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. 🙂

The Story

“He was… a good man.”

But he wasn’t.

“A caring father,”

Nope.

“Loyal husband,”

Yeah right.

“Faithful son,”

Na-da.

“and all around kind spirt.”

Seriously?

I looked to the faces ‘round me, many of which held eyes shimmering with tears. A scoff began to escape from my throat but I covered it with a cough. The young lady next to me patted my knee, thinking it was some sort of sob.

But I would not sob for this man.

This priest hadn’t known Patty. This was just the first guy in a collar they could find. And I don’t know why we had to find one at all. The whole affair was ridiculous. But they wouldn’t know that, ‘cause they didn’t know Patty.

His momma was wailing right next to the useless priest, drowning his words out with her misplaced sorrow. I wish I could tell her we were all better off, but the grieving never liked hearing words like that. She was sitting with his three little sisters, all much further from little since the last time I saw them. They were like a matching tea set, all pretty and round- two with age and one with babe. Yet they each still had those innocent eyes, clear as sunrise. Probably cause they’d never seen what their brother did.

‘Cause what their brother did is why his daddy isn’t here with ‘em. Patty put that man in the ground, swore to make sure the bastard went to God first. Not sure if that was to save Patty a seat in hell or so he’d know even the worst got forgiveness.

I wasn’t there when he did it, but I was there when we buried the old prick down in the creek bed. I helped lift the big mossy stones to encourage the earth to slowly redirect herself, so our sins would never be found. Still a good stream for fishing, if you ask me.

Clara sniffled. Her face was pink as the day she married Patty, and wet from tears too. And sure she gave him those two cute kiddos. But it wasn’t like he was around to raise them. Especially now. Which is a shame, ‘cause seeing the boy stare solemnly under some long auburn bangs, looks like he’s coming dangerously close to being a twin to his old man.

Clara hadn’t ever gotten past that damn brick wall of Patty’s mind. I watched her try and try again over the years, but nobody was getting in that Patty wasn’t inviting. And he always said she was better off. I always agreed.

Because unlike all them, I’d seen the other side.

I’d been next to Patty through first steps and first shots, war and triumph. We lost the same comrades, tasted the same foreign soiled mixed with blood. I watched him let the madness overcome when we were captured. He made the choices we couldn’t. He bit and he burned, and I’ll never forget the taste of flesh not my own he shoved down our throats. He said we were gonna survive whether we liked it or not, and he was right.

Then when we were missing enough parts to not be useful anymore, we came home. Asshole said he knew he couldn’t love anyone like he loved the fight, so he found a poor pregnant girl, took her home to his momma as a bride. I wonder if Clara knew where he went when he stayed out at night. Sometimes he tried to tell me, but I never wanted to know. One time I started to ask her, but she just gazed around at their big home, all the fine things he made sure she had, the comforts the kids had been given, and said he loved her enough.

Few years later’s when he decided to barge in on his sisters’ affairs. The little doves were covered with bruises when he left. That’s the night his daddy mysteriously disappeared, and we watched those bruises heal away.

He kept saying I could turn him in, but I knew that was the beer talking. And he knew I never would.

Patty wasn’t some sort of “kind spirit” like this idiot was preaching. He didn’t lend to his neighbor or ever pick up a round at the bar. He liked the smell of gun smoke more than the garden his little wife grew, talked to her daughter and his son just enough that they called him poppa. He never told his momma he’s why she’s a widow. That man had more scars on his body then a tiger has stripes, and an icy stare that could kill a man. Sometimes did.

But he was my best friend. A damn demon with angel wings, saving all our souls in ways we couldn’t. And I was thankful to the depths of my heart he was finally getting some rest.

No, Patty wasn’t a good man. But he was the best man I ever knew.

The Word

Misconception (noun): A view or opinion that is incorrect because based on faulty thinking or understanding.

Oh, good ol’ Patty. He did his best with the tools he had, didn’t he? And what a good man to know his tools weren’t the usual, the expected, but they’re what he had so he did as best he could.

Life has been shifting around a lot. I’ve had the complete blessing of getting to know people better recently, some I’ve known a while and some a short time, but we can always get to know someone more when they’re in a different environment, or tried by a new opportunity or tragedy.

Everyone saw a different side of Patty, but they all loved him. It didn’t matter how much of him they knew or how much truth was shown, they knew their love was justified and honored, even by a scarred man.

 

P.S.

I PROMISE that the season of writer’s-block inducing colds is over and there will be no further random-hiatuses. Which is part of the reason I’m writing on a Wednesday. You’ll hear from me tomorrow too, so just prepare yourselves. Like that feeling of your nose finally being clear so you can breathe right? That’s me with the freaking winter finally ending. YAY!

The Story

“Alright.”

“Alright?”

“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”

“You’re okay with this?”

“I’ve always felt that there was more out for me than this.”

“I thought you loved your life.”

“I do,” Clark Rivkin picked at the dry skin around his thumb, a nervous habit his wife had begged him to stop, “but it’s gotten too easy.”

“A lot of people would be grateful for that.”

“I am!” He looked up at his current companion, and his dark eyes told the truth. He was content, but there had always been a nagging deep inside him that there was something beyond the horizon. Fifty four years of his life had passed with plenty of lovely, completely ordinary wonderful experiences. If the next ones could be filled with a little bit of wild, he wanted it.

“What will you tell your wife?” The small woman was his polar opposite. Where he was tall and broad, she was short and lean. Though she was significantly older than him, there were no crow’s feet around her gray eyes or silver streaks in her brunette curls to give her away.

“I’ll tell her I need some time from work, an exotic trip. She’s taken a few with her girls, she’ll understand.”

“And if you don’t make it back?”

He scoffed, “Old men get lost on mid-life-crisis trips all the time. She’ll be okay eventually.”

Though he wasn’t positive she would be. If he really was gone for good, he knew that would break her heart. Though their love had never been a heated affair, it had always been loyal and steady. She’d been one of the easy choices of his life. As he leapt up the corporate ladder in the tourist industry, he knew he would need a strong partner and a patient wife. He’d found them both in her. And here he was about to reward his wonderful bride of thirty years with abandonment. Yet- he ached for adventure.

The lean woman nodded. “Alright, grab your essentials and make any needed arrangements. You’ll need to be ready by dawn.”

He raised an eyebrow, “By dawn?”

She smirked, “Sorry, habit. I’ll be here by 6:30 tomorrow morning. You need to be ready because we have to be out of here quickly to meet up with the others.”

He watched her stand, straighten her blazer, and turn to his office door to leave.

“Oh Ani-”

She turned, “Mhm?”

“How are we traveling? If we fly, I need to get my meds. I’m a terrible flyer.”

She sucked her teeth, then sighed. “Clark, we’re not flying. But if you need meds for traveling, you’re gonna want to bring ’em.”

He nodded, pretending that didn’t sound incredibly foreboding. When she left, he began picking at his thumb again. Time to call the wife, tell her he’d be out of town for a while. He briefing considered saying he was scouting a new hotel area, but then she’d want to come help and talk to the locals. So he decided to stick with the midlife crisis trip.

Speed dial 1. It rang twice, and then the familiar “Hey there!”

