Self-doubt

I struggle with self-doubt.  A lot.  For the first few months I was writing for the local newspaper, I had my husband read over every article I wrote.  He is better at grammar than me, but it was more than that.  He was my sounding board.  I needed him to say it was good enough.

I started a new job.  I am writing Literature lesson for an online study tool.  I spent the night tossing and turning, fretting over the lesson I submitted yesterday, my first.  Was it good enough?  Would they send it back and say start over?

The problem isn’t the writing.  I believe in what I write.  I enjoy writing it.  It is when you introduce the audience that I suddenly get stage fright.  Just because I think something is funny or important, who am I? 

Perhaps it is a product of my generation – the “you get a ribbon just for participating” generation.  I seem to need constant assurance.  I am not looking for praise.  Just a “Yep, this will work.”  Assurance that I am doing the right thing.

It is exhausting.  I know my husband is worn out reading things for me all the time.  But it is also exhausting for me.  The constant worry that I what I am doing isn’t right, or good enough. 

I wish I could be one of those people that are unaffected by self-doubt.  I do my best at everything, but I am never sure it is the right thing.  I wish I could just not care.  Just sit down at the computer, write, and never worry about the audience.  I feel like those people are on to something.  I want to be like them.  No stress, no constant worry.  Do it and let it go.  So zen.

How do I get to be like that?

Hiatus

If you haven't noticed, my daily word writings have become more weekly or bi-weekly word writings.  Sorry about that.  I have started walking again, and with more movement, comes more responsibility.  I have been doing a lot more for my reporting job.

November is also National Novel Writing Month.  I decided not to start a new project this year for NaNoWriMo, but I have been working on revisions to an older manuscript.  Picking it up after almost six years has been an adventure.  And the process has turned into more rewriting than revising.  My style and skill have improved a lot!  Yay!  My grammar, maybe not so much.  I think I need to brush up on some of the dialogue rules.

So, I just wanted you to know, I have not been doing daily words, but I have been writing.  A lot.  I will try and make some more time for daily writing words and posts on my other blog, Okashi, but a woman only has so many words in her a day.  At least for now.  I find that my writing attention span gets longer each day.  Too bad the days don't get longer with it.  I hope you will all be patient with me.  I hope to get back to daily word writing soon.

Thanks for your support.

Onions

When I was in first grade I had a show and tell assignment.  Each week a different student in Mrs. Puckett’s class had to take home a shoe box, fill it with something they loved, something they hated, and things that represented their family and interests.  At the time, I loved horses – guess I still do, but I digress.  I loved horses, so I had a My Little Pony in the box.  I also had pictures of my family – Mom, Dad, sisters, brother, grandparents.  I was taking dance lessons at the time, so I threw in a ballet shoe.  I liked tap better, but my ballet shoes didn’t smell quite as bad.  I remember that when it came down to picking the thing I hated, I had trouble.

“Daddy says ‘Hate is a strong word,’ and I’m not supposed to hate anything.”

“Well, what about something you don’t like,” Mom suggested.  It was the day before my presentation and we had scattered my items over the kitchen table to rehearse. 

“I guess I don’t like cats.”

“Did you want to put a picture of a cat in here?”

“But I don’t not like them that much.”

In the end, after several suggestions of things that I didn’t not like enough, we came up with an onion.  I really did hate onions – to the point where hate might not have been a strong enough word, but it was all my first grade vocabulary could come up with as the ultimate dislike.  Mom had to pretty much mince them to keep me from picking them out of my food.

The fateful day came, I gave my presentation, everyone agreed that onions were the worst, and then it was Jackson Knight’s turn for show and tell the next week.  My last sacred duty was to take the show and tell shoe box home, empty it out, and then return it the next Monday so Jackson could fill it.  Not going to lie, I was a little nervous about this last part.  So the first thing I did when I got home was to start unpacking the box on the kitchen table.  I left the onion for last, but finally, it was the only thing left in the box.

It was just a regular white onion.  About the size of a baseball.  To this day, I am not sure what possessed me, but as I pulled the onion from the box, I had the overwhelming desire to peel it.  So I did.  Sitting at the kitchen table, I rubbed off the papery beige skin on the outside.  Then I used my nails to claw away the first layer of white.  The smell was overwhelming and soon I was crying.  Mom came over by layer three.

