Hey there…well, no #fridayflash today, but if you missed last week’s, you can check it out here. Can’t wait to see what everybody else is up to this Friday.
Long weekend coming up, lots on the horizon for fall. I always seem to get a burst of creativity when the seasons change. What about you? Do you notice any outside influences that add or take away from your creativity?
Anyway, something cool from GalleyCat. (Where else?) They’ve compiled a list of the best authors on Facebook and they’re asking for more suggestions. Check it out here. Got any suggestions?
Any cool plans for the weekend? Whatever you end up doing, I hope you have a great time.
The first bullet ripped through his gut. The second and third through his chest. Everything halted to slow motion as he collapsed to the beige linolium floor. The kid who shot him, stunned by his own actions, left the money on the counter and fled. The old lady who owned the store dialed 911.
At first, the pain he felt wasn’t from the gunshots, but from the thought that he’d failed. He never found her this time. This dance they did, lifetime after lifetime…finding each other, only to realize again that their blessing was also a curse.
His pulse sounded in his ears, as blood flowed from him.
The old woman, still clutching the phone to her ear stood over him. Her free hand pressed a hand towel to his chest. “Don’t worry, hon. They’re on the way. You’re going to be fine.” Into the phone she said, “How much longer?”
There was no mistaking the fear in her eyes. The one in the stomach might not have been enough to claim him, but the two in the chest… Breathing was like swimming through syrup. He tried to say something to the lady, to thank her, but nothing came out except a wet, choked gurgle. The lady cringed and went to the front window to watch for the ambulance.
He gazed at the flourescent lights on the ceiling. Hours, days, lifetimes blended together in a miasma of love and sorrow.
From his cloud of memory, he pulled their meeting on boat bound for the Americas. They were children, seven and eight years old, one Irish and one Italian. They couldn’t speak each other’s languages, but there was still a connection. Once the landed in the New World, that connection was broken.
In another life, she was a starlet that he’d loved from afar for years. He sent her letters and tried to get near her at public events. He knew if she could just see him, that she’d know that he was the one and they could finally be together. But after several years of letters and eventually phone calls, he was arrested for stalking and put in jail. She’d never shown up to any of the court dates, never had seen his face, had never guessed that it was him.
Two centuries ago, she, the blushing bride on her wedding day, he, the innkeeper’s son, shared a passionate kiss in the kitchen. The angry and jealous groom witnessed this, but didn’t tip his hand until later, when he strangled his new bride.
Another life as a circus ringleader, and she as a trapeze artist. Yet another with him as an important businessman, and she, a woman of ill-repute. Always, some circumstance brought them together and simultaneously tore them apart. After each lifetime, their memories of each other swirled in their minds, like remembered dreams. Their awareness that there was a missing piece of themselves out there, searching, germinated and grew stronger as time marched on, but it didn’t make finding each other any faster or easier.
And now, Daniel, a teacher, bleeding to death while waiting for an ambulance, because some kid decided to knock over a convenience store. And she? He didn’t know.
“They’re here!” The lady cried as three EMTs in navy blue jumpsuits wheeled in a gurney. There was such hope in the woman’s voice, but the world was already fading to gray, sounds blurred into one long drone, everything smudged together like chalk drawings in the rain.
Daniel closed his eyes. He felt the cold metal of the scissors as one of the EMTs cut his shirt away. He heard the snap of a rubber gloves and the rip of paper packets that held various bandages. Then he heard a voice, “Sir? Sir, can you hear me? Open your eyes if you can hear me.”
He opened one eye, then the other.
“Good,” she said. We’re going to get you to the hospital, ok?”
He noticed she didn’t say he was going to be fine. Just that he would get to the hospital.
“My name’s Emily. What’s your name?”
He opened his mouth, but just like before, nothing came out but a spurt of blood.
“That’s all right, sir. Just take it easy. We’re going to lift you onto the gurney, ok?”
He nodded.
Emily squatted near his head and slipped her hands under his shoulders. “Ready? One, two, three.”
Their eyes locked. Daniel’s heart accelerated, his breath quickened.
She looked down at him, her eyes reflecting the feeling he had inside of him. The best and worst moment of his life, wrapped into one.
“Let’s go!” she shouted.
They hustled Daniel into the ambulance. The two other EMTs climbed into the cab, leaving Emily to care for the patient in the back.
“You’re going to be fine,” she said as she slid a needle into his arm, and pressed down on his wounds to stop the bleeding. He tried to say something to her, but she slid an oxygen mask over his face. “Just rest. You’ll be fine. You have to be.”