“Hey love, how’s the day going? Good good, well I’ve actually just booked a few weeks out. No not business. Yeah, I’m alright, just need some sunshine and air, you know. Yeah exactly, well I was thinking…”

*

It was 6:32 Eastern Standard Time, and she was far more comfortable back in a world she recognized.

Clark was barfing up his breakfast in a bush nearby.

“I told you it would be a rough travel. Take those meds of yours?”

Her question was met with a glare and another hurl.

It had been a big jump from his country home in New York to where they were meeting the rest of her company. The first ride was always the hardest, but if he really was the Champion, he’d get used to it over time. If not, well… then he wouldn’t have to worry about it.

Her company was waiting nearby in the woods, mostly whole, waiting on just a few more to join from their own travels.

Ani introduced Clark to Captain Collins, Sergeant Teak, and the rest of the group. They were all excited to meet him, not only because he was a potential Prophesied Champion, but because he was so entertaining! Even their obnoxious wizard Fendoialin coughed out a giggle when Clark told about being late to his own wedding because his pants wouldn’t stay up. Most of the other Ones that had been brought into their party were young or shy or brooding, and Clark was none of that. He was a confident gentleman, who talked about his family and joked about his “rowdy youth.” It was a nice respite, and previous Companions were a bit jealous of Ani’s find. She admitted to them that she had been surprised too when she’d happened upon Clark.

“And the gem went off immediately?” Private Jones asked, pointing to her necklace, where she kept one of the gems they’d each been gifted.

“The minute we shook hands,” she nodded, “so I made sure to get the job with his PR team so that I’d have access to the company calendar, get his birthday, and there it was- early Fall, under a Second Star. It shocked me, but I’ll admit I was pleased not to get stuck with a pre-teen!” She grimaced, “No offense, Dan.”

Private Elmer laughed, “None taken! That poor kid. I’m glad he pissed his pants and ran home before I had to watch The Door take him out, though.”

“Ah the illustrious Door-thingy,” Clark huffed, as the hills were harder on on a middle-aged hotel mogul than they were on a trained band of warriors, “tell me more about this door.”

“Ya know,” Sergeant Teak called from behind them, “I think the less you know about what The Door is capable of, the more comfortable you’ll be.”

“Ha!” The company froze at Clark’s laugh. It was, again, an unusual response. “I bet you’re right! Lead on, gents! And tell me more about these weird Kishi creatures instead…”

The next weeks seemed to fly by. It took the first couple to work on Clark’s endurance before they could even begin combat training, but when he finally had the breathing down, the sword work came easy. It gave Ani hope that so many of the moves came naturally to him. That hope only swelled when his stealth training went so well that they were able to pass the Thunder Kishi without disturbing them. Only once did they have to slow because he sprained an ankle in the marshes, and even then he didn’t whine, only apologized for his clumsy misstep. Of course, none of The Called seemed to mind, they were all settling into the idea of Clark being the One, and that was putting them all at an ease a few had not allowed themselves to feel in years.

It was twilight when they finally reached The Door. Ani wanted to wait. They had been traveling all day, Clark was tired, it was about to be dark, and-

“It should be now,” Captain Collins decided. “We’re here, the light is good. But Clark, if you want to wait, I understand.”

Ani began to answer for him that of course they should wait, but Clark placed a hand on her arm, “You have been waiting quite a long time by the sound of it, Captain. I won’t make you wait any longer. If I can be of service, let’s start now. And if I can’t, well, you can go back to doing your job.”

Captain Collins offered him a straight smile, “I appreciate that, Clark. I really do. And of all the Ones I’ve met, I’d sure hope I will answer to a Champion such as yourself.”

A blush crawled up Clark’s neck, and he coughed before thanking her “That’s probably the best compliment I’ve ever gotten, and I can’t even tell a soul back home.”

Private Jones laughed somewhere behind them. Ani wasn’t surprised that even here at a test of legendary life or disastrous death, Clark was trying to put all of them at ease. She didn’t think it was fair, and decided he deserved at least one more night to talk and laugh and rest, just in case.

She was about to demand they wait through the night when Clark looked to her.

“Ani, if it’s not me-”

“It will be, Clark. It feels right.”

He turned fully to her, took her shoulders in his hands, “But if it isn’t, Ani. I don’t regret coming. This has been amazing, wonderful. Thank you.”

She blinked away the weight in her eyes, swallowed the tightness in her throat. “Don’t say those things, Clark. They’re cliche’.”

He laughed, then squeezed her shoulders again. “Just in case though, Ani. No-” He stopped her protest, “just in case. Promise me one thing.”

“Of course, Clark.”

“Take care of Pepper.”

“Your wife.” Her heart broke. Every nerve screamed, but she remained still and visibly calm.

“Yes, Pepper didn’t deserve to be deserted, though I imagine when they finally assume me dead and give her my will, she’ll participate in some retail therapy.” He chuckled at his own small joke. “Nonetheless, it can’t be easy to be left on your own when you thought you had a lifelong partner. So please, however you do it, make sure Pepper will be alright.”

She took his hands, held them in her own. Her gray eyes met his brown ones with nothing but strength. “I promise.”

“Thank you,” He squeezed her hands, kissed her cheek, and then walked to stand before The Door.

He looked towards Captain Collins. “Is there some way to turn it on?”

“No, just approach The Door in whatever way feels right to you. You know the circumstances?” The captain’s voice was stern, but there was a hint of concern in her eyes.

“I do.” He said more to the wall of stone than anyone else. Then he squared his shoulders, and approached The Door with confident steps.

He’d only taken two when the dust around his feet began to swirl. The small whirlwind rose to his ankles, then his knees.

“No, Clark!” Ani moved to save him, but strong arms locked her in place. “Let me go!”

“I’m so sorry, Ani,” Jones’s said at her ear, “but you’ll only get caught in it and we’ll lose you too.”

The duster was around Clark’s waist. He turned, smiled at Ani, and mouthed something.

“What? Clark no!” She pulled hard at Jones’s restraining weight, but she couldn’t focus enough to break free.

And the dust was up to Clark’s neck. Then his smile, his eyes, and past. The moment it reached just above his hair, it settled again. Where the dust storm and Clark had been, there was nothing.

“NO!” Ani lunged again, and this time Jones let her go. She ran and kneeled at the spot he’d stood, as if her silent despair would make the earth give him back.

Captain Collins took a knee beside her. “I’m sorry, Ani. I know he was important.”

“What did he say?”

“Hm?”

“I know you can read lips. What did he say?”

Captain Collins paused, but a sharp look from Ani made her answer. “He said ‘tell Pepper I love her’.”

Ani sniffled, “I can’t.”

“Of course not,” Captain Collins nodded, “That would require re-entering her life, explaining you were with Clark. But I think he wasn’t considering that at the time.”

Ani nodded, though they both knew that wasn’t why. She stood, and dusted herself off.

“Well,” she sniffled once, “that’s a damn loss. Back to the search.”

“Ani-”

But she’d already turned back to the camp.

Private Jones approached the Captain. “Orders, Captain?”

“Like she said, Private. We continue the search.”

Jones watched his fellow soldier as her back retreated into the woods, “and Ani?”

“Will do her job. Give her some space though, have McKoi take her spot on watch tonight. Keep an eye on her.”

