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Eternity Road

In Fiction, Writing on July 11, 2016 at 8:30 pm

Rain beat the windshield.  I clicked the lever up a notch, speeding the wipers in a futile attempt to keep up with the sheets of water pouring down.  The two-lane back roads were bare aside from myself, so I put on my high beams.  Nothing to see.  Even the painted on lines were fleeing the cracked pavement of the road.  There were shells of old barns and farm houses, looming shadows blending into the night sky on the horizon.  The last house with lights on was at least 45 minutes ago, just before I turned onto this road at the sign that read “Eternity Road.”  According to the tiny green sign standing between the pavement and the never ending corn fields, it was 60 more miles to the highway.

My eyelids were getting heavy.  As I felt a yawn beginning, I glanced down to the console to find the button for the radio.  I barely saw him in time, forgetting the radio and gripping the wheel to swerve and miss the figure standing lop-sided at the edge of the road.  I regained control and slowed to a stop several feet ahead.  I was shaken and needed a minute to slow my heart, catch my breath.  My eyes darted to the rearview mirror but the figure was gone.  I don’t remember a thud or a bump.  But it happened so fast… I didn’t hit him.  I did miss him, right?

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So me right now…

In Random, Writing on July 9, 2016 at 5:44 pm

Promotion at work, wedding, honeymoon, regular day to day activities.  A million excuses have kept me from just sitting down with a pen and paper and geting out these idea’s I’ve had building up in my brain.  Time to purge a few of them and get back in the game. No more excuses, I gotta clear out some mind space for some new stuff.   Mental spring cleaning – better late than never at all!

Super Shorts – Little Twinkles

In Fiction, Personal, Writing on March 25, 2016 at 7:59 pm

It started as just little twinkles. Quick flashes like soft, colorful fireflies in pinks, greens, and purples.  They danced on her eyelids and she yearned to be closer to them.  She reached for them, stretching her arms and straining her vision.  Their intensity grew and she knew she was near.

Vibrant blues and reds overtook the pastel hues and she could hear something.  A vibration, no – a whisper. Now a humming in the distance, getting louder and more distinct with each second.  Voices, noises…it sounded like a party.  The lights were still spinning around her and it made her feel like she was the guest of honor at a festive disco.  She imagined this was how a celebrity felt – lights flashing, blurred faces quickly in and out of focus as she passed them, all wishing to talk to her for just a moment, touch her, as she made her grand entrance into the gala being held just for her.  A face hovered in her vision longer than the others, a man likely near her age with warm hazel eyes.  A spinning disco ball threw flashes of the bright lights all over her and all around the room, the voices swelled around her, and the host illuminated her with a soft white spotlight.

She was transfixed by the light.  She gazed longingly at it, unconsciously moving towards it as if a magnet was pulling her to its source. It was warm and shimmered on her skin and she was covered in fine silver glitter. She reached out to the light, sensing that her fingers were only inches from being able to grasp its origin.  Anticipation ran through her body like static, tingling her nerves and tickling the fine hairs on her arms.  Just as she knew she was there, the crowd rushed in, surrounding her.  They were excited, frantic almost.  Their manic movement was starting to put distance between her and the source of the lovely light.  She reached farther, strained harder, closing the gap, when the crowd swelled and she was pushed forcefully backward by a hard hit to her chest.  It knocked the air out of her and she flinched.

In that instant, the soft, warm light began to pulse and quickly transformed. It became harsh, like staring at a fluorescent light while suffering a migraine.  The warmth was gone and she felt a chilled breeze brush her skin.  The voices were still present behind a low roar in her ears, but not excited and happy.  They were concerned, emotional, and she couldn’t see the faces they were coming from.  The light was so painfully bright now, she couldn’t stand to face it any longer.  She turned her head to shield her vision, and felt a sharp pain run down her neck and into back.  She winced, but it worked. She could see, and all the shimmering flecks of glitter slowly took shape as bits and pieces of glass surrounding her, reflecting flashing lights from the distance.

