The Story

I have been afraid of the dark since I was about eight years old.

Sometimes, it was the shadows in the dark. You see them now, in your mind’s eye, I’m sure. It’s that odd shade of gray, a reflection of non-light paired against dusk. Artists attempt to recreate this timeless vision, and yet paint nor film is able to truly capture the odd feeling that accompanies night shadows. I think it’s because they should be impossible. How can there be shade without light? Yet the night continues to create them.

Sometimes, it was the sound of footsteps in my ears. With my eyes closed, I imagined villains racing towards my room. I was sure the next sound I’d hear would be the crashing of my door before they reached me. No matter how many pillows I stacked over my head, the pace of the steps would quicken with my fear. It was years before one of my siblings suggested it was just my own heartbeat echoing off the pillow back to my ear.

And sometimes, it was the creepy old teddy bear someone passed down to someone else who passed it down to me. It had hay sticking out of its elbows, and a Victorian neck cuff like a vampire. She did not get along with my other stuffed animals, and so was secluded to her own chair in the corner of my room. I couldn’t even name her, because nothing seemed to suit. Wherever I placed her in my room, she stared at me. My sleepy-time-teddy did his best to protect me from her, but some nights even he shook from a glance towards her corner. I was to never NEVER stare directly at her in the middle of the night. She might replace her own worn out stuffing with mine.

But most of the time, it was the man in the grave.

This poor man. He himself was not scary at all. It was his situation that was scary, and I hope I can describe his plight properly to you.

When my young self would fall into that dreamy almost-asleep, the gray hill would rise in my mind. If I close my eyes I can still see it. It’s perfectly oval-topped, as a child’s mind will do with a hill. It’s unmarked, save a small stone path that led from my feet to the very top. There’s no lightening or cliche thunder in the background, just a few clouds. But these clouds are slowly circling together, as if to form a deadly tornado.

Right before the tornado’s arm reaches out to the earth, the rising hill reaches its peak. On that peak is a single grave. It is a tall slate, nothing special, with just a spray twigs and dying moss surrounding it. There is writing etched into it, but I can never read the words. They are in English, and I’m sure could have read them if I tried. But how can I? How can I tear my mind’s eye away from this man in agony?

The man. No, no- the man’s soul.

There were no discerning features, his shape was black in full. Other than the feeling that spirit was masculine, he was nothing but a silhouette. His torso emerged from the grave, long fingers pulling himself up from the earth. He would try to crawl further into the sky, to join the ghostly world of drifting into the night. Yet he never succeeds. Each time my mind took me to the hill he was still there: reaching, stretching, begging for liberation.

He never escaped.

The gray headstone would shiver with silver energy, anchoring his chest to the earth where his body lay.

In the dream, I never knew whether to reach for him, or run. If I were a good little Christian, I would extend my hand, take his dark mass in my strength and pull him to freedom.

But what if that were the trap? Was this Satan’s call? If I reached for a brother, would I find myself chained to the torture of a traitor?

So that would make me think I should run. Could I outrun a soul? A demon? How could I possible escape whatever had held him all this time?

Was I thrust before it as an unbeatable test? Was it my fate to lose?

I never found out. My young self stood in the middle ground between reaching and running. The beat of my poor, exhausted heart would undertake such a crescendo that all those lovely Darwin chemicals in my brain would wake me, thinking there was real danger.

To my parents and siblings? The real danger was loss of sleep.

The times I crawled into my parents’ bed is innumerable. My mother sleeps on the right side of the bed, so she was often my security target. To me, her placement is unnaturally brave. I, myself, have always slept on the left side of the bed, because this is often the farthest from the door. No, monsters are not real. But if they ARE real, I expect whatever partner I’ve chosen to face them first- to either fight for me or sacrifice themselves so I can get away. My mother apparently believes in both her ability to take on the supernatural, and her tolerance of human crazies. Of all the things I did NOT inherit, am I right?

There was the occasional night I tried to wake my father first, and on those nights, he would sleepily yawn, mumble something about it being okay, and tuck me in between them. The dark was still there, but so were they, and so was their warmth. On the even rarer occasion when I moved slowly, millimeter by millimeter, into the safety of my brothers’ beds? Those were just as safe, but not for as long. I would be kicked back to my own room long before sunlight.

These days it’s all okay though! A few years ago, there was a night when I was simply too tired to be scared. I went to sleep without doing my last guard walk of the room or double checking the door. Something magical happened to my psyche that tired night. Since then, I’ve never checked my closets, the dark corners, or even under the bed!

Then a couple years after that, I was able to give up my nightlight. During the day hours, I dared myself to walk into the basement or the garage without flipping the light switch. Even while late walks with the dog, I would purposely move closer to the trees, testing my new courage. It was exposure therapy, really. I could do this; I could grow into an actual adult woman who slept through the night. I was determined that by the time I moved out into my own home, I would be able to do so without fear, without doubt in my safety.

And I did. With just a few hiccups of reaching for the phone around 1am, debating who might be up to answer, I have done really well. My growing fortitude changed my waking hours as well, made me stronger in many ways. Not to mention how much good it did the whole family to get a little more sleep.

I owe a lot to my parents and siblings, for walking me through this hard time. I certainly owe plenty to my very expensive therapist- so thank God that check cleared.

I owed a lot to the man, too. I left him still stuck there all those nights ago, reaching from his deep eternity into the stormy purgatory. Sometimes I wonder, now that I’m older, if I would reach for him instead of run, and then we’d both be free.

I planned to visit him tonight, actually. To close my eyes, and let my mind drift into the past, awaking the fears and oddly familiar heartbeats. I’ll tuck myself into my bed, in my small city apartment, and whisper into the dark that it’s okay. That I’m not afraid. I can see what before I could not.

But I haven’t gone to bed yet, haven’t invited the dark in. There’s a few drops of tea still in my mug and a couple minutes in my TV show. So I’m still sitting on my couch when the room chills. The starlight moves away from my window. The wind picks up to upset the plants on my porch, yet the trees out in the yard are not moving. It’s as if I’m hosting my own little storm.

While I’ve yet to catch on, my body senses what’s coming. Cold sweat springs across the back of my neck. My mouth runs dry as the echoes of my heartbeat quicken. The ends of my fingers go numb, my whole being is stuck again between fight or flight. Reach or run.

Because he has finally succeeded. He has escaped. He’s achieved freedom.

A shadow moves in the darkened hallway.

He’s here.

The Word

Creep (verb): 1. Move slowly and carefully in order to avoid being heard or noticed. 2. (of an unwanted and negative characteristic or fact) occur or develop gradually and almost imperceptibly.

(noun): 1. A detestable person. 2. Slow movement, especially at a steady but almost imperceptible pace.

More like CREEPED OUT, am I right?

I try to create different voices in my writing, but this one is blatantly me. 99% of this story comes from my own experience. However, I have yet to have the dude from my repeating nightmare pop up in my apartment (though I will be a bit wary this Hallow’s Eve now).

I hope you have a SPOOKTACULAR Halloween, readers!

Hello reader, and welcome! If you're new to the blog, you may want to read Today I am Steady before this entry. And if you're REALLY interested in the backstory, check out Today I am Carry and Today I am Susurrus too! Thank you, and happy reading!

The Story

It was difficult when her eyes began to change.

Everyone said they may darken, take on a darker hue. But Liza still prayed dearly that Pepper would keep the same bright eyes of her late husband.

Which she knew was silly. Pepper was hers by neither blood nor marriage, but she was more family than Liza had ever known. This babe she had warmed under her wing was more part of herself than anything she could imagine.

But she couldn’t help but prayer her eyes would stay blue.

Mourning a happy person was an odd pursuit. It was quite different than mourning one lost suddenly or shockingly tragic. True that any type of loss was overwhelming and powerful, but it struck Liza how many expected her to be okay. Not just okay, but…

“He would have wanted you to be happy.”

“There was so much joy in his last days, you must be thankful.”

“Do you think you’ll move on? He would surely would have hoped you would find the next person.”

“You worked so hard, you deserve to be happy.”