“Yes, Captain.”

And the search went on.

 

The Word

Atonement (noun): Reparation for a wrong or injury.

Another visit with The Called! Man they’re a fun gang, I really like them. But I am sorry they lost Clark, he was a good guy.

I normally make it a little easier how the word fits into the story. Today, the story and word both came out of me, but the word is more of a foreshadowing/hint to this chapter of The Called’s tale rather than this story itself. Is that cheating? Oh well, my blog, my rules 😛

But I am still Atonement today. Not in too much of the sobering sense, but this winter has kicked my butt, and for one reason or another I’ve let it! It’s time to get back on the workout schedule, put the TV remote down, and pick the book up, feed my body what it wants to be fed rather than what’s easy when it’s so cold outside.

Do you have those times when you need to look in the mirror and kinda apologize to yourself? “Sorry for all the judgement and junk food, I’ll get some quiet time and broccoli for you ASAP.” That’s where I am, and I think we often owe apologies to ourselves that we don’t give. Maybe we (and maybe Ani too?) need to give ourselves the apology, atonement, care, that we owe ourselves.

The Story

He thought about jumping in front of a car, but that would be so distressful for an unlucky driver. Then he considered launching himself from the balcony. But his neighbors were so nice and it would be a shame to upset them like that. So many options seemed objectively disgusting to his cultivated style, when he thought about it.

So instead, he made blueberry muffins. The berries had been begging to be plucked from his extensive back patio garden anyway. He made the muffins with almond flour just in case Miss LeAnne from next door came over, since she had decided a few years ago to be gluten intolerant.

The oven beeped. The aroma was marvelous- the warmth of butter and sugar paired with the sweet tang of the blueberry. Just like each time before, he failed to wait for the cooling period. His burnt fingertips were well worth his ecstatic tastebuds. He really did make the best muffins in town, as the gals at bookclub had always told him.

But he had not been to book club in a while. He was too embarrassed, because he had not been able to keep up with the reading. It was hard to read anything with so many befuddling words running through his head. He would get them tangled up with the words on the page and then the story wouldn’t make any sense. It was useless to even try anymore. And wouldn’t it be better to not show up than to show up and not even know the main character’s ambition?

He spread a little honey on the next muffin. He imagined that if the Fountain of Youth was really out there, the water must taste like honey. It had an innocent sweetness about it that made one truly taste the sunshine the bees had basked in between their pollen-laden trips. But it also tasted a tad sinful, like a little secret one must not have too much of. An innocent sin- if that’s not the taste of youth, he didn’t know what was.

His youth had indeed been an innocent sin. He’d been born into a good family, well off enough that he could literally afford to run with the wrong crowd for a few years until his mother pulled his leash up short and sent him on his way to success. He’d gone into pharmaceuticals, which made him more than enough to both support his painting hobby, and hide his bourbon problem for many years. Rock bottom had been a good friend for a while, and then he was back on his feet- and heaven be praised- still had his retirement plan. It was just enough tragic back story for him to become the famous artist he became known as across the globe.

Now his paintings hung in the hallways of presidents and billionaire CEOs. The socially royal placed his portraits of beautiful strangers in their front foyer so every guest would know they had one. A few hung humbly in his mother’s old house, where his baby sister now lived with his gorgeous nieces (and portraits of them stood on his own shelves, right behind their college graduation pictures). A small painting stood on Miss LeAnne’s kitchen counter. He’d wanted to gift her a bigger one, of a young woman by a lake that had been praised by so many critics he’d previously not been able to part with it. But Miss LeAnne had begged for his 5 by 7 experimental oil work of a happy frog in the rain. She said it made her giggle. So of course, he framed it for her and handed it over along with a pan of gluten-free lemon bars.

And it had made him giggle too, to see that frog sitting there in the rain. When he found it on his back porch seven years ago, he considered bringing the poor thing inside before he remembered that some creatures liked rain. So instead he had run inside for the small canvas he’d just purchased. It was not even a quarter the size of his usual canvases- but the happy little frog was far less than a quarter of his usual model, so it was fitting.

The happy frog seemed to still hold as much joy on Miss LeAnne’s counter as he had on the rain, and that was real success, wasn’t it?

He reached for another muffin, stopped. At his age, the metabolism was slow and a third muffin was surly going to put a little belly on his well-honed physic. Sixty-two or not, he enjoyed looking good, even if it was just for his reflection these days. One never knew when an art professor would call for a guest speaker, or a critic for a second opinion. So one must always look his best.

Then again, at sixty-two, wouldn’t a little belly be cute? Perhaps it would make him appear a bit more worldly? More settled-in to retirement? Plus the muffins were still warm, so waste not want not.

He took this muffin out to the balcony. He spread himself across the lounge, admiring how the Meyer lemons were coming in this year on his topiaried-tree. It would have been a shame if he’d jumped off earlier, because perhaps no one would have picked the lemons before they turned and that’d be such a loss. Plus this muffin was delicious.

He sighed, and the sun seemed to reach into his bones, warm them steadily. The slow stream of inspiration was tickling his toes. In a few minutes, it would ebb into his chest and then flow through his fingers. He decided that, in a moment, he would stand up and fetch a fresh canvas, capture this sunlight in paint. A small joy, but a joy nonetheless, and a joy he was glad he had not missed.

The Word

Komorebi ([Japanese] noun): The interplay between light and leaves when sunlight shines through trees.

So this is an almost-happy story, and I hope it leaves you with a happy note. Really I was thinking about lemon bars, which reminded me of a list I made for a friend in middle school. She was having a very hard couple of weeks and our world has a habit of making the first teen years just the absolute worst anyway. We’d had an assignment in a class to make a list of some kind, and apparently I’d been in a great mood that day and was writing a list about all the little things I was happy about: soccer practice had gone well, mom made lemon bars, this was day 3 in my new shoes and I still didn’t have mud on them! You know, deep insightful stuff. She asked if she could borrow my list. My nerd-ness worried she wanted to copy it for the assignment but I let her have it after class anyway. I promptly forgot about it. Months later, the list, now well worn and with a few new marks and stains, fell out of her bag. She’d been reading it every night so she didn’t make a terrible choice.

And that thought meets me every time I pull something fresh from the oven. The world can get really dark sometimes, but man lemon bars and blueberry muffins are AMAZING, aren’t they?? A frog in the rain, a sunbeam on the balcony, a smile from the lovely neighbor- these things we have to grasp onto when the bad stuff looks so big.

The light through the trees, one might say. May it shine on you today, lovely reader.

The Story

“I’m not going to survive this one”

“You always say that.”

“This time it’s true. I can feel it. They’re waning, and so am I.”

Her words were almost lost in the chilled howl of wind.

“Those who still have festivals shouldn’t complain to those who don’t even get pronounced correctly anymore.”

“I’m sorry, Danu. I didn’t mean to-”

“It’s alright,” the taller woman leaned down to stroke the wheat colored hair of the younger, “you know I only tease.”

“You’ve done more than that to me this year, doll.” Came a voice dropping from a high branch to land in step with them.

“Oh hush, Aja. You know how the circle turns.”

“The circle can be a bit of a bitch…”

“Aja!”