“What are you doing?”

By this point, I was confused myself.  Tears streamed down my face and I just started bawling. 

Fast forward thirty years.  My opinion on onions has changed.  After spending some time abroad, I have even been known to enjoy them raw on salads and such.  My mother cursed me to have a child just like me.  I have two – neither of my boys can stand to be in the same house as an onion.  I have to mince them even finer than she did.  Thanks, Mom. 

I have this theory, why I now like onions.  Yes, they taste good, but I also think I like onions because they make it okay to cry.  When I was in first grade, I hated crying.  I did it a lot, as all children do, but I hated it.  Now, as an adult with children of my own, I find it very hard to let myself cry.  Not because I don’t want to, but because it will upset, scare, or otherwise scar my boys.  Onions are my salvation.  It isn’t the good cathartic cry that we all need – the ugly, sobbing, disgusting cry that is freeing and terrifying at the same time – but it is a form of crying that is socially acceptable and does not cause other adults to ask the dreaded “is everything okay?” It is safe crying.

I think back to my show and tell for Mrs. Puckett’s class.  Now, my box would have pictures of a very different family – much older and much larger.  Ballet shoes would be replaced with mementos from my boys’ various sports and my drafting tools.  I still love horses, but that My Little Pony is long gone.  I would need a much bigger box! 

Of course, there would be no onions in my adult show and tell box.  I think I am finally able to use the word hate correctly, but the things I hate aren’t really things you can put in a box.  Things like self-doubt, deadlines, bills, and the evil that humans are capable of.  

Fight

Emma slammed the bedroom door as hard as she could.  Then opened it and slammed it again.  Hot tears poured down her face.  She could picture John still sitting on the sofa, his face as confused as when it had all started.

She felt bad for screaming, calling him names.  Then she felt worse for feeling bad.

It was all his fault.  He was the one who wouldn’t tell his boss no.  He knew it made her mad when he was late getting off.  He should have just clocked out.

Dinner had been ruined.  It was nothing fancy and would heat up just fine, but it was the principle of the thing.

Emma sat on the edge of the bed and wiped away the tears with the back of her hand.  She prayed he would open the door, come and try to comfort her, partly because she wanted his arms around her, but also because she wanted to yell more.  Maybe she should go back out there.

But it wasn’t his fault, not really.  He could not control the weather or the job.  But she needed to blame someone.  And so she yelled at John, slammed doors, and made mountains out of cold pizza and flat soda.  

Sunglasses

Jack hid his bloodshot eyes behind vintage Ray Ban sunglasses.  The professor’s voice echoed around his head and made him wince.  It was only supposed to be one drink.  But one led to two, led to a dozen and here he was at his ten a.m. psychology lecture struggling to keep the late night Taco Bell run down.  Silently he cursed the professor for taking attendance at lectures.  

Defeat

All his life, defeat had meant the same thing as loss.  You were defeated, you lost.  It was over.  But as he stared at the scar snaking its way along his ankle, Alex wondered if that were really true.  He hoped it wasn’t.  Maybe defeat could mean something more like setback.  You lost the battle, but there was still a chance to win the war. 

Walking again would be his war.  It was too much to think of running or playing football again.  Just walking. 

“Small goals,” Dr. Mallick had said.  “Small, clear goals to start.”

Alex had never been good at small.  Or clear for that matter.  He was a dreamer.  Everyone said so.  And big dreams, too.  College ball.  Then the NFL.  He knew a lot of people had that dream, but, unlike them, he was going to make it.  Or, had been.  Until the wreck. 

Walking again.  It seemed so small compared to his dreams before.  But with his legs dangling from his bed, the fresh scar turning darker and darker purple with each second, even that small goal seemed out of reach.

He shook his head, physically trying to fling those bad thoughts from his mind.  He could make it.  Such a small, clear goal.   He would make it.  This wasn’t defeat; this was a chance to get stronger.  He would get stronger.  He would walk again.

Rain

The clouds hung low and heavy.  Dull grey and oppressive.  Ciara could smell the rain not far off. 