Happy? What part of her was supposed to be happy? Her entire life, more since she was eight years old playing with Barbie, she had dreamed of the perfect Ken. Unlike 99% of humans, she was lucky- she found him. She found her soul’s true mate.

And then he died.

In his memory, she adopted the baby they’d wished for since their first year of marriage. She had named the sweet wrinkly thing Pepper, after Peter’s favorite grandparent, and prayed the baby would somehow inherit Peter’s patience rather than her own anxiety.

Judging by the high-pitch crying, it was the unfortunate latter.

“Okay, aright, baby. Alright my sweet spicy Pepper, hush hush my love, mommy’s here.”

Mommy? Momma? Hmm. Mom? Mother? What on earth does one call oneself to their baby?

Normally the partner would decide. Sitting across from each other, pretending that the tiny being between them spitting up on itself is adorable, they would refer to each other naturally in the names that would stick with them for the next eighteen to sixty-four years.

Liza, however, was alone. So the theory of ridiculous names the child would adhere to fell on her shoulders alone.

Thank God the child was much more concerned about food and sleep than names for the next several months.

Names were hard in general, actually.

Her own, Liza, was short for Elizabeth. But when she’d taken Peter’s last name, she’d dropped all those extra letters. Her mother had plucked a regal-sounding name from the family tree, but no one ever used more than her four letters, so she she figured that’s all she needed to sign her checks.

Peter. When they met in the library, her new boss close by and giggling, Liza had been very disappointed to that those gorgeous blue eyes and jokester smile belonged to a ‘Peter’. Her aunt had always toted the theory of names, and in guesses for success of relationships, Aunt Susie had never been wrong. The young grad student imagined “Peter and Liza” did not roll off the tongue smooth enough for her aunt.

“That’s because you’d say ‘Liza and Peter’ instead. See how much better that sounds? You’ll marry him, honey. Just see.”

Another point for Aunt Susie.

Liza had almost called Aunt Susie for guidance the day she went to pick up baby Pepper. She needed a woman of both experience and sanity to tell her she was doing the right thing. Liza’s own mother was an excellent support system but was more a “whatever you do will be right, dear” kinda voice. She wanted to ask Aunt Susie if she would name the baby, if the hospital would, if the birth mother would. It had taken so long, and then been so sudden. She was supposed to have another week to make the drive North and prepare, but the baby had decide it was time.

But she chewed on the idea so long, the long drive was over and she was in the waiting room with the birth mother’s scared boyfriend.

“You’ll take care of her?”

“Of course. As best I possibly can.”

“I know, I know.” The boy shifted from foot to foot.

“You know,” Liza reached out, “you don’t have to do this. If you want to be her father, that’s your right. I don’t want to-“

“No!” The boy turned and grasped Liza’s arm, “No, no! Evie picked you. All the files we read, she saw your name, and said it’s you, you’re the mom. Not us. We talked. We’ve got scholarships, plans. I’m just worried about Evie. And kinda scared of her mom. She hasn’t been my biggest fan since Evie started screaming…”

On cue, a warrior’s screech had echoed to them from the hallway. 

She saw your name… you’re the mom.

Liza did not feel like the mom tonight. The baby was sobbing, and nothing was working. Food, diaper change, bum lotion, rocking, fresh blanket, more rocking, new toy, white noise machine- na da. Had young Evie really picked the right name?

“Come on Pepper, tell me, tell me baby. What do you need?” Liza bobbed around the room- swoop, rock rock, swoop rock rock, just like her Mommy & Me class had taught her to mimic womb and ocean at once. Pepper was not amused OR soothed.

“After his mother?!” The elder Mrs. Lindbogen had scolded Liza when she presented Pepper to her paternal grandparents. “She thought he was a play thing! Gave him alcohol before college! Helped him skip temple!”

Mr. Lindbogen had chortled, though. “He loved my mother, and my mother loved him. One time, when he was real small, he got these terrible nightmares from watching too many Halloween specials. The only thing that got him to sleep was her stories.”

He’d looked up at Liza then, “On the day of your wedding, when I asked if he was ready, he said the only thing better than Grandma’s story was your voice.”

Liza smiled down at Pepper. In a cheery voice she cooed, “Daddy was a little liar, wasn’t he? Yes he was, baby. ‘Cause my voice isn’t doing a thing for you, is it? No ma’am, na ah it’s not, honey.”

She swore the baby stopped mid-sob to giggle. Damn precocious little thing. Of course, then the sobbing continued.

“Okay, alright, let’s talk about Daddy then. Yes let’s talk about Daddy. Mmmhmm, Daddy was a good guy, wasn’t it? Terrible at oatmeal but loved us. Yes he did, baby.” She cooed and talked, talked and swayed.

“Grandma Pepper would tell you to stop crying because it upsets the owls. You heard about the owls baby? People think they’re just birds, but they’re so much more…”

“…They’re night guardians, you know. Think about it, wings like angels, can see all the way around. They’re lookouts.”

They’d been hiking in the dark, lost on the way home from a camping trip along the Appalachian Trail. Peter was trying to convince Liza not to just sit down and panic until daylight.

“Then why is there always hooting in the background of horror movies?

Peter smiled, reached to grab her hand, “Movies get it all wrong, love. Owls only hoot to say ‘I’m here, this is my spot, and all is clear! They’d fly off if they were uncomfortable. If you hear an owl hoot, means you’ve got a magic night guardian.”

“And that’s why you’ve got these cute little owls aaaaall around your room. See them, love?” Liza reached out, pushed the mobil above the crib, covered in pastel woodland creatures. “Let’s name them, here we go.”

The baby cried on.

“This little pink one? Hmm what do you think? Let’s say Mica, shimmery like the rock. Good name, baby, I like it. And this one? Ares! A deer named after the huntress? You’re so smart, sweetie! Great name!”

They went all around the mobil, named each stuffed creature and spoke them to life until they all had personality and purpose.

And somewhere between Benny the Beaver and Rumble the Squirrel, Pepper calmed. She tucked her small body into her mother, turning her head just enough to watch the mobil as it spun her new friends round and around.

Liza sighed into the beautiful quiet. It meant peace, it meant her baby was happy, meant momma had done well.

Momma.

Names. Names are important.

The Word

Maternal (adjective): 1. Relating to a mother, especially during pregnancy or shortly after childbirth. 2. Denoting feelings associated with or typical of a mother; motherly. 3. Related through the mother’s side of the family.

Names ARE important.

Naming characters is hard. Names have lots of meaning, lots of context. You can’t just name somebody Sherlock anymore- that comes along with Holmes. Even simple-sounding names like “Dustin” have reverberation. It means “fighter,” so if I give it to a pacifist, I’m either insinuating, predicting, or being ironic.

So a lot of the time, I do extensive research into names. Other times, I just go with what sounds right. Because I adhere to Aunt Susie’s theory, that some names just sound correct in a context, and others do not.

When my parents named me, they took lots into consideration. How does one honor the past generations while not creating a labor for the future ones? I love my name. And I’ll admit, I’m REALLY glad they didn’t follow the trend of a cousin branch- where the youngest son is named Woodrow, shortened to Woody, and then to Twig. I would not have done well with Twiggy (modeling isn’t really my thing).

But those title-names are important too. My parents’ names are Mom and Dad. Short, sure, strong- just the way we needed them to be when we called from the play set we’d fallen off, or the stove where we overflowed the rice cooker, or our college dorm where we panicked.

My oldest brother was the oldest of all the grandkids, so he got to name all the grandparents: Grandma, Grandpa, Nanna, Poppa- those were both names and titles, and they suited each individual perfectly.

Liza is learning to be a mom without the person she assumed would be the dad. Wait, let me rephrase that: Liza is learning she is Momma, and that baby Pepper needs just that. Some names we’re given, some names we earn, some we grow into.

What name are you growing into, reader?

The Story

I’m just writing to say I miss you, and that I’m glad I can’t forgive you, because then I’d miss you more.

May all our old love be with you,

Shannon.

He wasn’t sure which of his friends to believe: Mark said Shannon’s words meant she still held a flame for him. James said they meant she’d finally let go. And Jon said the letter meant Shannon was a crazy bitch.