A smirk spread across the dark face under the green hood, “Sorry Momma, you know it was a hard summer on gals like me.”

“I don’t think this winter is much better.” Demeter shivered in the light snow, glaring at her sister.

“That my dear,” Aja called back as she jumped back up into the tall pines, “is because you do not appreciate all the growth that can happen in the quiet time.”

“She’s right, you know.” Danu’s deep voice resonated through the snowflakes around them.

Demeter was quiet for a moment, watching the ice melt around her feet. She concentrated on making the sleeping grass wake under her feet.

“If you do that,” Aja called, “it’ll just die. I told you, rest is important.”

Demeter rolled her eyes, “Thank you, oh great healer.”

“I’m all about let life live, honey.”

Danu pulled Demeter into her warm arms, “You need light, ma chiseler. I told you to wander a bit, find someplace warm.”

Demeter pushed herself away. “There’s no reason to be anywhere warm when I’m so cold inside.”

“Poor little Demi, all alone-“

“Shut UP!” Her wheat hair shone for a moment as if the sun sat behind her ears, and the trees surrounding them stood taller. “You have no idea what it’s like to have a child! To LOSE her!”

Aja jumped down, her dark nose inches from her sister’s pale face, “I’ve had to lose my fair share of loved little ones. Don’t you mistake my good mood for blissful ignorance.”

The wintered forrest shook with a berating gale, then was quiet for a moment. The pines seemed to lean in for what what happen next.

“Okay, sweetlings, alright,” Danu separated the two goddess with a small wave of her fingers, “We’re just missing a bit of sunlight.” Her hazel eyes turned to the sky, “Help me out a bit, Skaoi, your sisters need air.”

Another still moment, and then a cloud slowly drifted aside to let a little daylight through. Both angry women appeared to relax instantly. Demeter sighed, Aja rolled her shoulders.

“There we go. See, Demeter? A little light could really help.”

“Yes,” another sigh from the harvest, “yes perhaps you’re right. My apologies, Aja.”

Aja just kissed Demeter’s cheek in response.

“I think I’ll go look for that light beam.” Demeter curtsied to the other two, and then rode the wind into the air.

“It’s so cool how she does that.” Aja whistled.

“It is. But she would probably prefer ‘neat’ rather than a synonym of the cold.” Danu laughed, and the ground seemed to shake a bit, as if chuckling with her.

“Pfft, yeah.” Aja cracked her neck. Then, liking the feeling of movement, did the same to her fingers and then ankles.

They walked the forrest a while, Danu’s large footprints marking their path while Aja’s faded in an instant.

“Momma, I need to get some savory seeds. The cold is best for them.”

“Off to see Artio then? I’ll come with you, love.”

A cloud nudged it’s brothers, a chill shook the evergreens, and the forrest was empty again.

The Word

FRIGID (adjective): 1. Very cold in temperature. 2. Unable or unwilling to be sexually aroused and responsive. 3. Showing no friendliness or enthusiasm; stiff or formal in behavior or style.

It snowed again. I am tired of being cold. I was thinking about how nice it would be to just sleep through the winter like a big ol’ bear. And for some reason that got me to thinking about what do summer goddesses do during the winter? And that of course led me back to our bubbles gal, Demeter.

If you haven’t read up on her or her fellow growth goddess, Aja, I encourage you to! Then go on and read about Danu. You’ll find they have lots of flavors and variations, and I, as any selfish writer, picked the ones I liked best.

A short winter’s tale for ladies that didn’t get enough attention paid to their lore. We’ll talk with them again later.

In the mean time, curl up and stay calm- Spring is coming soon.

Hey team! I think you'd enjoy this a bit more if you read Today I am Apathy first. Thank you :)

The Story

He had been the most qualified applicant. I meant to interview him myself but a last minute trip to Minnesota in order to calm one of our authors had stolen that chance from me.

Jimmy had been the obvious choice for the new Copy Editor. In fact, he was over qualified, so I made them bump him a pay grade. He would probably be aiming for a higher position if his resume hadn’t been so light, but I am pretty sure I am to blame for that.

Not that I feel any guilt. It’s just a fact. Our relationship threw him from his original course, and it took him a while to regain his bearings.

I’d say the same for me except, well, I’ve always been a good sailor on rough seas.

He was across the banquet hall now, doing his best to take part in a small discussion with one of our researchers while his gaze constantly dragged to me. I wasn’t sure how to handle that kind of attention. Between the time, distance, and several very expensive therapy sessions, I’d put much of us behind me. Judging by the familiar, nervous way he was squeezing his left hand while he talked, he could not say the same.

And really, that makes sense. The ending of our relationship was very different for each of us. I still don’t fully know how it was for him, as we were many miles away. But on the floor of my mother’s kitchen the week of Thanksgiving, the final break did not go very smoothly at all.

 

I don’t remember anything before looking at my brand new thumb ring and noticing it was bent. In slow motion I saw the gray mark on the tile and knew the two were connected. Had I been slamming my hands against the floor?

“Audrey? Audrey tell me you’re okay. Say something.”

It was Jimmy’s voice on the cell phone a foot away from my shaking hands. I sat back and realized I wasn’t breathing. I took a huge gulp of air that burned my throat. Had I been screaming?

“Audrey! Say something right now or I’ll-”

“Jimmy.”

“Oh shit thank God.”

“Jimmy I think I had a panic attack of some kind. I blacked out. When did I call you?”

“This is just a panic attack? You’ve got to be kidding me. This is ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous. I’ll call you back, I need air.”

“No, no don’t you hang up on me again. I’m on my way and I-”

But I did hang up. Again? I wasn’t sure. All I was sure of was my head hurt, my hands hurt, and my ring was bent. I looked around the room cautiously. Momma’s favorite vegetable knife was on the tile with me, but it was clean. I checked myself all over just to be sure. I hated blood, and the thought that I’d accidentally nicked myself on a fallen knife almost made me sick.

There was a buzz. It was both in my head and also on the floor- Jimmy calling back. I didn’t answer. Let him suffer. Let him think the worst.

I tried to stand, realized my legs were weak. Oh damn I must be drunk. Did I drink? I checked the counters- yes, an empty glass with smears of red wine lips.

Momma’s Yorkie came in, sniffing all over. Sweet Bessy, she licked my face all over, cleaning up the tears and tickling me into a smile. Then she began to lick my fingers. There were minuscule lines of blood in the wrinkles of the knuckles she was cleaning. I must have slammed my fists against something really hard, but I saw no other marks around the kitchen. I squeaked out a thank you to the sweet pup. Thank God for old neighbors. It was late, and I was sure the Joneses had taken their hearing aids out hours ago. It was for the best that no one heard whatever I’d been screaming to make my throat so sore.

 

But that was all seven years, many shots of tequila, and like I said- several expensive therapy appointments ago. As the good Dr. Kern said, I’d had an episode of anxiety-induced memory loss. I found it easier to just say “the monster got loose” but he was all about the science. Either way, that wasn’t me anymore. I was not a young girl unsure of what she wanted, but a woman who knew what she needed. The monster was now just a purring tiger, placated with breathing exercises, a loyal social circle, and 75mg of Sertraline each morning. The elegant, mighty tigress of course had not left, but slept in the back of my mind, rarely wakened by the troubles of everyday life. In fact, rather than a caged competitor for my sanity, I had embraced her as an ally. I think that’s partially why I was the youngest Editor in Chief that Fey Publishing had ever employed- even in today’s world, it takes a few claw marks for a woman to get this far.