Daniel scanned the monitor he was plugged into. He didn’t know much about medicine, but he knew enough to understand that the jagged, irregular green line wasn’t good. He wanted to live, but that wouldn’t be enough. The world around him started to fade away.
He heard a long unending beep and Emily’s panicked voice in his ear. “Stay with me! Dammit, you can’t die!”
Daniel tried to move his hands to her face, but he couldn’t. Then, he was looking down at them. Emily’s blond ponytail coming undone, her tears streaking her face as she compressed his chest and breathed into his mouth. A kiss he would never taste.
As the ambulance arrived at the hospital, Emily closed Daniel’s eyes and whispered, “Next time, my love. Next time.”
You’ve heard the saying, “Wow, if these walls could talk?” Well, they can. So do the floors, ceilings and appliances. You just have to be “lucky” enough to be somebody that can hear them.
Lucy just moved to a new place. As anybody who has moved knows, moving sucks. But for Lucy, moving is even worse. She’d been living in a brand new apartment development for a couple of years and it was great. There hadn’t been that much time for the walls to absorb the stories and energy of any previous inhabitants. Although she did avoid one corner of the highrise due to the fact that one of the workers had fallen and died there during construction.
This little tidbit manifested itself as a feeling of panic anytime she walked past. For an instant she could even see the man plummeting. Fortunately for Lucy, she figured this out the first week in the new apartment and was careful to avoid it.
The new place however, was not so free of “displaced energy,” as Lucy liked to call it, but she didn’t have too many options. Her job had moved. She didn’t like to drive due to the frequent and sudden panic attacks she’d get while driving on any given road. Most roads have had an accident on them, even minor, and when your collecting impressions and emotions from those accidents and from any surrounding buildings, driving becomes difficult. Lucy was in an accident herself once due to this, so she decided it was safer to walk.
Her office’s new location was in the beautiful Olde Town section of the city. Hundred year old buildings, a quaint cobblestone street, multitudes of historic landmarks, people dressed as colonials giving tours on the weekends. To anybody else, it would be wonderful. To her, it felt more like being committed to an insane asylum.
Just walking through the streets made her feel schizophrenic. Every surface of that city had layers and layers of displaced energy. Not all of it bad of course. There was a particularly scenic part, where many people had chosen to propose to their beloved, the park spoke of happy children playing, families spending time together during the warmer months. But then there are the alleys that send images of unspeakable horrors, the sanitarium that was converted into an upscale hotel. Now, that was a strange combination of images.
Usually, she could block some of it. The first few times she walked to work, before she knew what to expect, were almost crippling. By the time she arrived at the office, disheveled and sweaty from running for several blocks, she almost felt like packing it in for the day. But after a few weeks, things got better. She could avoid the rough areas and just listen to her iPod or something to distract her. This strategy of avoidance caused her to take a most indirect route to work, but she tried to see it more as an opportunity to get more exercise, rather than walking all over the city like a crazy person. Sometimes, it was all about what kind of spin you put on it.
Her new apartment however, was a different story. There was no avoiding that and there was only so much TV she could watch and music she could listen to while at home. Reading wasn’t much of an option, because trying to read while absorbing all the messages and energy around her was too distracting. The scary part was that this apartment was the least “talkative” out of the twenty or so she’d looked at. Her realtor had even refused to show her any more. Lucy understood. She knew it wasn’t fun for her realtor to be showing apartment after apartment to this seemingly neurotic woman. In every place then went in, Lucy would not ask about appliances or about pet policies, but rather, “Do you know if anybody was killed here?” Not an unheard question in the world of realty, but not as prominent an issue as Lucy made it out to be.
The place she picked was small, and the newest out of all of them and luckily, the same family had been there for almost fifteen years. Strange for an apartment, but good for Lucy. At least it was the same type energy, instead of layers of different mismatched energy, like the layers of paint that coated the place. She could get used to the bedroom flashing images of the somewhat silly sex acts that went on in it back in the day, and sitting in the room that eventually became the baby’s room was mostly pleasant. The thing about her new apartment wasn’t her apartment. It was one of the surrounding ones, but she couldn’t be sure which one. Something bad had happened, several bad things, she was sure, but she couldn’t get a good picture of it, since she wasn’t in the space.
One evening, there was a knock at the door. She almost didn’t answer it, but knew if she was to avoid becoming a complete agoraphobic that she had to push herself beyond her comfort zone. With a deep breath, she opened the door. A man stood there. Not a particularly menacing man in any way, but the tight feeling in Lucy’s throat told her she needed to avoid him. Something was radiating from him, something violent and evil.