But Matthew couldn’t be sure. Was this the moment to reach out? Or to keep running?

Running was how this all started. Matthew never imagined he’d be in this position, that he’d do such a thing, but that was now the slogan that followed every mention of his name in their town. Like the local eatery, “Tubbs: You’re tubby coming or going!” he was now “Matthew Keeper: that boy done ran off on his bride.” Or at least that’s what he heard from the guys. He himself was still hiding out in his grandparents’ mountain vacation home, several hundred feet past sea level from his gossiping home.

The evening of his escape the only one with an opportunity to catch him was his grandfather. He had snuck past his groomsmen popping champagne in the dressing room, then slipped behind the young preacher rehearsing his lines. Matthew thought he’d been caught out the back door where a great aunt was cleaning her glasses, but she just said “Luke dear, get your momma a peppermint” as she wiped thick lenses.

He’d almost made it to his Jeep, but Poppa Gerald had been outside having a last cigarette before the ceremony. The patriarch called Matthew over when their eyes met across the parking lot.

“Where ya headed, son? Taking a pre-vow stroll?” The man asked, but his eyes said he already knew the embarrassing answer.

Throat already swollen with heartbreak, Matthew could barely squawk out an explanation. His grandfather waited patient and silent, slowly burning the cigarette to its nub.

“Poppa, I can’t do this.”

The wrinkled head nodded, “Sure, sure,” then blew out a stream of silver smoke, “why not?”

Matthew chewed the inside of his cheek. He didn’t really know why. It was something in his stomach saying none of this was right. Everything seemed to have flown by without him- the planning, the waiting, life itself- and although he was unsure what he wanted, the migraine growing up the back of his neck was clear evidence that this was not it.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or don’t want to?”

Old people always asked strange questions. Their aged voices made the questions seem so heavy, so poignant. But sometimes it seemed such heaviness was more of an accident stemming from nonsense. In this case, not enough of Matthew’s brain was functioning well enough to even decide which.

“I said don’t know, Poppa. I just don’t.” He looked at his feet in their shined black loafers, “Maybe both.”

“Both it is then,” The old man nodded again as he threw the cigarette to the pavement, stomped its tiny embers to extinction. Then he reached in his inner suit pocket and pulled out a set of keys.

“I bring these to every wedding in our family, just in case.”

Matthew took them, recognizing the worn leather keychain. It was a simple circle with barely any ink left from a once proud logo: Sunset Lodge. It was the family home in the Blue Ridge mountains his grandparents flocked to every summer to escape the humidity settling into the southland.

Matthew took the keys, rubbed the soft leather thoughtfully. “Even Aunt Margie’s?”

Poppa Gerald scoffed, “Especially Aunt Margie’s. But if you tell Uncle Todd, I’ll deny it and then write you out of the will.”

There was an exchange of handshakes, a tight hug, and synced not-smiles. But when Matthew opened his car door to take off, he called turned back.

“Poppa?”

Strong shoulders and wise eyes turned to listen.

“Why aren’t you stopping me?”

“Because boy, you’ll stop when you’re ready and not before. No use in me slowing you down.”

–

Sometimes, Matthew wished he had. Things sure would be easier, wouldn’t they? There wouldn’t be so many angry voicemails from his parents on his phone. Less passive aggression would pepper the emails he received from his boss while hunched over his grandmother’s old stationary desk. He wouldn’t have gotten a speech in the driveway from his very angry sister, hair still stone-still from spray and a sweatshirt over her bridesmaid dress, about the carelessness of men and how their whole lives she’d hoped her little brother would be a good man and how absolutely could he do this. And he wouldn’t have this dark pit in his chest, a sweltering hole of hot pain where his heart knew his betrayal and screamed it back at him over and over.

And yet…

Some part of him knew he’d done the right thing. There was much regret on how he did it, and how many people he’d hurt (he thought it’d just be the one), but there was zero regret in the action itself. He’d needed to run. Marrying Shannon Stoleman, moving into her beloved townhouse, becoming the official father figure to her four-year-old Scottish terrier, and starting those lifelong plans of theirs, was just not what Matthew Keeper was supposed to do.

So after three and a half months, he was still up in the mountain house, putting in his work hours each morning remotely so that evenings could be spent walking in the woods and hoping either a sign would fall out of the sky or a huge branch would.

Instead he got a nice wallop in Shannon’s clean, clipped handwriting. He was stuck again, not knowing what this sign meant, but he knew it was a sign of some sort or another.

Stuck. He kept getting stuck. Stuck in a relationship he wasn’t as dedicated to as he wanted to be, stuck in a job he was good at but not passionate for, now stuck on this mountain because it was the only place he felt safe.

“You got sticky shoes, son.”

Poppa Gerald had arrived for their summer stay a week before Mo-ma, the matriarch of the Keepers clan, joined them. His text a few days earlier had said he was coming up early make sure the place was still suitable for his aging wife, but Matthew wasn’t fooled.

“Sticky shoes?” Was this more of that aged wisdom? “You want me to head west and buy some flipflops, or go barefoot for a while?”

“Maybe,” another cigarette was dancing between wrinkled lips, “You ever try it?”

Matthew was pretty sure this was some of that nonsense.

“I don’t know.”

Poppa Gerald nodded, as if he’d been given the correct answer instead of a mumbled attempt to leave the conversation.

“There’s a lot you seem to not know.” The sting was sharp, but a little wink followed it to soften the blow. “I could tell you that if you go barefoot, you have a higher chance of stepping on something sharp, but you also have the chance to build up some calluses. To feel the real earth under your feet, feel some movement- to get unstuck. But what I really mean boy, is that if you don’t start taking your boots off at the door instead of getting mud across my floor, your welcome is gonna wear out.”

“Oh Poppa, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nah, nah,” the old man coughed or laughed, it was unclear, “You’re alright. But I will say this- while I go heat up one of your little frozen pizzas, why don’t you go walk to the stream and put your feet in.”

It was not a suggestion.

Poppa Gerald began shuffling off to the kitchen, “then tomorrow we’ll mop so your mo-ma doesn’t find out.”

Matthew had never argued with the retired army engineer and starting now seemed foolish. So he set down his beer, slipped off his boots, and left the house by the back porch.

He started with his evening usual path, down the slight slope of the property and off to the left. This is the same walk his family had taken for decades. He remembered holding onto dog leashes in the mornings and his mother’s hand in the evenings, being called after to be careful as he chased cicadas and fireflies.

It was not lost on him that he had no hand to hold as dusk once again settled on the mountain.

But he got into the rhythm of trail walking easily. It was in his bones now. The little crumble crunch of leaves against gravel, the constant adjustment of earth. Enough feet, those of humans and deer and raccoons and foxes and every other little creature, had walked this path to make it smooth under his naked toes.

Before the large red maple marking his way right, back up the other side of the mountain, he took the left towards the water. The spring had been a chilly one, with summer not yet sneaking into the air. It left this path less worn-in than it was in the hotter weeks. Later in the season it would be re-tamed by small exploring footprints, and larger strolling ones. The ragged edges would be smoothed over with each passing adventurer.

So Matthew was not surprised to find low handing branches, as well as a few pointy twigs, loose pine-cones, and spiders angry at the disruption. When an acorn top lodged itself in the soft curve of Matthew’s left foot while he dodged a web hanging at eye-level, he wondered who was more insane: his grandfather’s metaphor-driven instructions, or himself for following them near nightfall. Barefoot in the unkempt woods. His mother would have a fit and demand he get a fresh tetanus shot.

But when he hit the soft mud and larger stones that signaled the stream was near, he let that thought go. He’d done as told because for months he hadn’t had an idea of his own. Better a crazy old man’s than nothing.

He nearly trip over a large root when he first heard the babbling song of the stream. For some reason, it shocked him. Such a simple, easy sound, and it triggered so many feelings within him. Matthew was nostalgic for the boy that pushed his sister into these shallow waters and danced across the rocks with his cousins. He felt the awe natural waterways always stilled him with. He felt a little guilt for betraying the easygoing spot by filling it with all his worries. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t visited it earlier. He should go, and leave this place to its innocence.