She had always loved mornings like this.  Well, before she had always loved mornings like this.  As she tightened Rollie’s saddle, she realized that now mornings like this meant a wet, cold day of riding.  She pulled her cloak tighter around her neck and swung into the saddle.  If she was lucky, it would only be a light drizzle that wouldn’t soak through the wool. 

Her hopes had changed so much in just a few weeks; from praying she didn’t show up to the feast in the same colors as Princess Josephine to worries about finding enough food to keep her belly from growling.  How had she fallen so far so fast?

Doing Dishes

Mary plunged her hands into the warm, soapy water.  She pulled a plate from the top of the submerged stack of dishes and began to wipe away the little flecks of tonight’s dinner.  Her mind wandered out the window over the sink, into the backyard, and over the back fence to Mrs. Curry’s darkened house. 

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise; the woman had been in her nineties, but it was hard to see the house empty.  Mrs. Curry had always been there, ever since they moved into this house eighteen years ago. 

She had watched the boys grow up.  Ethan would scale the chain-link fence, whatever creature he had just found safely in his pocket or fist, and Mrs. Curry would “ooh” and “aww” at it.  She had been a science teacher, so creepy crawlies didn’t bother her.  Neither did rambunctious boys. 

She had helped Danny with his science fair project on Pluto.  Or had he helped her.  By that time she was in her eighties.  Mary had tried to keep him from bothering her, let her enjoy her retirement, but Danny never listened.  He had gotten an A. 

Mary herself has started going over once the boys started getting too busy with sports and school.  She would take over a piece of cake or cookies, with two teenage boys, there were always a lot of extra sweets around.  They would sit at Mrs. Curry’s dining room table and talk about family, weather, and life.  She had led an amazing life.  Nothing they would make movies about, but it was still impressive. 

She had never married, despite the Mrs.  Parents had made assumptions as she got older, and all teachers are Mrs. to their students.  It never really mattered to her.  Her students were her children, so in a way she saw herself as Mrs. without the Mr.  Several of them still came by from time to time, her students.  They brought their own children.  And rocks.  Mrs. Curry had always loved rocks.  Smooth, black river rocks were her favorite.  She painted them.  Not with faces or anything, more like mandalas – intricate designs of flowers or animals with bright colors and lots of wispy lines.  Ethan and Danny had scoured the neighborhood for rocks for Mrs. Curry.  There wasn’t a smooth stone left in a ten block radius, Mary mused. 

What would happen to all those beautiful rocks, now that Mrs. Curry was gone?

Vampires

I have always been fascinated with vampires.  A lot of people have, it seems.  I will admit that I grew up reading Anne Rice.  I was in love with Lestat in high school.  But I think there is a deeper meaning to our endless obsession with the vampire.

I find it very interesting that almost every culture has some kind of vampire character.  They look pretty different, but they all survive on some sort of essence stolen from another human.  Most of the time it is blood – literally our life force – but it could also be chi or spirit or any number of things that cultures believe humans need to survive.  The fact that most cultures have created a human-ish creature that feeds off other humans is quite interesting because you know what else most cultures seem to have in common?  A moral objection to cannibalism.  Before we started romanticizing the vampire, they were demonic, frightening cannibals.  The fact that they looked somewhat human, yet other, was terrifying.  Unlike dragons or beasts, they could move among us without detection for the most part. Granted they only moved at night, but before modern advances in electronics, nights were pretty freaking terrifying for everyone. 

Vampires association with the night can also be seen as a moral tell through the lens of western culture.  For Christians, and possibly Muslims and Jews but I have not done the research, goodness is associated with light.  This can be a figurative or literal light, but good thing = light, bad things = dark.  Because of our historic fear of the dark, monsters and demons in most cultures are linked to darkness.  They are some of the things that go bump in the night.  But in Western mythology, the vampire’s association with darkness is even more interesting.  Vampires have a human form, in most cases were human at one point, but then, when they become vampires, they are no longer able to be in the light.  They have been denied, in Western understanding, by God himself.  From intolerance to sunlight (the celestial sphere that gives us life) to intolerance to religious places and images, the severity of vampires’ damnation grew over time.  So to recap, vampires are damned cannibals.  At least from the Western perspective.