“Hey there’s the new boy- let’s get him over here so y’all can start badgering him,” Teddy Craig, the best and tipsiest boss I’d ever had, said as he stuck his long arm straight up to gesture Jimmy over.

I was surprised there was no rush of heat in my cheeks, no fear in my belly. I mentally searched around my whole system as Dr. Kern had taught me to, even prodding the tigress for response, and there was nothing. It appears I’d spent so much on this boy years ago, there was nothing left for him anywhere in me.

“There you are, Jim-bo! Meet your new keepers! HA!” Teddy guaffawed, pulling Jimmy into the circle of finely dressed business partners around us.

He was introduced to my comrades, Greg always the first to relax a newbie with a tease- “Nice to meet you, I’m Greg Sullivan, VP of Publications here. You must be the new copy editor, James. Or do you prefer Jim-bo?” He winked, sending Teddy into another round of happy snorting.

“Whichever works,” Jim smiled back, “just not Jimmy, that’s what my mom calls me when I’m in trouble.”

He then met sweet Khalid and strong Becca. Then me.

“And this!” Teddy smiled wide and slapped a shoulder on me hard enough to know it was time to call him an Uber, “is Ms. Audrey Jones, recently promoted to Editor in Chief! She’ll be the top of your totem pole, Jim. Audrey, your promised new copy editor!”

I could see he was tense. I tried to embody warmth and welcome.

“Hello Jim- nice to see you again.” I had to remember not to call him Jimmy. Apparently he didn’t go by that anymore.

I tried to make my voice inviting. I wanted him to know he was safe here, there was nothing between us, certainly nothing that would jeopardize his new job. Did he know I’d encouraged his choosing?

“Again? You two have met?” Khalid’s question was voiced as if to Jim, but he looked to me. His eyes were hot with concern. It was only a few weeks since he and I had begun a small affair, but his protection had been like a blanket around me since we’d become colleagues and friends years ago.

Jim resisted when I ended our handshake. I couldn’t decide if it was nerves or something else.  “Yes,” I answered,  “we were in college together. And you know how small a Liberal Arts department is at a top Mathematics school.” I smiled back at my Khalid, nodding slightly so he would know I was okay. I hoped he didn’t feel hurt that I had kept knowing our new employee to myself. There was nothing in my past left to carry on, so I hadn’t felt it necessary, but in this moment, it felt like I’d told a lie.

“A fellow Wolfpack! Atta boy!” Teddy took Jim by the shoulder as well, so now he was holding Jim and I the same way a referee might competitors before a boxing match. I’d put my gloves down long ago, so I shook Teddy off, laughing.

“To what I was saying-” I decided the best way to deal with this non-situation was to treat it as such. Besides, I needed to hear Becca’s take on other countries’s approach on sensitive topics for young readers. I really thought we should be looking into it, and I let that thought take over my frontal awareness. I was a professional, and if there was any worrying to do about Jim’s obvious awkwardness or Khalid’s nerves, I would do it later.

“Agreed,” Becca answered, ” but then again…”

And so life went on.

The Word

PASSION (noun): Strong and barely controllable emotion.

Okay, everyone in the class who has an anxiety disorder raise your hand! Everybody? Alright, great!

Congratulations, that means you are human in the 21st century. Literally it’s now called GAD (General Anxiety Disorder) because it is so freaking common. Don’t feel un-special, just know you’re not alone, peeps.

So yes, I was able to pull the information on anxiety-monster from a very personal place. However, I am not an Editor in Chief* nor do I work with an ex of any kind. But since we played on Jim’s interpretation of apathy, I thought it only fair to see the other side. The other side of apathy is passion, and the other side of Jim’s story is Audrey’s. My attempt was to make them NOT exact mirrors, as two stories from the same breakup rarely are. But we interpret so much of what people are thinking or feeling during our interaction with them, when in reality, they may not being feeling much about it at all.

This is both disappointing and relieving to me. See, I’m dramatic (hence the entire blog about my own writing) so I like the idea that other people think of me. On the other hand, however, the idea that they don’t think of me much at all means I can do what I want and it won’t even hit their notice-radar. That’s where the passion comes in- when we allow ourselves to react without thinking of the inner story line of someone else’s journey. Maybe you’re a part of it, maybe you’re not. Maybe you’re a WAY different part than you thought. I DO have an ex that thinks he taught me what patience is, when really he taught me when you need to STOP waiting. And I’m sure what I think I taught him (future planning, actually doing homework) is not what he learned either.

And please note- this isn’t just on ex’s, it’s anybody that goes in or out of your life. Take the lesson, then keep on sailing. Some people are calypsos, but don’t mix them up with the ones that are just buoys.

—————————————————————————–

*YET!

 

The Story

I was prepared for the dirty look. It would be ice cutting across the room, aimed straight for my own neck.

But then I thought- no. She’s more fire. Her words will be like unyielding flame. She will scream and howl about the pain I caused, my abandonment. The whole city will be able to hear the arduous details of my sins against her, paired with exactly which layer of hell she would like to personally escort me. Her eyes will be bright with fury, gorgeous and dangerous at once.

Steeling myself, I knew I could handle all the words she had pent up over time, waiting for an opportunity to spear me with them. She was hellfire but I would be cool rain; I had always been able to take what she threw and I could do it again.

My feet carried me across the room. I was drawn here and there by interesting discussion, but eventually Mr. Craig caught my eye and gestured me towards him.

“There you are, Jim-bo! Meet your new keepers! HA!” The large man guaffawed, pulling me into the circle of finely dressed business partners around him.

A thinner, blonder man held out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, I’m Greg Sullivan, VP of Publications here. You must be the new copy editor, James. Or do you prefer Jim-bo?” He winked, sending Mr. Craig into another round of happy snorting.

“Whichever works,” I smiled back, “just not Jimmy, that’s what my mom calls me when I’m in trouble.”

I was then introduced to a laughing Khalid Thompson, Head of Research, and an amused Becca Miller, VP of Sales.

“And this!” Mr. Craig smiled wide and slapped a shoulder on the short woman next to him, “is Ms. Audrey Jones, recently promoted to Editor in Chief! She’ll be the top of your totem pole, Jim. Audrey, your promised new copy editor!”

I extended my hand to her, tensed my shoulders for war.

“Hello Jim, nice to see you again.”

Her voice was cool, her hand delicate while her shake was strong. I was sure she held riled jaguars behind the cage of her calm greeting. But as I met those familiar eyes, I could not see the wild cats for the life of me. Those azure windows were almost glossed over, uninterested. This was a trap… right?

“Again? You too have met?” Khalid inquired, looking only to Audrey.

She removed her hand from mine, “Yes, we were in college together. And you know how small a Liberal Arts department is at a top Mathematics school.” She smiled back at him, nodding as if to reassure him of something.