But instead of running this time, he sat down in the gritty sand. He loved this stuff far more than the powdery kind at beaches. This had more character, he felt, more color. With a little bit of the earth’s chill seeping into his shorts, he stuck his feet in the stream and gasped.

It was indeed not summer yet. He forced his feet to stay in the moving water, waited for them to adjust to the temperature even a bit.

Blue. Crystal blue is the color of this feeling, he thought. Amazing.

So he sat. And he listened. There was the laughter of water slapping against the sand. A tiny breeze moving the ferns of the undergrowth. A nearby squirrel screamed that someone was too close to its branch. A mourning dove romanced the last rays of day. A smile came across his face when a family of minnows- or are those tadpoles? inspected his toes for snacks before continuing on their way.

And he felt the smile he carried. Really felt it. Allowed it to stretch his cheeks and open his eyes. He sighed, then sighed again to hear the sound of it against the backdrop of the woods. Finally, as the night sky began to take over the sunset, he shook off the biggest droplets from his toes and started the walk back. He liked the idea of feeling how long the sand on his heels would hold on. Back to the main path? All the way up to the top of the mountain? Would he have to wipe his feet at the door or would everything have shaken free?

He didn’t have any more answers than when he’d left the house. But damn, he felt better. And that was enough for now.

The Word

Voyage (noun): A long journey involving travel by sea or in space. (verb): Go on a long journey, typically by sea or in space.

WELL, poor ol’ Matthew. Or not? I mean he did run off on his bride. But he seems to feel pretty bad for it. And maybe it was the best choice for everyone? I’m not sure. But that’s okay, to not be sure.

Have you ever heard those old stories of sailing? Sailors, pirates, passengers, Naval captains- they used to have to take off into the sea without a GPS, without flash-dried food, without any of that. The sea was so powerful they worshiped her and her unpredictable moods. Even now when we part from one another, a phrase to shout is “smooth sailing!” because it was such a hope, and never a guarantee. Basically, “I hope everything goes well, especially the parts you have zero control over!”

We’re always told “it’s about the journey, not the destination” and I hope that’s true. I’m often like Matthew: searching for answers, but not quite finding them. Needing a sign, but receiving a rest instead. It’s hard to be thankful for that, but I think we need to at least be more aware. The voyage is long, and sometimes hard, but it’s learning to walk on the rocky ground, how to respond to a sudden storm and choppy waves, that will get us where we’re going. And if we find a little place to rest, where we can forget the questions for just a moment, I think we’re that much closer to the answers.

Smooth sailing, my lovely readers.

The Story

She couldn’t believe it, a message in a bottle! When do those ever actually happen?

Her sketchers sinking into the wet earth, she crouched to get a better look at the glass voyager. When she determined it wasn’t carrying any stinging passengers or slimy gook, she went to pick it up. Carefully she tugged the bottle, scratched and scored from its travels, from the sand.

With it free, she looked around. Were there any little kids or lonely hearts around who had maybe just thrown this in and the tide rudely brought it back? But no, she was alone as usual on her 5am run along the dunes. Daufuskie Island worked long into the night, but did not rise until the sun had settled nice and high.

Tara had not always been an early riser, but something about having the waves and stars to herself made her move the long runs of her training schedule to match the first ebb of the morning. And now, mysterious find in hand, she was glad she did.

She peered out towards Savannah, then back to Hilton Head. This bottle could have come from one of the island’s neighbors. She tried to subdue her excitement with this thought. But the bottle had that old-timey shape, and the amber hue she’d seen in museums, so the subduing was not very successful.

The rest of her miles forgotten, she plopped onto the sand and unlaced her shoes. Moments like these required comfort and concentration. If time really worked circular as her sister suspected, she sent a wish that young single-digit mermaid-obsessed Tara knew they’d find something special like this one day.

She paused Lizzo’s ‘Truth Hurts’ on her phone, pulled the headphones from her ears. Of course she had to take a picture at each step. Before popping the cork, after the cork, pulling the paper out, etc. However, the after-the-cork shot would have to wait, because it was stuck. Very stuck. Tara had fought with many a cork before, but that was when rescuing wine from a bottle, so there were usually tools around.

Instead of the grand POP, there was a chipping away of cork that would’ve been embarrassing if anyone was around to see. Then a hideous smell, because it turned out a tiny crab had been the unfortunate companion to the encased paper. This was not the cute moment she imagined happening in Hallmark movies.

Still, she was in. Time to see what magical, beautiful words had been waiting for years to be heard.

October 1828

Timothy, you utter louse. I hope to God this letter finds you ill, sunburnt, and dying painfully.

Well then. Tara sighed, not a damn thing like the Hallmark movies, then.

You think leaving me on this Godforsaken patch of sea spit is going to keep you safe from my wrath? Ha! When my father sees I did not return, he’ll make the correct assumption that I went off with a dirty pirate, and guess what? He will know exactly which one too.

That’s right. You told me not to leave a note,  but I did. It did not occur to me then such an instruction was so you would not leave a trail. I thought it was for a more muskateering reason- perhaps not to further break my mother’s heart, or to give us enough time to escape before they knew in which direction to search.

But my heart was young just moments ago, so I did leave a note. I told my mother who had stolen my heart. I wished my sister would find someone who filled them in the same way you did me. I prayed my father and brothers would find a way to forgive us both.

Now I wish all the opposite. You did indeed steal my heart, but instead of fulfilling promises, I received empty oaths. I pray the men of our family hunt you to the ends of the earth. And whether it is for my reputation, or anger at the alliance potential of my marriage lost, I do care not. Whatever puts your blood on the end of their sword, or your last breath on their bullet, satisfies me. 

“Oh dear Lord,” Tara looked up from the yellow, cracking page. This was a far cry from what she’d imagined. She reached out into the wind and tried to pull back her wish. Eight-year-old Tara did not need to know about this disappointment any sooner than necessary. She hoped she caught it in time, or even better, that her sister was just a crazy hippy and time was liner after all.

And you know what? Lord Walton had two horse stables and more hair on his chest than you could dream of. 

Drown slowly, you pimpled liar. 

Sincerely, Everlyn Anne Bilonton of the English Bilontons

“Well.” Tara looked around, hoping there was someone she could throw her hands up with.

“Well then.” She rolled the paper back up, tapped it back into its glass envelope. Part of her wanted to throw it back in the ocean as punishment for disappointing her. Another part wanted to research the Bilonton family and see if Everlyn got the revenge she sought. A third part of her was just angry that she’d sat down to read instead of finishing her run. She’d been at a good pace, and this angry letter put her in too foul a mood to start again.

So she shuffled back to her apartment, left her sandy shoes on the porch.

The house smelled like coffee, which meant Caitlin was up and cooking breakfast, thank God. As Tara climbed the short steps to the kitchen landing, she heard the soft sizzle of what would be sausages, and hopefully toast to go with it.

Tara wrapped her arms around her short girlfriend at the stove, snuggled her sweaty face into the curve of Caitlin’s neck.

“Good run?”

Tara shook her head.

“Find anything good?”

Tara often brought Caitlin pretty shells from the beach, or a sea fossil, anything interesting that said “thought of you.” But now she just shot a glare at the bottle on the table. It waited there for explanation, research. Its anger made her angry. She knew the childish disappointment in her chest was ridiculous, but this was just further confirmation that she was no magical being in a fairytale, and those reminders sting humans, no matter how old they get.

“No,” Tara kissed Catilin’s cheek and started toward the shower, “nothing good, not a damn thing.”

The Word

Disillusioned (adjective): Disappointed in someone or something that one discovers to be less good than one had believed.

It shouldn’t surprise you that I’m a big dreamer! I have the big dreams (writing an award winning, acclaim achieving novel), and the little dreams (holding an owl), and all those little etherial ones that come and go when we are in the right place at the right time.

One of those dream-places for me is the beach at dawn or dusk. When my brothers and I were kids, my parents took us out to the shore after a thunderstorm and had us stomp really hard on the sand. It would light up, like a galaxy under our feet! They told us some mumbo jumbo about static from lightening interacting with bacteria in the water, but I knew the truth: tiny, magical, sea creatures. Friends with mermaids, probably.