So how did we come to idolize vampires?  Well, vampires also have a lot of good things going for them.  Yes, they are murders (since they have to feed on us to survive).  Yes, they can’t go out in the daylight (which is when the majority of human productivity and interaction occurs).  But hey, they were immortal (in some cases).  Jus think of all the things you could do if you could live forever.  This immortality also brings great sadness and epic loneliness.  Now who can’t relate to sadness and loneliness.  As we learned to look past the murdering demon bit, we began to see a tragic figure.  A handsome man or beautiful woman forced to wander the earth alone in the darkness forever.  Swoon.  For many, the vampire represented a very appealing Faustian deal.  Eternal life and youth in exchange for living off the lifeforce of your fellows and never being able to get a tan.  It seems rather tempting.  As electricity lit up the nights and the darkness began to disappear, it seemed even more enticing. 

In its current incarnation, the Western vampire has become everything thing we fear, and everything we long for at the same time.  We have defeated the dark, so damnation holds no real fear for us anymore.  We are still a little wary of murder and cannibalism, but we have become desensitized to death over time, and I would argue that many in the modern generation feel somewhat detached from their fellow human beings.  In our secular society, we see the darkness in the vampire as a mirror of our own darkness, but so much cooler.  The vampire has become an antihero – sullen, brooding, beautiful, and irresistible to modern audiences. 

Now the vampire of other cultures hasn’t changed quite so much.  For the most part, other cultures still seem to be stuck on the whole “it’s a cannibal” thing.  And perhaps the Western vampire will make its way back to being a real monster at some point – after becoming so much of a caricature of itself that it no longer commands any respect as a real monster (cough, cough, sparkles in sunlight).  But we can only wait in see.

For myself, I still think it would be pretty cool to be a vampire.  Yes, the killing part would suck.  And there really isn’t a whole lot to do after 2 a.m., but the idea of being able to watch the progression of the world is enticing.  Having all the time in the world to write, travel, and experience life (or unlife) sounds pretty good.  Just think of how much you could accomplish is you made every second count for all eternity? Plus, the outfits!

Michelle

“Michelle?  Michelle?” a voice called.

Tiffany stopped walking when a hand touched her shoulder.  “Michelle?”

She turned and smiled at the confused young man who had stopped her.  “No,” she said.  “Not Michelle.”

His face turned scarlet, and his hand flew from her shoulder like a startled bird.  “Oh my god!  I am so sorry.  I thought you were…”

“It’s okay.”  

Chartreuse

For some reason, I always thought the color chartreuse was some color of red.  Like a pinky, purpley, red.  Similar to fuchsia.  I was pretty surprised when I actually looked it up and found out it was a gross yellowy green.  I really don’t like chartreuse now that I know what color it really is.

I feel this is an experience a lot of people have.  You really like the idea of something, but when you find out that your idea of what that thing is is wrong, you suddenly don’t like that idea anymore.  I have seen this happen with philosophies and religions.  I have seen it happen with movies, music, and books, once the underlying meaning was discovered.  I keep hearing in my head that line from the Princess Bride – “That word, I don’t think it means what you think it means.” 

How we react when our view is challenged says a lot about us.  In the midst of the political shitshow that is this presidential election, I can’t help but feel like many Americans, including my friends, are not really looking our best.  In a way, I am fascinated by how educated, kind people suddenly turn into snotty school kids.  My e feed has a severe case of split personality as my friends up-vote and share the latest click bait in favor of their preferred candidate.  It is plastered with accusations, name-calling, misrepresentations, and out and out lies from both sides. 

But on the other side, I am embarrassed.  I feel like most Americans are not really looking at their candidates.  They are looking at an idealized version of that person created and approved by their party.  They are choosing to only see the idea, not the actual person.  Or the inherent problems in the overall system (which I think are what we should really be worried about). 

I didn’t like the color chartreuse when I found out what it really looked like, but I didn’t deny its existence or accuse Wikipedia of a conspiracy.  I think Americans need to take a step back and take a good, hard look at their candidates.  All of their candidates.  We need to take into account where information is coming from before we jump on any bandwagon.  The truth might not always be what we want it to be, but it does exist; we owe it to ourselves to constantly search for it.  

Imagination

The swing screamed in protest as Dylan swung his legs slightly forward.  Years of disuse had left the joints crusted over with rust.  He sighed and put his feet back on the ground. 