“A fellow Wolfpack! Atta boy!” Mr. Craig took me by a shoulder as well, so now he was holding she and I the same way a referee might competitors before a boxing match. I’d put my gloves on the moment I knew she worked at the company I hounded for an interview, tightened them as I signed my contract proposal. This was the top of the publication world, so it didn’t surprise me to find her name among the employees. But I knew this moment would come.

So why did she seem so placid?

Mr. Craig let us both go, but instead of hearing the bell ring for Round 1, I heard only Audrey return to the conversation on foreign children’s literature they’d been having before my arrival.

“I just think they’re willing to approach those topics with a much younger audience than the writers here, and we should be looking into it.”

“Agreed, but then again, they do not have the same type of parental expectations as we do here.”

“True, but I…”

The discussion seemed to wash over me. How could she have so little reaction to me? It was as if her brain recognized me, attached images and a name, and then just filed it with the rest of the barely-necessary information. There was no heat in her words towards me. There had been no extra side glance to imply I had it coming, good or bad. Each breath was absent of either threat or promise.

My mental armor fell in shattered pieces around my ankles. My voice was less than a hollow wheeze when I finally answered “Yes, good to see you too,” so much so that none of them even heard it over the clink of glasses in the excited room.

Memories pelted me with a cruel warmth. There were sharp sighs and bits of fights buzzing in my head. Then soft whispers, softer skin. This was dying. I was dying right there by the snack table at a company happy hour, and no one even knew.

With a purely polite smile and disinterested handshake, she had destroyed me in a way her languish or rage never had. I’d been executed by my own failed expectations, and she sipped her champagne, not even minding that she’d won.

The Word

APATHY (noun): Lack of interest, enthusiasm, or concern.

Happy Valentine’s Day! Here’s a story about NOT love! 😉

The opposite of love is not hate, it’s indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it’s indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it’s indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it’s indifference. – Eliezer “Elie” Wiesel

So indifference and apathy aren’t exactly the same word, but they’re close enough to count as synonyms and to make, in my opinion, the above famous quote appropriate.

This is another story I’ve had swirling around in my head for many years. It was one of those scenarios we all make up in the shower where we win an argument with someone who isn’t there. It was easy to place myself as the heroine here, as I think we’d all like to do.

However, as hinted at in parts of the above, there are always two sides to a story and sometimes many more. We only get a teasing glimpse into this one, and since you know me by now, you know there were will be a few more looks towards this non-couple’s tale.

But why Valentine’s Day? Well, because as easy as Hallmark and Hershey’s would like us to believe this holiday is, it’s quite complicated on its own. There are expectations, both very high and very low even by those who will deny them. And I thought that made it a good day to play with expectations.

I hope your day was filled with something good! Or that your day was outrageously normal for a Thursday, whichever suits your feelings towards this pink-painted holiday!

But from a lover of red-velvet anything, Happy Valentine’s Day!

The Story

It hurt, but not enough to stop. It was a sharp stabbing at the curve of her pinky toe. She was pretty sure that it was a rock, or some sharp seed or something. One similar pain instance had been an earring fallen from her dresser and into her favorite pair of running shoes.

It was annoying and it hurt, but other things had hurt worse and as she heard in some science class long ago “objects in motion remain in motion,” so she kept going as she always had.

The asphalt had become a good friend of hers. It could go as far and as long as she could. It never rushed her. It did not care that she was wearing her old track t-shirt instead of her nice workout clothes. It was quiet, which she could not say about many people in her life at the moment.  All the asphalt had to say was the occasional thwap thwap when it pushed back against her sneakers, and that was fine because she liked a little light conversation every now and then.

The run was not going to be enough to calm her today, though. She was not sure how long she had gone this time, as she had forgotten her watch flying out the door. However, when she returned, her roommate was in tears as the final scene of Dear John played on the TV. When she had left for the run, Channing Tatum was only meeting Amanda Seyfried and her roomie’s eyes were dry. So she’d run around two hours. Almost as good as a real timer.

“You’ve seen this over a hundred times,” She said to the back of the couch as she unlaced her shoes, allowing her poor pinky toe relief. Aw, so it was just a rock, how anticlimactic.

Sniffle, “I knoooooow, but it’s just so sad! How could she leave him?!”

Camellia Ramsey smiled at her sobbing roommate. Sometimes it was nice to come home and have things be relatively the same. Sweet Rachel would always be there doing homework and watching love stories. Camellia supposed everyone else’s life had not really changed much in the past few weeks. Just hers. She was the only one whose bed felt bigger and whose world felt much smaller.

She knew she was overreacting. It was just a breakup, and those happen. She knew that eventually it would be a small dot on her radar and she would be back to normal. But Michael had been exactly what she wanted and now her bronze-skinned, green-eyed god thought there was no time in his life for such a frivolous things as a girl with still a year left in her bachelor’s degree. Especially since he would begin a fancy real-person job in a different state in the coming months.

She understood. It happened to lots of couples this time of year and she had known it was a possibility. She could not stop him, and eventually that would be okay, maybe even good.

But right now it was awful. And as she peeled off her damp sports-bra, her irrational side kicked in with its whimpering and moaning, so she slipped into the shower before the tears started. As the bathroom began to steam, she thought back to the moment Michael had said it needed to be over. It was years ago, wasn’t it? Or was it just minutes?

Two weeks, one day, and a couple hours. Not that she knew exactly, or anything. She thought after a couple weeks maybe the details would start to blur, but they hadn’t. If anything, the scorching water rushing over her was making them clearer.

 

“Sorry, it’s a little cool,” he’s said, handing over the small gray mug he always grabbed for her.

“It’s alright,” though it wasn’t really. Camellia could barely stand for coffee to be lukewarm, but he seemed in a weird mood this morning. Not too unusual for the past couple weeks, but not the boy she was used to rising and very much shining in the mornings.

“Look- Cami. You know that I’ve been really busy a while…”

Her breath caught. Some instinctive part of her had read his tone and filled in the blanks within half a second. Now safe in her shower, she appreciated the irony of her brain moving so fast in that instant, when she’d been stuck almost a month trying to figure out what had changed. She laughed bitterly in the shower, but there in his kitchen she’d only held her mug close as her body temperature plummeted.

He’d started again, “I’m about to head out of town, and you know how I feel about long distance. We both knew we were always one of those short loves.” Then he’d taken a long sip of his cheap dark roast.

Oh, did we? She’d always been told that in those moments, your heart was supposed to stop. But either because of the previous cup of coffee, or because she’d hoped for anything else, hers had instead opted for nearly beating out of her chest. It was painful, but it at least kept her distracted while she hazily set her mug down and left straight to her car, with stupid store-brand aftertaste still on the back of her tongue.

 

“Skim milk and a sprinkle of sugar, steaming.” Rachel had the warm mug in Camellia’s hand before Camellia even had the towel fully wrapped around her. She accepted it, both grateful and a little embarrassed that her roomie had clearly caught on to the mood she was in.

“Thank you,” she mumbled, taking a long sip and letting the liquid burn her throat with a comforting familiarity.

“I was just brewing a few cups, thought you might need one!” Rachel plopped herself on Camellia’s wrinkled comforter, holding a mug with a much paler concoction in it. Camellia smiled when she noticed it.