Growing up kinda sucks. I don’t mean the getting taller and older part (the taller part has yet to happen for me, though). I’m fine with having an apartment and my own debit card. It’s the knowing enough to explain the world around me I’m not so found of. It turns out stars are huge bags of gas far away, and if we can see them, they’re already dying. Doesn’t that suck? I liked it better when Timon said they’re fireflies that got stuck up there.

Though I’ve grown to believe in the interesting properties of both lightening and bacteria, I still find myself in dream-places. These can be the middle of the woods on a warm day, or the top of a mountain you’re familiar with. Sometimes it’s a new overlook of a field, or a breeze in a quiet place, or a bridge anywhere, anytime, ever. And in those moments, those perfect spots, magical sea creatures seem real again. Heaven feels a little closer. Pocahontas seems more right about everything.

What are your dream-places?  I’d like to hear about them!

And I hope you visit one soon, sweet reader. Good night!

Hello lovely readers! I realized I’d written quite a few grim stories in a row so I thought I would do a short little bright-ner. Look at you lucky folks! A story AND a glimpse into my poetic side! I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I had the very esteemed Nikki Giovanni once call my poetry  “Nice! Good draft. But… not your focus, right? Right? Great, yeah that’s good.”

The Poem

Your gloom is but my sunrise!

Your dreams when I finally wake.

And when the sun has fallen,

Your treasure I hap’ly take!

Don’t bother trying to hide it,

But also, don’t you fret!

You won’t miss what I’m taking

And I’ll never owe you debt.

Thieving’s what I’m born for,

Stealing is my game,

And if you ventured with me,

I’m sure you’d feel the same!

In the nursery I was raised

But in the wild, built my trade

While you were sunshine walking,

Within the night I played!

So head to bed and eyes closed tight,

And fear not the bumps and hoots.

It’s just me and my fellows

gathering recruits!

We’ll try to keep it quiet,

and promise to be quick,

to gather all the yummies,

to chomp and bite and lick.

So before you say your prayers

and wishes off on stars

leave out your trash and scraps

so that the feast is ours!

The Word

Nelipot (noun): Someone who walks around barefoot

Can you tell I once taught little kids?

Our happy little narrator 🙂

The Story

She is gorgeous.

This moldable creature, with the coliseum in the back landscape, her in the forward right-third. The setting sun at that delicious moment of movement between red and pink where it creates a strange bloody orange. It is perfection.

So it is  understandable that I must save this perfect instance.

It is, in fact, beyond necessary for me to capture the moment. I am an artist.  What if the fates have deemed this the very last perfect moment, and I the one blessed to convey the gift to those not present? That is what an artist must do, it is our curse and calling: We freeze forever that which a second moment may destroy. This one will not be lost, no not from me nor from any other. My fans will need to see it. The world will need to see it. Generations beyond my great-great-grandniece will desperately need to see it.

So I am doing an obligation by creating the art. No, a duty.  A charge beyond self. It is the art born within me that is commitment bound to still this moment for the future.

Which means…

Which means, really, that whatever I do to still the moment is okay- is called for. It is appropriate.

So of course I will be missing the dinner with my family this evening. That is a duty I have no problem shirking. And with little guilt, as all layers should be thrown off to throw my strength into carrying the burden of my work. They know whenever I am missing, I’m found at the studio. The should know better than to interrupt my work, but since they do not know such things, plebeians, I leave a note outside the studio door.

Artist at work. Do not disturb, even for emergency.

It will not keep them out forever, but it will deter them for at least a few days. If pattern holds, my aging mother will leave bread and cheese, maybe a little fruit, wrapped at the door. If this arrives upon the third day, I eat it. If it shows up on the first or second, I let it rot so that she can come back and see what I think about her trying to rush my process.

I must stop. I cannot let worries nor explanation get in the way of capturing the divinity of woman and sunset.

A few tools are always with me for instant recovery of momentary art. I sketch quickly, label angles, as well as short hand describe the way the sunset hits every inch of her. With this done, I grab everything I need for recreation and dash to my studio. The faster I can put clay and plaster to work, the more real the piece will be. Any artist worth his paintbrush knows the best tools are a virgin canvas and a fresh mind’s view.

If I work sufficiently quick and thorough, I will have both.

My contemporaries are creating carvings from stone. They embody talent, but not perfection. I crave perfection. The muse of true wisdom demands it. Their creatures have abs too taught, curves far too sleek, and cheeks plumped from childhood on adult shoulders. It never makes any sense. Perfection is truth. It is each callus expressed upon the fingertips, each dip in the hip pronounced. You cannot take that from stone that already is, you must build from the ground up, just as Prometheus did- from clay.

I start with the mouth. It is where sound and air begin, so it should be where I start as well. Some of our faith belief it is where the soul enters and exists. I’m not sure if I agree with that, but I understand the notion each time my thumb shapes the swell of her lower lip.

It is a struggle, but I push the clay into shape. Plaster catches every flaw in the molding, so I take my time in these next moments. The clay has be smoothed against the collarbone, the strong undermuscle of the arm, the bridge on the top of each thigh, and even each pock mark across the back. I wonder where these were from. A healed illness? Scars from a punishment in youth? I cannot know these answers, but I do know the way the sun’s last reach etched a tiny shadow across each of these markings. Still shifting the pasted earth, I imagine each different shade of stained plaster I will need to echo these small shadows. Hands conducting across muscle and clay, mind dancing through shades of shade, this is ecstasy. This is true ambrosia coursing through the veins.

I have been lifted through the veil of limitation into the lofts of immortal artistry. I am floating above my creation, above the limits of time and light. Above the law, above the rules of modern tradition!

And the sacrifice makes it all the more true, all the more divine.

Unfortunately, she will not be missed. My sculpture will be more valued than she ever was. The shame about this era is the most beautiful women are of the lower class. It takes not caring about one’s appearance to achieve the muscle tone, the natural glow, the loose casualty, tranquil zen of hard work. That of a goddess. It’s a shame, but one that works in my favor.

She is gorgeous. And always will be.

The Word

Serene (adjective): 1. Calm, peaceful, and untroubled; tranquil. 2. Used as a term of respect for members of some European royal families. (noun) An expanse of clear sky or calm sea.

I almost didn’t use Serene. It’s one of those more common words that gets to wear a flower crown as if it were special. I can hear someone in paperback book pausing at the patio edge of a rented mountain house saying “Isn’t it just so… serene?” This is the very moment a studio exec decides to buy the movie rights, and about the same time I want to barf.

But flower-crown words deserve some of their spotlight. They cause a casual left from the mildly mundane, and those words are special too. They have to be given their full volume, their full credit for either being a fancy word amongst casual speech or visa versa. Yes I think I’ve talked myself back into it, I like those kind of words very much indeed.

A note on myself,* I’m not quite confident in my ability to ride that line of unreliable narrator, so if you’d like an explanation to the above story, here’s a hint: There was a murder.** 

And if you enjoyed this piece, please check out a similar narration practice I did in Today I am Warden! Thank you, and good night!

*HA! This whole blog is basically a note on myself, so that’s a bit redundant.

**Thank goodness that is not what the actual Greek and Roman sculptors did, right? Haha …right?

The Story

Everything I’d read, everything I’d seen, said that the first one would be the hardest.

And if that were true, this was going to be easiest job I’d ever had! That was a swish, a homer, and a cakewalk all in one!

But they were wrong. Or liars. Which you think is worse really depends on how many times you’ve been screwed over.

I myself have been screwed over many times, but that comes with the territory of the circles I run in. They’re mostly good people. It’s just that criminals and thieves are used to lying and sometimes they can’t help it when stabbing someone in the back will make their life minimally better.

So back to killing people.

Your first one is actually pretty easy. There’s so much emotion pumping through you, and in my case a WHOLE lotta drugs pumping through them, that after the first couple hits your body thinks it’s defending itself and goes into fight or flight response. That gets the adrenaline going on full speed and your extremities lose all feeling, so you don’t even notice the knuckles in your left hand have turned to gravel until the next morning.