Years ago, when he was a boy, this swing had seemed so much more.  He had pumped his legs furiously, trying to get up enough momentum to launch himself into space.  3…2…1… Lift off.  He had flown through the air, landing hard on the soft red dust of Mars, ready for battle with the Martians.  Donavan was always a few seconds behind at lift off.  Always stumbled a little on landing.  But then they were off, battling for Earth’s survival against evil space creatures that looked a lot like the girls in their class.

Astronauts, dinosaur hunters, pirates, and professional athletes, they had turned this playground into one imaginary place after another.  They were oblivious to the graffiti, the broken and run down equipment, the trash.  It was all left behind with the Projects as they were transported to better lives inside their games.

But the real world had a way of eating away at imagination, the way that poverty had a way of eating away at hope.  There was no time for make-believe when Donavan’s dad went to jail.  He had only been eight.  No time to pretend, or play, when Dylan started trying to pick up odd jobs to try and help Mama put food on the table.  He had only been ten.  Childhood ended early for them, like so many kids with the same color skin.

Dylan had made it ‘out.’  He had given up almost everything for a chance at college.  Everything except football.  He got a partial scholarship to play for a small school two states away.  He worked two part time jobs and took out student loans to cover the rest.  He graduated with a mountain of debt, lasting damage to his knees, and a teaching certificate.  He was a high school football coach; far from the astronaut he had dreamed of being as a child, but he was happy.

Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.

Ignoring the swing’s protest, Dylan pushed himself back and let go.  He gripped the rusty chains, trying to rub away the feeling Donavan’s cold skin, the smooth lacquer of the casket, the dirt he had tossed into the grave.  Donavan hadn’t been so lucky.  Dylan pumped his legs.  The old swing set shuddered and squealed in protest, but he swung higher and higher.

3…2…1… Lift off!  For a moment Donavan was there, just behind him.  The future stretched out, full of possibility and hope.  They would be astronauts, or dinosaur hunters, or pirates, or professional athletes.  They would fly away.

He landed hard.  Pain shot up through his knees and he fell. On his hands and knees in the dirt he cried; silent tears for the boys killed by the graffiti, the broken and run down playground equipment, the trash, and the Projects.  Donavan was buried with a bullet hole in his chest.  Dylan couldn’t see the hole in his chest, but it was there all the same; years of poverty, inequality, and struggle burrowing their way toward his heart.  It would kill him too, one day.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up.  It would kill him one day, but not today.  

Road

“Alright, Ian, time to hit the road.”

“But I don’t want to go.”

It didn’t really do to argue with a three year old in public, so Andrew scooped up his son and hoped the resulting screams wouldn’t rupture his ear drums.

But Ian didn’t scream.  Instead he quietly wrapped his arms around Andrew’s neck and rested his head against his father’s.

“You feel okay, buddy?”

“Mhmm,” the toddler muttered.

Andrew tucked his son into the car seat in silence.  Something had to be wrong.  Ian was never this quiet.  He even tried tickling the boy’s ribs, an action usually met with shrieks of laughter.  Nothing, a silent smile.

Ares

Ares dug his cleats into the ground.  He focused on the quarterback just over the pads of the linemen.  He blocked out the noise of the game – the cheers of the fans, the blare of the trumpets.  There was nothing in his world except the quarterback.

The snap was made and Ares exploded off the front line.  He collided with two linemen in a clash of grunts and pads.  He forced his way between them.

The quarterback was before him, unprotected and unaware – half turned looking down the field.  Ares smiled.  He lowered his head and charged toward the enemy.

Whistles blasted the play dead.  Ares lay on top of the Titan’s quarterback. 

“What the hell is your problem,” the player yelled, pushing Ares off and jumping to his feet.

Teammates from both sides circled and refs descended on the huddle, blowing whistles and waving their arms as Ares and the quarterback pushed each other.

The fight was broken up before it had even begun.  Ares jogged back to his sideline to wait for the next attack.