The girls let the silence sit for a while. This was, in Camellia’s opinion, the best part of their relationship. Talking was nice, but never necessary for them.

“You can do cuter,” Rachel stated suddenly.

“Can I?” Camellia raised an eyebrow.

“Ha, well maybe not- he was pretty attractive,” Rachel got up to wrap her arms around her  her friend tight, “but sometimes the good die young.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Camellia spun in her friend’s arms, “is this heartbreak going to kill me?”

“No, no! Your relationship! It was good, but now it’s done, and you’ll find a boy who wants to keep the sweet thing that is my best friend!” She squeezed and then untangled herself, “but let me know if you’re gonna try to Ophelia yourself in the bathtub.”

“Jesus, English majors.”

“It’s what we’re for!”

 

Although Camellia’s mother had been hounding her for years that coffee was the way to go, she herself had always been a tea girl until Michael came along.

They met by chance, his friend happened to be the president of her Environmental Club, and he was dragged to a club social. After spending more of the night shooting glances at each other than paying attention to the speech on algae’s place in world-saving, he’d asked her out to “a casual cup of joe.” How could she say no to a boy with a voice sweet as southern tea? That afternoon, instead of admitting she hated the bitter-bean mixture and would have preferred an herbal loose-leaf, she said to just order two of whatever he wanted.

Of course that first sip had nearly killed her.

She had discreetly examined her cup, wondering if this new man had perhaps poisoned her, and that was why the drink had tasted so foul. But no, apparently that is what plain iced coffee is supposed to taste like. She had brushed a few of her strawberry locks behind her ear and prayed that this Michel kid would be worth suffering through to the bottom of her cup. They stayed at that table for two more hours, and though she declined a second cup, she was glad she had choked down the first.

 

Now, looking across to Rachel over her cup at their kitchen table, she was amazed at how her taste buds had changed so drastically.

“So, bad day for the ol’ get-over-him plan?”

“Yeah…”

“You know what they say, only better with time and all that.”

“Yep, which was said by some older man who had never been a young girl with a broken heart.”

“Well, that’s awfully dramatic.”

Camellia shrugged, “You were cliché, I was dramatic. It was fitting.”

The two girls smiled at each other. There was never much to say with a problem that could not be fixed. Maybe a little sleep would ease away some of the hurt first.

Of course, graduate school applications did not have a section for low-GPA excuses, so Camellia’s light stayed on late into the night instead. Essays and research had to be dealt with no matter what. Her coffee pot had little more rest than she did, as she kept refilling it with the attempt to keep her eyes open. She thought for a moment, as she measured out each scoop: it was not quite the same therapeutic feeling that measuring out fresh teabags had given her, but the caffeine was much stronger, and the smell more enticing. She watched with glazed eyes as the percolator buurrbled to life. With the first mud-colored drops beginning to collect at the bottom of the glass, she was taken willingly into another aroma-filled memory.

 

They had taken his dog, Cashew, on a cool fall afternoon stroll. It had been chilly and he said they needed some java to warm them up afterwards. He hadn’t taken her hand during the entire walk. She remembered that the most clearly, and then the mental speech she had given herself that perhaps the second date was too soon for hand-holding and maybe she was getting ahead of herself.

He had showed her how old his coffeepot looked next to his roommate’s new French-press and then argued that coffee was not supposed to be so fancy- “it was meant to be drunk, not dressed up in chrome and shit!” This time she had been able to sneak in a spoonful of sugar while he was in the bathroom (a hint Rachel had given her), but the sip after that choice was even worse than the first. She supposed that perhaps Michael had been right to drink it black then. It had been three more walks with Cashew before he put an arm around her to “keep her from catching a chill.”

 

Two more pages added to her essay on the loss of natural resources and she was closing her eyes to a cup of hazelnut flavored, thinking of the time she had broken Michael’s precious coffeemaker. She did not often spend the night at his place, but a few months into him referring to her as “his girl,” meant her presence in the morning was not unusual to his roommates.

That particular morning, Camellia had woken up before him and this time instead of curling up to him and waiting, she had wanted to surprise him with a fresh pot of his favorite addiction. Half an hour later, he had sauntered into the kitchen to find his girlfriend partially drenched, attempting to clean up the puddle of almost-coffee that was quickly covering the counter.

“Apparently you’re supposed to put the grinds in before you press ‘go’?”

 

She stirred in her drop of milk as she remembered that he could not stop laughing long enough to be mad with her, and was more concerned about the hot water having hurt her, than about his dirty counter. Michael had given her one of his priceless grins and magical long kisses when she arrived the next day with a brand new brew-er in her arms.

Now Camellia stared at her desk, shaking her head and reaching again for the textbook across from her. She opened it but her eyes refused to settle on the words. The night was getting to her.

 

 Siiiip.

“Do you have to slurp?” Camellia had been trying to edit papers for a good hour and a half, but in the last few minutes Michael had been doing everything he could think of to distract her from it.

“Yep. The music of my people.” Siiiiiiip

She slammed down her red pen, “and what people is that?”

“Drinkers,” he answered, setting his mug down on the nightstand and slyly getting up from the bed, stalking to her desk chair, “thinkers,” he kissed her neck, “winkers.”

He spun her around and gave her a slow, cheesy wink. She melted at the sight of his grin and allowed him to pull her to the bed. It was much smaller than his, but she liked that it meant they had to snuggle closer. He pulled her onto his chest, and she could feel his heat wrapping around her.

“Tell me about the papers stressing you out.”

“It’s an essay on marriage rates for Sociology. It’s depressing.”

“Oh?”

“It doesn’t look good for those of us who want to get married in the next ten years. At least the average says so.”

“You want to be married in the next ten years?”

Camellia paused. She had hit one of those subjects they say not to bring up with boyfriends for a long while. How to proceed?

“It was part of my casual plan.”

“Hm. I wasn’t thinking until like thirty-five-ish.”

“Well, like I said- casual plan.”

Michael rolled Camellia over so their noses were smushed against each other, her whole weight across his body, “I’m not worried.”

She smiled down at him, “You’re not?”

“Nope,” He began spreading kisses across her collarbone.

“Are you worried that I want a kid before I’m thirty?”

“I mean, I’m not even sure I want kids at all. But no, that doesn’t worry me either. It’s not like you’re measuring my ring finger when I’m sleeping.” He returned his lips to her skin.

“Oh.” Her stomach gave a confused flutter. Yes, this man she cared about was running his fingers along the waist of her jeans, but he had also hinted at a future much different than the one she dreamed of full of babies and farmers’ market trips. But that was okay. Or, it would be if he would just kept those kisses coming. Things change.

 

Well, I suppose they did. One of those short loves.

Siiip

She found herself making the same sound and wondering why it sounded so annoying that night so many weeks ago. Tonight, it was the click of her keys that was driving her insane, so she printed what she had done and restarted with pen and notebook. Her mother always suggested that was how to write a good paper anyway. Her mother was right about quite a few things.