And I only noticed at that point because I tried to slap my roommate for barging into my room at 6am, just a couple hours after I’d finally landed in bed. He said it was worth it to watch me pretend not to cry while he fetched some ice and duct tape.

He’s a mole at a couple banks for the mob so he doesn’t have to work nights like some of us. He had an in for the job because his uncle shared a cell with on of the Family’s middle-men for a few years. Privileged ass.

Those of us moving up the ladder in a more legitimate fashion should be allowed to sleep  through the first several hours of daylight, in my personal opinion. Of course, my annoying little roomie got a bit more respectful of my sleeping hours when my third kill was to save his stupid butt. Well I’ll be honest, it wasn’t just for Ronnie the Roommate. I was happy for my name to be dropped in the monthly Family meeting when they discussed why the bartender Ronnie slept with and drunkenly admitted his intel to wasn’t a problem anymore. After that, I started being allowed to sleep until noon.

Oh the second? The second was kinda on accident. I was supposed to just get the guy to talk. But there was a miscommunication on my end, and luckily the ladies who put the order in didn’t mind too much. In fact, they became one of my regular customers. Fine group of gals- a little weird, an unusual amount of sweaters that have cats wearing sunglasses on them, but they always say thank you, and the check always clears.

Yes of course I use checks. What kind of assassin is dumb enough to work in cash anymore? This isn’t the 1800s, those things can get marked and scanned and all sorts of crap. Working in overalls but carrying 50s and 100s is not a good look. I’d just as soon put a sign above my head reading “THIS PERSON DOES BAD THINGS”. No no, those sweet dumb-dumbs get jailed within the week. Instead, you learn to adapt to modern times. And after the recessions, nobody minds a simple self-employed handyman putting a check into his account after doing a little pest control. Hammering out a few issues for a homeowner. That sort of thing.

What was my point again?

Right, riiiiight, killing people.

So it actually gets harder over time, rather than easier. All those Oscar winning crime movies that show a sad young person losing themselves in the hungry world of corruption are, as one my regulars call it, dog shit.

You don’t really lose yourself. You get bored. Go ahead and get over how crass that was, because it’s true. There are only so many ways to kill a person, and when it’s not ‘a crime of passion’ you follow the rules you set for yourself back around the sixth or seventh time you had to burn your outfit afterward.

These rules are as follows:

1. Lure the target to a place where blood makes sense. It’s not worth cleaning up afterwards. If someone dies that people care about, the cops are gonna look at their usual haunts, and if any of those are too clean, well, you get the point.
   • No, this is not a shipyard, you movie-going maniac. This is a back alley that gangs frequent, or a dumpster. Libraries behind dirty middle schools, that kinda thing.
2. Never poison. People have allergies, or sometimes decide to not finish their drink, etc. It’s ridiculous the amount of things that can go wrong in a poisoning. I tried it just once, ending up having to beat the head in ’cause the douche decided to “watch his calories” and not go for the second egg roll, which had my stuff in it.
3. Wear clothes that you would wear anywhere. Another misconception- if you’re wearing clothes that you’re clearly ready to throw out, or were maybe wearing the last time someone disappeared, you’ve made yourself a suspect. As a fake handyman, my entire wardrobe is pretty casual, but I still make sure to rotate the paint-stained t-shirts as usual, no matter the night’s duties.

That’s it. That’s the job. Being a reasonable human being with a task. You don’t even have to be that strong, you just have to not be an idiot. Well, and be okay with breaking the law as well as ending people’s lives.

But really, what job isn’t?

The Word

Profession (noun): 1. A paid occupation, especially one that involves prolonged training and a formal qualification. 2. An act of declaring that one has a particular feeling or quality, especially when this is not the case.

The Story

The evening was still, the type of summer-still that makes lonely hearts roll out of bed and stand on the porch in their pajamas. They look up into the stars, standing in solitude, unaware that by doing so, they’ve made themselves part of humanity’s largest association.

But that wouldn’t do for me tonight. Sometimes it was enough, but not now.

“For an English teacher, you sure don’t use a lot of words.”

“Why don’t you wait ’til the blood rushes back to my head for me to be poetic?”

It was nice. He was nice. He was warm.

That’s even more than I asked for earlier that night at the bar across from my favorite coffee shop. He’d been leaning over a lanky blond with legs longer than my student debt loan. But he was my type and smiled easy, so I chugged the rest of my Long Island Ice Tea and put a hand on his shoulder, “Look hun, she’s a 9 and a maybe. I’m an 8.5 and a sure thing. Your place or mine?”

It wasn’t anything like the words that normally come out of my mouth. But when you have anxiety as badly as I do, you’re willing to commit just about any social crime to either be alone all the time or never be alone ever even a tiny bit. I am the latter, and when my roommate took off to  Montreal to visit her girlfriend this weekend, I knew I needed a solution. Quick.

Usually I would call Geoff to meet me for mini-golf, but he had found his most recent soulmate so I was doing my best not to barge in on the honeymoon period. School had started back for MacKenzie so she was too far away, and my sisters have always had a limit of how much of me they can handle at a time (this is mutual).

So there I was in the apartment hyperventilating on the kitchen floor when the most brilliant idea I have ever had came to me: I was going to fuck a stranger.

No really, it’s the greatest plan: To find a stranger to fuck, you have to go to a bar. To be at a bar, you need to hold a drink. When you hold a drink, you look weird if you don’t sip it. When you sip alcohol, you get a bit tipsy, and don’t hyperventilate because that’s how biology works. When you don’t hyperventilate, and with the assistance of said alcohol, you can talk to strangers. Strangers at bars want sex. Sex means touching. Touching keeps the anxiety away. And who knows- the stranger could be a cuddler and then you’re golden for a night’s sleep without thinking your world is imploding or forgetting how to breathe properly. Brilliant plan.

And I had totally nailed it. With 9/10ths of the plan complete, I was feeling pretty brilliant myself.

“How about now?”

“For a lawyer, you talk an awful lot.”

“I do litigation.”

“Of course you do.”

These are the things I knew about him:

• His name was Chad (ew)
• He was an English teacher for high school students (honorable)
• There was a scar along the front of his left shoulder that looked vaguely like the state of Tennessee (cute)

These are the things he knew about me:

• My name is Terra (lie)
• I am a criminal lawyer (half-lie, patent attorney)
• I have exactly 23 freckles (oddly true)
• I have severe anxiety (too true)

Yeah, I told him about the anxiety. Why? Because one night stands looooove freaks! The more horrifying backstory, the better. Freaks are weird, we do weird things, and we make for great stories at hangover-brunch the next morning. Bonus: he probably knows he won’t have to deal with too many repercussions because seriously, who is named Chad anymore? We are both liars, clearly, and won’t see each other ever again. A flawless deception.

“So, Terra The Litigator, what valiant fight for those wrongly accused have you fought?”

I opened my eyes against the chest where I had curled up. Peaking through my smudged mascara to see if he was joking, I found he was not. Apparently we would do this small talk thing.

“Ummm, I’m not supposed to talk about cases.”

“I see. So what do you really do for a living?”

Damn. Maybe I’m not the slinky lady of the night I thought I was.

“I am a lawyer…” I said to the Tennessee scar.

“Mmhhmm. What kind?”

“Copyright. I love it.”

“Then why say criminal?”

“It sounded sexier… in my head.”

“You think being surrounded by dirty murders is sexier than being surrounded by books and notaries? You said this to an English teacher?”

Ah, truths and lies between strangers who will part happily. Nothing like it.

“So… you’re actually an English teacher?”

“I feel like you’re new at this. Should we start over?”

He sat up on his elbow, causing me to roll down into his lap. My pulse started to quicken, but I refused to give up on the last bits of anxiety-relief an orgasm brings, so I stayed there.

“I’m Chad.” He held out his hand.

I sat up straight then. “Your REAL name is Chad?!”

He threw his head back laughing, and I noticed how nice the auburn trail of eleven-oclock-shadow looked parading down his chin. When he got his breath back, he looked at me with eyes much brighter than a few hours ago. Apparently my accidental hilarity was quite sobering against a couple whiskey sours.

“That is a first! Why would I give you a fake na- wait.”