“Hi, I’m Tom. I’m the maintenance man. I know you just moved in so I just wanted to introduce myself and see if you needed anything?”
She couldn’t speak so she just shook her head. Images of women being strangled and dumped into the crawlspace under his apartment assaulted her.
“Well, alright then, if you change your mind, I live in the basement apartment, right below you.”
The next morning, she called her realtor. “I know you’re going to hate me, but could we look at some different apartments?”
Well, we made it. In a manner of speaking. I mentioned in an earlier post that we were moving to Florida. This, so far, has been met with a few different reactions, but pretty much falling into one of three categories.
1. Oh, Florida is great! You’ll get to go to the beach all the time. There’s so much to do, you’ll love it!!
2. Ugh, Florida? It’s so damn hot and muggy there, you’ll hate it. Not to mention the bugs and gators and hurricanes and crazy people and bad drivers and hurricanes and tourists and voting scandals and sharks and oh did I mention hurricanes? The place has it’s own tag on Fark.com, you know. Why would you move there?
3. (Mostly from family and close friends) You’re moving to Florida?! F*#$ YOU!! You’re leaving?! You suck. Don’t worry, you’ll be back. Oh, you’ll be back!! (Beneath the harsh words is a strong undercurrent of love. Seriously. I love them too, more than they probably know.)
You have to understand, I’ve lived in the Northern Virginia area my whole life. I have friends there I’ve known since elementary school and my entire family is in or around that area too. The roots are so deep there that it was difficult to pull up and move, but life throws you funny curve balls sometimes, and you have to take a swing and see what happens.
On a personal level, it’s been an overwhelming experience. Everything from leaving my family and friends to shedding a lot of personal possessions (that now, I wonder why I carried around in the first place), to cramming 2 cats, 2 hermit crabs, one turtle, one snake and one very brave and mercifully patient 6-year-old into my tiny car and driving for 11 hours straight from Woodbridge to Winter Park. My husband had left a couple of days earlier with the moving truck. He had his own adventure.
On a writing level, it was a whirlwind rich with emotions, sights, sounds and awesome people watching (especially at our almost mid-way point, South of the Border).
And besides my one cat pooping and then two hours later, peeing in his carrier, it was a fairly undramatic drive to Florida.
So here we are, much of our stuff unpacked, almost just as much still in boxes, but things are starting to normalize. We’re starting to get back into the rhythm of our lives, but with palm trees instead of oak trees. I’m starting back to work on my writing and of course the blog. More to come including book reviews, interviews with more authors and more.
I have no idea where she is. But I, Vanessa, have not been here lately and some of you are starting to wonder why. First off, thanks. It’s good to be loved, or at least somewhat tolerated. Or maybe just wondered about very occasionally when you have nothing else to wonder about.
Anyway, writing wise, actually, I’ve been making good progress on the first draft of my new novel, which is very exciting. I love the rush that comes with meeting new characters and seeing how they get in and out of trouble. As I’ve said before, it’s almost like being in love.
I have been slack on many other aspects of my life though, mostly because my family is relocating to Florida from Virginia. This will be the biggest move we’ve ever done as a family so it’s been pretty daunting, but we’ll make it work. Until then, it’ll probably be pretty quiet around ye olde Coffee and a Keyboard. But don’t worry, we’ll be back very soon.
In the meantime, I hope you’re all safe and happy and enjoying summer!
Oh…and I don’t usually toot my own horn, but this is too big not to share. One of my favorite singers in the world, Martin Page, wrote about me in his latest blog. I’m still pinching myself!!!
I had several flashes of my daughter’s future this morning as she walked down the stairs. She was going to the mall with her friends, then going to prom, then graduating and following her dreams. But then she returned to the little smiley six year old that she is. Care-free and singing to herself a song she learned in school.
She slid on her Little Miss Sunshine backpack and I walked with her to the bus stop. Back in September it was raining, but she shone so vividly with her pink umbrella and dazzling smile. Kindergarten. A new adventure. So much potential, so much anticipation.
Today is the last day. It’s bright and sunny out. There’s no umbrella but the smile is still there. When she started the journey, she could read a few words, but now, she reads full chapters.
She started the year with all of her baby teeth, and now she has lost six of them in total. The four bottom ones are growing in, the top two still missing.
She’s made friends, found new interests and started to truly become her own person, separate from her father and me. It’s sad and beautiful all at the same time, but mostly beautiful. I love when she uses a new word or shares with me a new bit of knowledge she’s gained.