 

The first time he met her parents had started pretty well. Camellia’s dad had appeared so in love with Michael’s discussion on politics and his plans to continue in the PHD program, that Mr. Ramsey had apparently forgotten all about the age gap between this scholar and his own daughter. Mrs. Ramsey had made another of her huge spice-heavy dinners and was now slicing her berry-lovers’ angel cake for the four of them. No one had appetite left for a piece, but they all took a slice anyway. Camellia knew the copious amounts of food was probably due to nerves. Her mother always wanted to make her friends feel at home, and when Camellia had mentioned she’d be bringing Michael for the weekend, the older woman had decided to pull out all the stops.

“My baby’s in love, why can’t I make a few dishes without everyone getting their feathers ruffled?”

With the cake, Mrs. Ramsey placed three dark-filled mugs on the table before asking Camellia what kind of tea she wanted with her cake. The surprise on her mother’s face when Camellia had declined and asked for coffee as well was a good laugh for the table.

“She’s growing up and joining the obsession, hun!” Camellia’s father had chortled, finding all of his jokes a little funnier than anyone else did.

Mrs. Ramsey used whole milk, though, and Camellia knew that Michael must be trying to impress her parents when he said of course he would take some in his cup, and sure- some sugar too. It made her oddly happy to see him swallow what he would normally complain as a “messed with” cup, understanding the feeling.

 

It was normally her forth cup, which she was hitting now around two am, that she herself began to mess with perfection. She splashed some of Rachel’s flavored creamer in, not even registering whether it was the Very Vanilla or the Mocha Mint that frequented their fridge. She just needed to knock the edge off the bitter bite of her cheaper grinds. Her mother had sent a care package of expensive beans the week before, but Michael had taught her that such treats were meant for quiet moments, not nights of homework.

 

“You’d think that you would want to treat yourself if you were working so hard,” she had spoken softly, measuring spoonfuls into the filter with now-practiced hands.

“No no no, young grasshopper. The good stuff is for when the sun comes up and you get to take a moment of victory before hopping in the shower. Or after some really great sex.” He had murmured into her neck as he wrapped his arms around her waste. It was very distracting from her next task of chopping up eggs and celery for the salad sandwich she planned to take to class. Later that day he had surprised her with a to-go cup of “the good stuff” as she was coming out of an exam. He was normally busy in the lab this time of day, but had taken a break to make a java-run for “his love.” It was the first time he had called her that. She had nearly choked on the hot liquid, trying to keep her smile under control.

 

Perhaps six cups was too much. This was her four am thought, and her next one was that perhaps she should have just done the work on time instead of moping around the apartment. But she poured it. The pot had been sitting there too long, so she placed the mug in the microwave. This was something her father always did- make a big pot in the morning and just reheat it all day long. But Michael thought that was some form of blasphemy, declaring that coffee needed to be made fresh because the smell of it brewing was half the reason to be drinking it. It was one of the few arguments the two men had.

“When you have a wife and kids to worry about, you’ll take what little penny-pinching you can!”

“No way. I’ll always make a fresh pot.”

“So you don’t plan on sending your kids to college, then?”

“I think that’s a bit extreme for a few bags of coffee, Mr. Ramsey!”

The two men had stopped and stared at each other for a moment, neither really willing to give in. Camellia and her mother were staring from the table at the two men occupying the kitchen. The women had identically-arched eyebrows, for men fought about the strangest things. But then there was a chuckle, which grew to a full laugh, and the boys were done.

Camellia shrugged. She supposed it was better than politics or sports. Her parents had stopped for the day in her college town before making the rest of the trip to Charleston for their 30^th anniversary, and she was hoping they would go ahead on their way. She had not been expecting them and was pretty sure her parents had not expected to see Michael in their daughter’s apartment so early in the morning.

“Are we having a breakfast party in here?” Rachel had chirped, coming around the corner of her bedroom. Camellia had thanked her lucky stars to see her roommate’s bed-hair bop down the hallway to join them; it anchored Camellia to watch her parents hug Rachel tightly as everyone sat down for a quick muffin and chat before going their separate directions for the day. It had shocked her later when Michael had complained about the intrusion.

“Rachel? or I thought you liked Mom and Dad?”

“No thank God she was there to talk to them so we didn’t have to as much. I like them fine. I guess my parents did that when I was an undergrad too, I just wasn’t ready for it.” Camellia had let the strange moment go, but something did not feel settled about it. He did not often remind her of how much younger she was then he. And she was close with her parents. Didn’t he know that?

 

The dawn was breaking and the young woman had finally finished all of her work. She knew she could probably fit in an hour of sleep before she had to get dressed and head out, but she knew that a run and one more cup would most likely have the same effect. Stepping over half her wardrobe to hunt down a clean pair of athletic shorts, she knew she should probably take a moment to clean up later that day. Finally spotting the favored bright green shorts hiding under her winter boots, she paused for a moment. Had she really not put those away yet? The last snow had been several weeks ago now.

 

It had been a late snow, and Rachel had wanted to go out and play in it. She had a new boyfriend of her own and thought it would be romantic to take a wintery walk and build a snowman. So Camellia had dragged Michael away from his work and demanded that he join them for some fun. He had only relented when she said to bring Cashew with him and that there would be hot chocolate to follow the snowy escapade.

When they’d dried off, Rachel was laughing by the stove as she attempted to melt chocolate for an old-fashioned recipe. The tall boy she had brought over was tickling her neck with his scruffy chin, and Camellia found herself smiling at them. It was time that Rachel found someone as young-hearted as herself.

“They’re so cute!” she had turned to whisper at her own partner, but Michael was looking at the table, seemingly lost in thought.

“Babe?”

He looked up, “Hm?”

“Don’t you think they’re cute?”

“Sure. Think she’ll focus a bit and hurry up? I really have to get back to work.”

“They’re having fun, though. I can’t rush her just for cocoa!”

Michael stood, “I’ll just make a pot at home. I have to start back on my paper. See you, Cami.” He planted a short kiss across her worried lips, called Cashew to him and headed out the door without a backwards glance.

 

Camellia remembered the denial that had risen up in the back of her throat that evening. She left the shorts abandoned with the boots and returned to her kitchen. She was not hungry, just all of the sudden all too warm. She slid open the big window, careful not to knock any of Rachel’s little herb pots off the sill.

 

“You’ll be fine, dear. He was sweet, but he was all too busy for you.” Her mother had said.

“You’re too young anyway. You shouldn’t have been dating until your forties.” Her father had offered, laughing and thumbing her chin like when she was a child.

“You can do better, one who can actually cook!” Rachel had cooed.

But this morning her parents were many miles away and Rachel was still fast asleep. Camellia sighed, knowing that they might be right and they might be wrong but there was not much she could do about any of it right now.

She turned and got a clean mug out of the cupboard. Stopping her hand before she reached the mostly-empty bag of grinds, she paused for a moment. She slowly lowered her heels back to the floor, and was still. Then, she crossed to the pantry, collected her basket of teabags and sat on the cool tile floor. She picked a bag of each variety and held it up, slowly smelling the bouquet of nature floating off of them. Deciding the lemon-spiked chamomile would go best with her banana-bread breakfast, she stood up tall.

She would add honey, and she would be alright.

The Word

BREW (verb): 1. Make (tea or coffee) by mixing it with hot water. 2. Make (beer) by soaking, boiling, and fermentation. 3. (of an unwelcome event or situation) Begin to develop.

 

*Camellia's name sound familiar? You met her parents in Today I am Photophilous