Damn. Damn damn damn what a stupid idea. To sleep with a complete stranger! Just to get rid of anxiety! I should have just gotten drunk and passed out in the middle of a panic attack like a responsible adult! What had I done?? Was I CRAZY?

“Soooo Terra my dear,” he chortled, “Or should I say….?”

I bit my bottom lip. Not in a cute way; in a shit I’m caught and it’s not cute at all way.

“…Audrey.”

“Well, it has some of the same letters.”

“Yes… yes it does.”

And then he wrapped his arms around me. I squealed when he fell back against his pillows, pulling me down with him. Was this man going to crush me for my lies? Who would know where to look for me? I don’t normally do this- no one will even know to check with the local bartenders! I’d left none of the clues behind that’d I’d seen on Law & Order and my roommate was going to put that on my tombstone: Watched too much daytime TV for us to not know what happened. Loser.

But then instead of strangling the air from my lungs, he tucked me into the curve of his shoulder, and with his free arm clicked off the bed side lamp.

“I like Audrey better,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Thank you. Me too.”

“Why tell a lie to someone you probably won’t see again?”

“I saw it differently.”

He chortled again, “Clearly.”

“You’re not mad?”

“I’m looking forward to telling my friends about the crazy hot lawyer I slept with.”

“See- that I was right about that part.”

His breathing slowed. Was he falling asleep? Was this conversation over? No no- I have to fall asleep first or this doesn’t work. I bucked my hip against him, scrounging up the last of my sexy confidence.

“Yes, Terra-Audrey?”

“I’m not done with you,” I purred.

“Yes you are. You’re trying to seduce me through yawns.”

“Am not.”

“You’re very tired. And you want to rest up for morning sex, so don’t sneak your clothes on and leave before I wake up. Would you like a really boring story about my students?”

I stared at him through the dark. His eyes were closed, one hand wrapped protectively around my waist and the other cradling the back of his head casually.

“Yes, actually. I would love that.”

“Alright. So there’s this kid who has trouble with Greek mythology. Recently I tried to get him hooked on the Hunter but he never brings his book so I sent him to the library and he said she wasn’t in any of those books and so I made him do all of the history stories that led to her quote unquote ‘birth’, and you know with all the legends that covers. So first there’s the…”

Out like a light. I was right- a brilliant plan.

The Word

P.S. Doing my best to make stand alone-stories again, but if this gal sounded a little familiar, please check out Today I am Passion 😉

*“Tomorrow, your job is to change the world into a better place. Today, my job is to see that everyone gets there.”
― Terry Pratchett, A Hat Full of Sky

“A moment’s beginning ends in a moment”
― Munia Khan

“It was a delightful visit;—perfect in being much too short.” —Jane Austen

“Be sincere, Be brief, Be seated.” —Franklin Delano Roosevelt

Hello lovely reader! If you're new around here, you will probably want to read Today I am Yawn and Today I am Atonement before this installment for The Called. Or enjoy any of the stand-alone stories The Quilled Sister has to offer! Thank you!

The Story

This is a terrible plan. I know it’s a terrible plan, but at the same time, I just… don’t care.

When Captain ordered me to be part of Anise’s pity party, I voiced my disapproval and walked back to join McKoi at his watch post. We’ve all seen shit by this point, there’s no reason to let yourself drown in it like the last rat off a boat.

But Teak found me. She always does. I can hide from genetically-enhanced bat radar but not from Teak.

“Come on, Darluth. You know we all have to take part of the load.”

I turned my back to her, catering to the emotionally weak does not count as part of the load.

She sighed behind me.

“McKoi, could you?” I heard her grumble.

“Yes, Sergeant.” McKoi saluted her, gave me the cool it dude look, and returned to camp. Coward.

When the sound of McKoi’s footsteps had retreated far enough away, I felt Teak’s lean arms incircle my waist, her forehead nuzzle between my shoulder blades. Even though it was warm and I liked it, I shook her off.

“You can’t cuddle me into thinking it’s okay to baby Private Tillum.”

“I could order you to, though. Which would be kinda hot from my end.”

“Not from mine.”

She moved toward me again, slipping her hands in my pockets to intertwine our fingers, “I could order you to pretend you thought it was hot.”

I allowed a small smirk. “I would appreciate if you didn’t.”

But she was right. She could order me to do anything, and because of rank and a million other reasons, I’d have to do what she said. Yet she didn’t. Sergeant Teak was not the ordering type. She just had this way of being right that made it easier to agree, rather than look like a fool in front of her later.

And  that’s why I am here. In the middle of this terrible plan that is basically useless. If we were still mortal, it might be nice to sit at a bar with a martini every couple of weeks, but alcohol burns off too quickly before it can do anything in bodies built for battles along the time/space continuum.

Blessedly built the ugly wizard says.

I do like the barkeeps. I won’t admit this to Teak or anyone else, but I do get mildly entertained watching the watchers. It’s been true throughout history- barkeeps see everything. Everyone talks to them, from the most powerful sultans, down to this nonsense cat lady next to me tonight. And they’ve got the best view of humanity too, in my opinion. People are raw when they sit against a bar. They don’t feel like they’re facing another person, just their drink. So the words and faces that flow out of them for the barkeeps to see are unfiltered not just by intoxication, but by some odd agreement of conversation I’ve yet to experience anywhere else. It’s a handy way to get secrets out of people, and I’ve used it many times myself.

It’s a busy Saturday night at The Swan, so it’s the managing barkeep and her little protege- Caroline and Neal. I wonder if either one of them realize she’s training him to take over. She’s on to bigger things, the smell of success wafts off her like an expensive gin wafts off the bachelorettes waddling out of here. Teak would say it’s a shame, because the girl seems happy here. But I’ve never seen happiness as a reason to hold oneself back from potential.

Of course worthless assignments hold oneself back from potential all the time. Clearly.

There is one interesting little being here. The rest of the bar gossips about her because she just sits at the bar staring at her drink. But I think it’s more interesting that she’s some sort of immortal.

I know she’s not one of us, we entered this world together and are able to sense each other’s movements. But she’s powerful and wild. I do wonder what she’s doing here, sitting with a bunch of useless people, staring, and then sneaking out the back door when she thinks no one sees.

But I do. I see everything. It’s my specialty.

So of course I notice when my target enters The Swan. But everyone does, she’s sort of a celebrity.

Pepper Tillum Rivkin. Of the Northeastern Tillums, who migrated from Egypt several centuries ago for unknown reasons. She married Clark Jameson Rivkin at 27, a hotel founder on the way to big money.  That’s when we entered, screwed everything up, activated Private Anise’s guilt, who then proceeded to insert herself unnecessarily into a normal’s life, and now I’m stuck here. Wasting a perfectly good winter night when the Kishi will be in hibernation and I could be stealing all the good pome-berries that grow in their fields. Teak loves when I make little hand pies with them.

But I’m here instead. For no reason, as it’s the same thing every time. The target walks in like the head of a parade, all these little plebeians bask in her social radiance, and then she sits at the biggest curve of the bar, holding court and passing out kernels of advice as if it was gold thread straight from her asshole. After everyone has admired her glorious wisdom, she drops a humongous tip, and saunters back to what I imagine is a diamond encrusted cave.

Which is why I entertain myself by dropping my tip in the form of whatever last country I’ve visited. She tips for us both, and I have no reason for random foreign coins. Neal seems to be starting a collection, so I always make sure it’s him that’s nearby when I take off.

Oh lookie there, Target’s shaking it up tonight. We’re going to go bother immortal-lady. See I don’t know if I can respect a fellow immortal who can’t be bothered to shimmy off the humans. It would be so easy for her to put on an off-putting cloud like me- a tiny spell that makes me visible, but erases anyone’s desire to come near.

Pepper’s probably going to bore her with some nonsense about living truly or following your heart or investing while young, or whatever. Once she realizes the little immortal doesn’t want to impress her, she’ll prance back over here and continue her performance.

So I keep a third eye on her while I peruse the bar. Surely there’s something here that’ll keep me awake until I’m allowed to go back to camp.

There’s an Assistant Attorney General with his hand on the thigh of a newly wed, about to ruin his career because her husband is a lawyer for a publicity firm.