The bus pulls up. In September I worried so much. Would the other kids pick on her? Would she pay attention in class? Would the teachers like her? Would she like them? I cried on the walk back from the bus stop, the rain masking my tears.
Today, the same flutter rumbles in my belly as the yellow and red lights blink on the bus. I wave at the bus driver when she opens the door and she waves back. We’ve done this all school year. Sort of an unspoken agreement that she’ll get her safely to and from school and she has.
The bus pulls away and the tears well again. Not for any fear or concern, but that universal sense of pride that all parents feel when their child completes their first year of school.
Hey everybody…no #fridayflash this week, but that’s ok. I’ve actually been working more on the first draft of my new project. I don’t have a title yet, but it’s a post apocalyptic faerie story. Sound crazy, but it’s fun so far.
So…what are you all working on lately? Anything interesting. Tell me all about it!
The man was back. He comes here to my home often. Always with human things. We do not have such things. Things called, “cameras” and “microphones.”
This man, he is called, “Mitch.” He has been coming here for a moon’s time. At first he was quiet. Then he started talking. I think he talks to me, but I have seen other humans talk to trees or birds or other things here in the woods. He says things like, “I know you’re out there.” And, “Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you.”
My kind does not trust humans. We have seen them kill animals with their shooting sticks. There are not many of us left. There were not many of us to begin with.
I do not think Mitch wants to hurt us, but our hearts tell us to be wary. When Mitch talks, he talks of his “wife.” He talks about his “children.” I have never seen them here. I do not know all of his words, but I think his family does not like him coming here with his “camera.” He talks about people “laughing” and “ridicule.” I do not understand these things, but I know they are not good.
Many times, his eyes leak water and he makes sad sounds. Something inside of me hurts when he does this. My eyes do not leak water like his, but when my sire died, I made sad sounds like Mitch makes.
My kind has feelings like that. Sad, happy, fear. We are like humans or they are like us, but we cannot exist together. For many years, there were not so many humans and we lived without fear of them. Ancient humans, who looked different from Mitch, and talked different from him too, knew of us, but did not seek to harm us. But more humans came, and they changed and they wanted more land to live on, so we went deeper into the forest.
Some humans come here and live in things called, “tents.” Sometimes they leave things behind. Sometimes not good things like old food holders and drink vessels. One time they left a box that makes human voices and something called, “music.” I like this human thing very much. I turn the round thing on it and different sounds come out. The sounds are like nothing here in the woods. I felt sadness when the thing stopped making the sounds. Maybe one day Mitch will bring one of those things.
But not today. Today Mitch sits on the old tree stump. His “camera” is on the thing with three legs. He looks old and tired. Mitch has never brought a shooting stick. Only his “camera” and “microphone.” I do not fear Mitch. I believe that Mitch is different from other humans. I have communicated with others of my kind who see others like Mitch, looking for us. Some of them bring shooting sticks, talk about “trophies” and “money.”
Mitch never talks of these things. Mitch is talking now, like he often talks. He says, “I just need to know you’re real. I don’t want to kill you, I don’t want to hurt you. I’ve given my whole life looking for you and never made a goddamn dime. If I was in it for the money, I would have quit by now. My wife has left me, my kids think I’m crazy…I have nothing left.”
Mitch’s eyes start leaking and he makes the sad sounds again.
“Sounds like a bad country song, doesn’t it? My wife and kids left me, and I’m going to die looking for Sasquatch.”
This is what Mitch calls us. Sasquatch. One time he brought another man who said, “Bigfoot,” and laughed and that man never came back with Mitch.
“I’ve believed in you my whole damn life. Ever since I was a kid. I went camping with my family and I saw you. I got lost in the woods and hurt my leg real bad, broke it. And you helped me. You took me back to my family but snuck away when they weren’t looking. They never believed me, but I knew you were out there. You saved my life.”
He speaks of my mother. She was a gentle one. Always fascinated by humans. I was still growing inside her at this time, but she told me the story when I was young. I think she wanted to communicate with humans, but was afraid, like we all are, of what would happen.
But I believe Mitch when he says he won’t hurt us. And I smell something different about Mitch. Something sick. My sire smelled similar before he died. I know he might not have long to live and it makes me hurt on the inside when he makes the sad sounds. I don’t want him to make the sad sounds anymore.
I step out from my hiding place and he sees me. His eyes leak more than ever now. I step closer and he makes more sad sounds that turn into happy sounds. I don’t understand this, but I know he means me no harm. He doesn’t go to his “camera” or to his “microphone.” He walks over to me and smiles. His smile makes me happy on the inside and I know I have done the right thing.