Slowly, she recognized that one voice was rising above the roar.  It was calm, sweet almost, saying her name.  Even slower, she was able to focus on a face slightly above her, his warm hazel eyes.

“You’re going to be okay,” he said reassuringly.  “Don’t try to move. You’ve been in an accident, but everything is going to be okay.”

Super Shorts – To Rebuild

In Fiction, Mostly True, Writing on October 12, 2015 at 8:42 pm

She stood silently at the edge of the porch, elbows resting on the railing with camcorder in hand.  She looked at me when I stepped up next to her, only for a second before returning her eyes to the yard.  Her expression was unreadable.

I stared at the patch of cut grass, no bigger than space enough for a child’s playhouse.  The lawnmower droned on and I watched him.  The determination on his face and in his movements was unmatchable.  He grabbed hold of the handle, prepping himself, and gave a hard push with one arm.  The other arm lay on the arm rest of his chair, his hand delicately and precisely moving the small joystick to put him in motion.  Repositioning, another shove, rolling his wheelchair forward a few more inches, navigating around the swing set that sat rusting from 2 years of no use while they had been gone.

It was hard to speak, to break the silence of being mesmerized by his tedious and obviously tiring work.  But I did.  “He mowed this patch?”

She hit a button on the camcorder and set it on the railing in front of her, then nodded.  “First time he’s tried doing this since the accident.”

“Yeah…”

“He’s been out here over an hour.  He won’t let me do it.”

“Sounds about right…”

“He wanted to try.  He found a way to do it.  Halfway through that section he yelled for me to bring the camera out.  He wanted it on tape.”

I turned my gaze back to him.  A task – a chore even – that most dread.  A chore that 2 years ago took him less than an hour to fully complete.  A task that meant nothing when he walked on 2 legs, when his arms were sculpted from weight lifting and didn’t have muscle damage, when his body hadn’t been through more major surgeries than I could remember.  I wanted to cry – for her almost losing the love of her life and seeing his constant struggles, for him losing the future he imagined for himself because of one tiny second and a vehicle malfunction. But then I looked back at her and she was smiling, beaming even. 

I looked back at him.  Sweating, flushed, concentrating so hard, struggling but not giving up – and proud.  Proud, and so very happy.  I watched him – repositioning, pushing, rolling, guiding, bumping the swings, hitting the shed slightly, shaking his arm out to loosen his tired muscles, smiling, singing, waving to the porch, presenting his mowed patches to us with a sweep of his arm. Rebuilding.

And So They Met

In Non-Fiction, Personal, Writing on September 1, 2015 at 10:10 pm

How She Met Her Father, Part 4.  See Part 1, Part 2, & Part 3.

Two months had passed since her graduation.  Against all expectation, he had actually shown up.  Late – sneaking in a side door once the ceremony had already begun – and empty handed, but he was there.  Afterwards, waiting out back of the school near the parking lot, sending in his youngest child, her half brother, to get her.  Awkward side hugs, awkward small talk as if they had known each other from years ago.  Since then, her sisters requested visits more often, explaining “Daddy wants to see you, and he’ll meet you at our house.”  Sometimes he was there already, clutching a beer.  Sometimes they would call him once or twice, then have to pick him up from whatever friend’s house where he had started drinking.  Sometimes, though not often, he would already be too drunk to make it at all.