Zebra

“What’s black and white and red all over?  A zebra with a punctured artery!  Oh, I know it’s morbid.  You were expecting something trite like ‘it’s a newspaper.’ Then we would all pretend to laugh at the supposed wit.  But guess what, that’s not life.  Life is dirty and bloody.  Its a zebra bleeding out on the dry grass of the Serengeti as a lion rips into the stringy muscle of its thigh.  Life is horrifying.”

Janet took a long drag on her cigarette. The room had grown silent as her comments had slowly rippled through the party like a fat, ugly stone dropped on the calms lake surface of polite society.  It was what she wanted.

“The zebra is not dead yet,” she continued.  The heat from Tasha’s eyes was pleasantly warm on Janet’s pale shoulder.  Her host scowled harder and Janet smiled slightly.  “No, death won’t come for minutes.  But they will feel like hours.  The lions will feast.  The zebra feeling every bite, every lick.  Excruciating pain.  And the blood…”

A blonde covered her mouth and ran toward the bathroom, knocking over a bottle of merlot on the way and ruining the moment.  The spell was broken.  The guests went back to their happier conversations – one or two risking concerned glances at the strange woman in the corner telling horror stories.  Janet sighed as the clamor of conversation picked up around her.  The only one still paying any attention to her was Tasha.

Janet flicked the cigarette ash onto the beige carpet under her feet.  “Sister” she said, taking another drag.  

Car

“Do I need to start the car,” Jessica yelled into the bathroom.

“What’s the temperature,” Dylan yelled back over the roar of the shower.

“Seven.”

“Yeah, you should probably let it warm up for a little bit.”

Jessica grumbled as she piled on coat, gloves, scarf, and hat.  She hated starting the car.  It meant she got snow on her shoes and then had to pace around the house in all her cold weather gear while the machine got it’s oil flowing.  Getting bundled up was not an easy chore when you were as big as a house so she didn’t want to do it more than she had to.  Hopefully the baby would come soon and her body could get back to normal.

Only her eyes were showing when she finally pulled the back door closed behind her.  The morning was already blindingly bright.  And cold.  Even through the scarf, it hurt her lung to inhale.  She moved quickly toward the garage.

The old Honda growled and groaned as she turned the key.  It took a moment, but the engine caught.

Her toes were already icy and her teeth chattered as she rushed back toward the house.  She was almost there when she slipped on a sheet of ice hidden under a thin layer of snow.  Her legs flew out from under her and she fell backward, screaming.

Dylan rushed from the house.  His hair was dripping and steam rose from his naked chest.  He was only dressed in boxers.  He rushed toward her.

Her left wrist hurt badly and her tailbone was probably broken, but she didn’t dare move.  What about the baby?  No, no, she kept repeating in her head.  No.  

Facing a Phobia

Anna took a breath and stepped toward the overturned cup. 

Then she squeaked and jumped back.   Her chest tightened, forcing the air out.  She gasped, but couldn’t hold it in.  As her gasps increased, so did her heart rate.  Then the tears came, hot and large.  She slunk back against the wall, sinking to a squat on the floor, her eyes never leaving the cup.

She couldn’t do it. 

She melted into a panic stricken, hyperventilating mess in the corner, unable to move, to think, to help herself.  Her whole body was shaking.

She knew it was irrational.  She knew the spider under the cup couldn’t/wouldn’t hurt her.  But she was paralyzed with fear.  Her fear mingled with frustration at herself and soon the tears became sobs of bewilderment and anger.

“Anna,” Kate called from the backyard.  “Anna?”

She tried to answer, but the words couldn’t get over her dry tongue. 

“Anna?”

Kate’s face went white as opened the door and stepped into the kitchen.  “Anna!”  Kate rushed toward her, almost kicking the cup.  Anna jumped up and hid her face in the corner.  Then Kate’s arms were around her.  Kate cooed in her ear and forced open her clenched fists.

“What is it?” Kate asked.  “What is wrong?”

It took Anna several minutes to calm down enough to stutter, “spider.”

Kate turned and saw the overturned cup.  “Shh,” she said, wiping the tears away.  “Did you trap it under the cup?”

Anna nodded. 

“I am so proud of you!  Anna, that’s fantastic.”

“But…”

“Anna, you trapped it.  You kept your head.  You got close enough to put a cup over it!  I am so proud.”