“Thank you,” he says. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Author’s note: This story is dedicated to Billy Willard, who inspired this week’s #fridayflash.
Hey everybody…sorry, no time for a #fridayflash today, but I will be around and reading some. In the meantime, as a follow up, here are the winners for the Moby Awards, which I mentioned last week.
I’m a listener. I don’t know what else to call it really. I’m not a shrink, I never got a degree in psychology, or anything else. I’m not a social worker, counselor, life coach or anything like it. I just listen.
I never set out to do what I do, people found me. Much to my chagrin, really. I’m not a “people” person. I never have been. I don’t hate other people or anything, but I’m totally ok with going long stretches and not having to deal with other people. I even buy my groceries in bulk and freeze a bunch of it, just so I don’t have to go out every week and deal with whatever comes my way.
Let me give you an example. I’m standing in line at the grocery store. The lady behind me just starts talking. Something about buyer’s remorse over her car. I sneak a sidelong glance, because I know if I make eye-contact, it’s all over. But there’s nobody with her. By all outward appearances, she’s talking to herself. But I know she’s not. She’s talking to me.
“I really like the car, but I probably should have gone for the cheaper model.” Heavy sigh. “Has that ever happened to you?”
I pretend not to hear, even though I not only hear but feel her regret, and know exactly which car she’s talking about. The blue deluxe sedan in the parking lot. It has a cutesy flamingo air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror.
“I said, has that ever happened to you?” She’s tapping my shoulder. Now it’s my turn to sigh and I say, “No.” It’s really best to give one word answers. Anything more just encourages them.
“Well, I don’t know, I guess I can’t do anything about it now. Maybe I should just enjoy it. After all, cars cost a lot. I go to work, I earn my money, why not spend it on a nice car, right?”
“Right,” I say and hope that’s it.
But it’s not.
She goes on and on, diving from one topic to another, from the car, to her house, to her mani-pedi’s to her cute dog, to why she’s never been married, and on and on and on. A half hour later, her cell phone rings. I’ve never been so happy to hear the “Sex and the City” theme song in my entire life. She smiles at me and says what they sometimes say, “Thanks for listening.”
That was an easy one. Sometimes they’re not. I moved to a new apartment, after some trouble with a neighbor. That’s another story.
So off to my new apartment I went, just a few streets down actually. It was bigger though, so I had to get new furniture. I went to the local cheap furniture store and somehow, I knew there’d be a talker here. I knew it would be a bad one too, so I turned around to leave, but walked right into her.
“I don’t know if I should leave my husband or not.”
Whenever this happens, I am always tempted to say, “Why are you telling me these things? I don’t even know you! I’m just a girl who goes to work, comes home, reads a book and goes to bed just like everybody else. I don’t want your drama!”
But I don’t.
“He’s been cheating on me. And now he’s gotten one of them pregnant, but I can’t just kick him out. We’ve been together for so long.” Tears start streaming down her face. “What should I do?”
I know what you’re thinking, that she wants me to give her advice. But no, she doesn’t. And I don’t have any advice to give. I just want to get my coffee table and go home, but it’s too late. She has my hand now and I don’t know what else to do but give her a hug, which is completely anti-me. I am not a hugger, but something tells me that’s just what she needs. So I do. And I feel all of her sadness and pain, the betrayal, the way she found out about her cheating husband, thoughts of throwing him out, even thoughts of killing herself as she sobs into my shoulder and babbles on about this piece of crap man she’s wasted so many years on. I don’t say anything.
When she’s done, she smiles. Not a “well, I guess I’ll just muddle through” kind of smile, but a real, bright, sunbeam of a smile. “Thanks for listening. I guess I just needed somebody to listen to me.”
Yes, this is awkward when it happens. People gawk and comment I’ve tried everything I know to prevent it. One year, I got an eyebrow ring, wore black eyeliner and lipstick and wore shirts with dead bodies on them to make myself pricklier, less approachable. That actually had the opposite effect. I don’t get it.
On airplanes, I put in my earbuds and close my eyes, the international signs for “Please don’t talk to me. No really, don’t talk to me.” But it doesn’t work. One weasel pulled my earbud out of my ear to get my attention. He wanted to tell me about how his cat was the only one who still loved him, how his wife and daughter treated him like garbage. It was a non-stop flight from DC to L.A. Dear god…it was a long flight.
But I figure that somehow, this is what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to listen, to hear them. And hopefully, it helps.
It’s good to be loved, or at least somewhat tolerated. Or maybe just wondered about very occasionally when you have nothing else to wonder about.