Across the bar is a groom getting married in a few days. He’s so in love with his bride, but trying to impress his friends, so he’ll say yes when they offer to take him to a strip club, but then he’ll hide in the corner. Teak would want to interfere, but I can see that he’ll make better friends after his marriage.

In the back room is a second date. It’s going terribly.

Next to me, mister regular John is on another first date. It’s going wonderfully but he’ll call the guy the wrong name and that’ll tank the whole relationship. He’ll bring in his soulmate a few weeks from now but won’t notice because he’s still too gun-shy from the mistake he’s about to make. Again, Teak would beg me to interfere. But that’s not what full-sight is for. It’s for seeing, not getting involved. It’s more about being able to read the whole big picture. Should I raze the entire Amazon Rainforest for the broken heart of a cane-toad? No. But that’s the whole philosophical debate Teak and I get into every time I see something she thinks should be fixed. God I wish this martini effected me.

aaaaand I lost her. I lost the Target. Can’t sense her anywhere. Shit.

The Word

Daedal (adjective): Skillful; ingenious. Cleverly intricate.

I think today’s word is pretty obviously tied to the story, which may be a first for me! I still think it’s an excellent word.

Sometimes when I write a little chapter for The Called, I feel like I’m discouraging new readers from becoming return-readers, because there’s so much they need to know before hand. On the same token, I really enjoy weaving everyone together. It’s interesting to build a world step by step, and have to match rules that were set in previous stories. There is probably a beautiful middle ground of creating stand-alones that still continue a chapter, but I’m aware I haven’t hit it yet. I’m going to continue to work towards it, but if anyone has a good idea for a step towards that goal, I’d be happy to hear it! As a new writer, I love hearing feedback, so if you have any feelings on this, hit me up via the Contact page!

The Story

People joke about it these days. Like oh she’s such a crazy cat lady. But it’s no joke. No ma’am.

This is serious. The Society of Cat Women have always held up rigorous traditions and rules. You can’t just one day become a Cat Lady! You have to earn that title.

I myself have held the title for over a decade, and when we vet newcomers, nothing has changed. No no. We are not like these ridiculous institutions that have lost their way. You think getting into an Ivy League is the same now as it once was? Or the Bohemian Club? I mean they recently gave an honorary membership to a rapper who doesn’t even have a grammy. Can you believe that?

And do not get me started on the Free Masons. They just let anybody in who wears a knife pin under their necktie these days. Shameful. Yet they wander around thinking they’re all that and a bag of catnip. A couple of documentaries get made about you, you get included in a best selling novel, and all the sudden you forget your roots?

Not so with the Cat Women. We’ve been around longer than any of them, and we have never abandoned our honor!

Sure, the Free Masons like to pretend they’ve been around since the Library of Alexandria. But who built the Library of Alexandria, hm? Oh that’s right, Ptolemy Lagides, a secret priest of Bast, the cat goddess of Egypt. It was a sanctuary for the society his wife remained dedicated to, hidden within a temple of knowledge. But the Templars couldn’t let us have one thing, could they? Once they had a few roman captains on their roster they burnt it down. Bunch of overgrown jocks those ones. Then they had the audacity to go back into hiding and pretend they started up a century later just to pillage cities and plant seeds for that whole witch-hunt nonsense against us. Oh look a lady with a cat and a sense of self, must burn her at the stake! They shook our numbers then, but we’ve never been ones to stay down.

Because we go all the way back to the first societies, you see. Our seal still holds the LV for the Leeu Vrou, or Lion Ladies, of the first tribes in Africa, who learned hunting and teamwork from the packs of lionesses and instead of taming as men did with wolves, became wild with the lions! Now THAT is what I call evolution!

Of course you know the society spread, fighting for women and cats everywhere. If our membership were not sealed, you’d find pharaohs, viking chiefestes, a certain golden queen perhaps, czarinas, suffragists, congresswomen, First Ladies, astronauts, teachers, and everything in between. It’s quite humbling to remember who you stand next to when you take the pledge.

But even though we have members in every corner of the world, we do not just accept anyone into our ranks willy-nilly. No, it takes a special gal to become a Cat Lady. You have to first establish yourself as an independent female, cannot be leaning on anyone for the ability to take care of either yourself or your feline familiar. There must be a clear bond between you and your creature, as well as a willingness to give up all there is in the name of the society, be it your human companion, your luxuries, or your life.

We get a bad rap because of those ridiculous old ditzes who horde poor creatures. They’re unkempt, both them and their household, and that is certainly not who we are. You can be a homebody surely, many of us are due to the intense amount of work, but you must always preen as if there were an audience. This is of course something we learned from the cats themselves, who no one has ever seen satisfied with a mediocre appearance. It is best to be prepared for any situation- whether that is an unexpected visitor, or a mission’s call to action.

Oop… pretend I didn’t say that last part.

Anyway, then you have the fakes. To me, they are worse than the ANAK Society when it comes to being just over the top and full of themselves. A bunch of peacocks really. They go to these shows and flaunt their poor pets for their good looks or quirky talents. Does that sound even remotely what our ancestors intended? Those t-shirts with the odd sayings “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” or “my scottish-fold is smarter than your honor student!” just make me sick. They need to be plucked like feathers for an indoor-toy, I say.

Now I know this all sounds very strict, and it is, but that’s the best way to keep the true goals of a society at the forefront. We do, however, allow honorary membership, or companionship, to those who may not quite fit the bill but have done us a great service. These are kind, brilliant, people who understand what the Society of Cat Women do for the world, and want to aid even if they cannot be among the ranks.

These are greats such as Ptolemy Lagides, who I mentioned earlier. Also some craftsmen and businesspeople we have brought into the fold, who worked tirelessly to build secluded meeting places and shelters for us, or donate large funds to our cause. And others whose contributions may seem small but are extremely meaningful, like one of my neighbors actually. He’s a famous artist, a billionaire with his paintings in castles, yet he chooses to live in seclusion for the peace and quiet. Also, he takes care of me when I get home torn apart from a mission as well as makes the best damn gluten free muffins this side of the equator.

There’s also a president or two that has worked with his First Lady for us. I know what you’re thinking- why haven’t you installed a Cat Lady as President yet? Dear, everything has a time and place. You cannot rush greatness. You also cannot rush a society where the mascot sleeps twenty hours a day! HA! You’ve got to have a laugh, even in serious business.

But we do have a timetable for all sorts of takeovers- I mean, accomplishments, that include putting more Cat Ladies in charge throughout the world. And it’s not even for nonsense reasons like the Free Masons who just want to keep their little secrets hidden and spend literally billions of dollars keeping their most famous members from talking too much. No, we want what we have always wanted, since the very beginning:

A healthier and cleaner earth!

Equality for all whether they be cat ladies, dog persons, or even bird people!

World peace! (based on a complete overtake by the Society to ensure that such peace is maintained, of course)

And a sunbeam to lie in when the work is done.

The Word

Ailurophile (noun): A lover of cats

So first of all if there are any readers that hold membership in the above societies I have mocked in today’s story, please know this is fiction and I totes respect you and please don’t egg my house or like curse my family line or anything, k? Thanks!

And yes, I do have a coaster that says “it’s not drinking alone if the cat is home!” so know that when I mock, I mock myself too 🙂

You may have noticed I have done several of these one-sided conversations (like Today I am Unworldly and Today I am Warden). I really like studying how one person’s perspective can shape an entire world when they are uninterrupted. How would different events look from that very biased side of things? What actions would be good or bad based on this one speaker’s experience? If we have no one to rely on except this one person, what context do we have to fill in ourselves based on the givens? Sometimes this makes me the strange feeling of sonder* which can be cool and creepy all at the same time, so I really like looking into this. I know my voices for these types of writings is a weak spot, but since I love it, you’ll probably see it a lot because I want to improve. If you have any tips/tricks for improving at this, or want to boost my ego when I start to improve with these voicings, hit up that Contact page!

Oh also! If the artist neighbor sounds familiar, feel free to jump over and read Today I am Komorebi 🙂

*Yes this word is going to pop up soon! Hint hint!