Suddenly, the tension drained from Anna’s shoulders.  Not all of it, the spider was still under the cup and she could feel its presence, but enough.  Kate was right. 

“I will just take it outside,” Kate said, pulling away.

“No,” Anna cried.  “Kill it!  If you put it outside it will just come back in.”

Kate smiled kindly.  “Okay, but I will kill it outside.”

Kate used a piece of junk mail from the kitchen table to trap the spider in the cup.  Anna fretted and shook in the corner, but managed to keep herself mostly together.

Once she was outside, Kate tipped the cup right-side up and thumped the piece of mail to make sure the spider fell to the bottom.  She took away the mail and smiled into the cup.  “I will pardon you this once,” she said to the small brown spider gently feeling its way back up the side of the cup toward freedom.  “After all, it was me that let you in.  Good work.” 

She dumped the spider into the grass on the far side of the yard then went back inside to comfort Anna.    The girl really had come a long way. 

Samantha

“I really don’t understand why we’re doing this.”

Samantha just rolled her eyes, hoisting the coil of rope higher on her shoulder.  “We’re doing this because we were told to.”

“I know, but why,” Adrian whispered.  “Why is it so important?”

Samantha was used to these questions.  She often wondered why her cousin had followed her into the service.  It was not a place to ask questions.  But always, when they were alone, Adrian would start up on “why.”  But tonight really was not the time.  In the darkness before them Samantha could make out the walls of the compound.  Reaching back she squeezed Adrian’s arm.  There was a sharp intake of breath and Samantha knew there would be no more questions.  For now at least.

Slowing her breathing, Samantha watched the walls, searching for sentries.  No torches, no movement, no guards.  Could they really be that lucky?  Samantha did not believe in luck.  It was dangerous, made you lazy.

They approached the compound, clinging to the deep shadows of the forest.  Someone had let the trees creep almost up to the walls.  For Samantha and Adrian it was a boon, for the people behind the walls it meant death.  No, not tonight, but with war on the horizon, soon.  Samantha wished she could warn them.  She had joined the service to save the innocents.  Regardless of their allegiance, they were still women and children, men who would never fight, but who would suffer.  Samantha pushed the thoughts from her head.  The war had not come yet, may never come to this secluded stronghold.  Especially if their mission was successful.

They were within feet of the rear wall of the compound.  Samantha slipped the rope from her shoulder.  Her palms warmed through her gloves as she ran the rope through her hands, feeling for the hook and keeping her eyes on the top of the wall.

A silent prayer floated up into the darkness as Samantha swung the hook.  She did not know what they would find over the wall.  Hopefully a sleeping village, but the gods only knew.

The hook bit into the hardened clay bricks of the compound wall.  Samantha tugged to set them.  Whatever awaited, it was time to find out.

Forgot Something Important

Alan touched the naked spot at the base of his ring finger with the tip of his thumb for the millionth time that evening.  No warm, hard metal. 

For twenty years he had never left the house without his wedding band.  He felt so incomplete without it now.  Like he was undressed or exposed somehow.  His thumb rubbed over the area again.

Kathy smiled across the table at him.  “How is your steak?”

“Oh, just great.  Perfect.”

“Is something wrong with your hand?  You keep rubbing your finger.”

“Oh, no.  Just an itch.”

He felt wretched for lying to Kathy.  But how could he tell her the truth.  And what about Sarah?  She would understand, he knew.  She was always so understanding.  But it was still a betrayal.  And now he was lying! 

This had all been a huge mistake.  He wasn’t ready.  He would never be ready.  He just couldn’t do this.  He had been a fool to listen to Mark!

Slowly he pushed his plate away.  “Listen, Kathy, I have had a great time but…”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “I am not very good at this.  It’s been a while since I was on a date.”

“Me too,” he admitted.

“To be honest, I almost didn’t come out tonight.  I mean, you are lovely.  I think you are a great guy, but I… I just can’t do it yet.  It’s just too soon. Mark insisted…  He said you were so wonderful.  Just my type…”

Alan stared across the table at her.  Why was she saying the exact same things he was thinking? 

She took a sip of her wine, her eyes avoiding his.   “But I am not ready for another relationship.  I shouldn’t tell you this, but my husband died.  Just a year ago.  I thought it was time to get back out there, but I am not ready.”