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Super Shorts – Six Months

In Fiction, Writing on August 31, 2015 at 10:15 pm

I wish he’d go away.  I ignore him.  I refuse to look at him.  I don’t respond when he calls to me.  Just when I think he’s getting the hint, just when 10 minutes goes by without his voice or his face, he’s there again and my stomach drops to the floor.  He’s so needy, desperate and demanding for attention, and I just can’t bring myself to do it anymore.  Before, things were different.  I needed him, too.  I wanted to see his face – early morning, lunch time, evening, in the shadows of the dark bedroom at night.  I used to crave hearing his voice say my name, say those private things and those lovely words, say anything at all as long as it was to me.  And now all I want is for him to leave.  It wasn’t sudden.  It took a while.  I fought it at first, thinking that while it was different, it was still something I could make work.  But I can’t.  It’s gone on too long; its become much too hard for me.  I don’t know what else to do, because it’s as though he doesn’t hear me when I tell him I need him gone.  He doesn’t hear me when I tell him that I need to move on with my life, without him being a part of it.  He doesn’t hear me when I tell him it’s been six months like this with neither of us getting anywhere.  Six months since I told him good-bye.  Six months that I’ve tried to start a new life.  Six months that every single day has been stopped in its tracks when he appears again.  Six months that I’ve been trying to convince him that this isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen.  Six months since he was buried…

Copyright © 2015

Saturday Nights

In Fiction, Writing on April 21, 2014 at 10:28 pm

She checked herself in the rear-view mirror.  Smooth down the stubborn twist of her fine brown hairline at her right temple.  Touch up her cranberry lipstick.  Make sure her bra straps are hidden from view underneath the silky fabric of her dress.  It was a new dress she’d never worn before and with her shiny black heels, she felt confident and attractive.  The sidewalk to the restaurant would be her own personal runway.  She grabbed her matching black clutch from the passenger seat before sliding out and making her way to the door.

The restaurant was crowded, typical for a Saturday night.  The young hostess smiled warmly at her.  “Just one, or are you meeting someone here?”

“Just me,” she replied.  “I’ll just take a seat at the bar, if that’s okay.”  The hostess nodded and she made her way to the right wall of the building where the long, dark wood stretched before glass shelves with bright lights illuminating all the different spirits.  She put her clutch on the bar and popped herself up into one of the elevated leather stools.

“Drink? Menu?”

She raised her eyes to the face of the bartender in time to see his own gaze shift quickly from her low cut neckline to her face.  Her cheeks felt warm from the attention, but her intent with this dress was obviously on point.  “Just a vodka tonic, thank you.”

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Today

In Personal, Poetry, Writing on January 31, 2014 at 4:10 pm

Today, I will not mourn you,
but celebrate the wonderful things you left
within us and here for us.

With those things –
wisdom, words,
sentiment,
passions, progeny –
you carry on.

You carry on,
and on, and on.
Indefinitely.

Today, you will be celebrated
Because that is what you deserve.

Copyright © 2014

This is Halloween, Part 3

In Non-Fiction, Opinion/Personal, Personal, Writing on November 1, 2013 at 4:04 pm

Part 1 & Part 2

Now we’ve reached present day.  Yes, I know Halloween was technically yesterday.  However, many places in my state cancelled trick or treating due to inclement weather, and lots of bars and friends are still throwing costume parties this coming weekend, so I think it’s just fine!

So I had my run-ins with Ouija Boards and strange happenings.  You would think one would learn, right?  Apparently not me.  Things like this don’t generally scare me and I find it all very intriguing.  Curiosity killed the cat, they say…

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This is Halloween, Part 2

In Non-Fiction, Random, Writing on October 29, 2013 at 1:45 pm

I started off in Part 1 with stories from my grandmother, before I was even thought of.  There is a mini-story of my own experience when I was a child in which I awoke in the middle of the night, tossing in turning in the large bed next to my mother.  In my tossing and turning, I roll over to face my mother and see a figure.  Of course, even as a child I assume it’s my eyes playing tricks on me.  But my eyes focus and the figure doesn’t go away.  It was lighter than the rest of the room, almost glowing, and was standing next to the bed leaning over my mother.  It was a boy, looking very close to my own age of around 6 or 7.  I stared silently and the figure looked from my mother to me.  At this point, I panicked and pulled the blanket over my face.  I sat for a moment and when I lowered the blanket below my eyes again, everything was gone and the room was completely dark.  But that’s a short story with little detail, despite the fact that to this day I can recall specific details about the boy’s face and hair and expression.  The good stories come much later on.  Skip ahead.  Little Kay grows up, graduates high school, and moves away to college.  That’s when things start to get interesting again….

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