Made getting homework done a little hard, but anything for my babies.

Oh not to worry. I’m done with school now, so that work won’t get in the way.

No, not finished. Just, done. I had to leave and come here! “New start, new city!” as I’m sure you saw on my site.

Just from school. And the trial, oh that unnecessary headache.

It was just a little thing. A hiccup. A misunderstanding, as most are, I think.

Really? Um. Well. The wife, she was very dismayed one night. Her jealousy got the best of her, I think.

Well, she came home, quite late, and became upset that I was still there, which was just so silly since she asked me to put the kids to bed.

Well her husband had gotten home about an hour earlier. But he was tired so I stayed and cooked dinner and put my boy to bed. I was chopping veggies for the kids’ lunch boxes, helping Am- helping the girl with her homework when the wife walked in. She stared at me silently for a long time, odd woman, but I just kept chop, chopping away! Then she just- broke!

I mean, it was like her sanity just ruptured! And goodness, that woman could scream. Started marching about the kitchen, jabbing her finger in my chest. I thought she was going to yell forever, with the girl right there close to tears and the boy trying to sleep! I asked her several times to lower her voice, but she just wouldn’t and with my instincts about the children- I couldn’t help but think of them! I had to protect them from this lunacy! So I told her what-for and jabbed her in the chest right back, told her that was no way a lady ought to behave.

If only I’d put the knife down first, I’d still be with my precious little angels. How old are yours, again?

The Word

Warden (noun): 1. A person responsible for the supervision of a particular place or thing or for ensuring that regulations associated with it are obeyed. 2. A churchwarden. 3. The head of certain schools, colleges, or other institution.

Sooo which side are you on? Is Jaime or the mom/wife the crazy one? Let me know what you think! (Really, love to hear from y’all, so find me here anytime!)

I chose Warden today because due to some reorg happening at work, I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be in charge of people who are older/younger, more/less experienced that you, and what it means to be in a position like that. No matter what flavor of leader you are (boss, nanny, teacher, etc.) you do end up kind of like a warden. You are both protector and punisher. And perhaps that sounds a little bit dramatic, but think about the leaders around you that have accepted their titles- are they not some sort of responsible for you? Or visa versa- as a leader, do you not feel that it is your job to ensure good work as well as the safety of those that answer to you? Just something to think on as we go about our daily leading and following.

P.S. No, I was not a babysitter or a nanny. Tried one time when I was a high school freshman- the girls cried ’cause I wouldn’t let them paint on their bedroom walls and the boys escaped out a window to tear down a 12-foot jungle gym. After that, I decided my after-school time was probably better spent elsewhere. 🙂