Alan dropped his silverware.  The sharp sound made her look up startled.

“Sarah died a year, seven months, and five days ago.  I’m not ready either.”

The Secret of Smell

I have often wondered how do dogs smell? Not the physical act of smelling, but how the brain registers and categorizes smell. A rose for example.  To me, roses smell old and bitter.  Of course they elicit thoughts of romance and love, but that is purely conditioning.  How would a rose smell to Harrison, though?  I guess this could be applied to any animal and any sense.  How does chocolate taste to a hippopotamus or silk feel to a bird?  Without reference it is difficult to comprehend. 

Does my best friend experience the same flood of memory at a whiff of Stetson as I do?  Impossible.  Perhaps similar images and memories rush through her brain, but she cannot remember hugging Popsie as we met him at the airport or snuggling up on his mattress while watching a movie with the family on Sioux Trail.  Popsie wore Stetson.  And washed with Irish Spring. 

That is the trick to being a writer.  You must take this completely individual idea of smell or taste and present it to your reader while keeping your fingers crossed that they will go with you.  You must make them taste with your character or at least believe that she is having an honest reaction.  A woman born and bred on cayenne laced crawfish in Louisiana is probably not going to balk at a tandoori chicken or fragrant curry.  Although an argument could be made for spices from other regions affecting her differently, more poignantly, than those she is used to, her palate is used to some heat and she would therefore not be knocking over glasses desperate for a gulp of mango lassi to cool her inflamed tongue.  The same goes for smell and touch. 

Each person has their own way of experiencing – a certain chain of thought linked to individual memories and emotions.  A writer must find a way to convince the reader who hates veggies that perhaps, just for a moment, they are the most wonderful food on the planet.  Even if they are brussel sprouts.  

Gods

Disgusted, Hera threw the magazine into the fire.  The glossy pages bubbled as they caught.

“Stupid, arrogant...  How could he write such lies!”

“Are they lies,” Zeus asked.  He stared innocently into his Metaxa, swirling the glass in his hand so that the ice cubes clinked softly against the glass.  “After all, our daughter is younger.  You cannot blame Paris for finding her youth more alluring.”

Hera clenched her jaw in furry.  If looks were daggers her beloved husband would be a pincushion.  She reached for her own glass on the marble mantle and finished it off in one gulp.

“Had you read the article,” she hissed, “You would know that insolent gossip monger was not comparing Aphrodite and me as we are today.  No, no, he says she is more beautiful than I ever was!”

Zeus sighed.  “My dear, you are reading too much into this.  It is just a ploy.  Sensational stories sell.”

Despite the heat of the room and fire of her anger, Hera felt cold.  She crossed her arms across her chest.  Goosebumps rose as the gold bangles on her wrists chilled her skin through the silk of her gown. 

He was seeing someone else.  But she didn’t want to tell the marriage counselor that.  She had started this process in good faith.  Actually thinking they could save their marriage.  The signs were all there, though, just like last time.  

Silence

I wasn’t concerned, at first, when the voices stopped.  Well, to be completely honest, I didn’t even notice.  There were too many things to do – too many night of reckless abandon getting drunk at the bar just sitting around a patio table chain smoking and talking about politics, religion, the state of the country today; modern day philosophers on an American Legion porch in the middle of Nowhere, USA.  But one day they were just gone. 

How long had it been?  Weeks?  Months?  Looking back, I couldn’t pinpoint when the silence would have started.  No life altering moments in my recent history.  But, perhaps that was the problem.  I shrugged it off.  They had gone quiet before.  It happens from time to time.  We just run out of things to say to each other.  They come back, though, when they’re ready – when I’m ready.

After a few more months, I began to worry.  They had never been gone this long.  At first I had been relieved.  I enjoyed the silence, my mind not constantly spinning, the voices not shouting over one another to be heard.  But now the silence frightened me. 

I have never been good at being alone.  Maybe that’s why the voices started.  Now they were quiet and I was lost.  I struggled to fill the day with more voices – real voices.  It worked most of the time.  But every night, as I lay staring at the ceiling, their absence was a sharp needle slipping through my ribs and into my heart.  I could feel the silence sitting on my chest, making it hard to breathe.  What if they never came back?