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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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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.

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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Love Games

In Fiction, Writing on August 9, 2013 at 9:01 am

I am a member of the Writer’s Digest website, so I receive emails with writing opportunity updates and information for budding writers.  I also has the option to participate in competitions they have on their forum.  The competitions are pretty simple: you’re given a prompt of some sort and specific instructions as to what they want you to write.  The winner is chosen by a community vote of other members and prizes are awarded.  I have entered a few of these, but never won.  I don’t mind, though.  My purpose in becoming a member and entering these competitions was to flex my writing muscles, make me think, and allow me to further practice and improve my abilities.  Anyways, this was a story I wrote for my latest submission in which a story no more than 800 words (I think) had to be written beginning with the sentence: “Heads, we get married; tails, we break up.” Read the rest of this entry »

Secrets Can Kill

In Fiction, Personal, Writing on January 24, 2013 at 10:32 pm

So I had this idea of an entire writing done solely in dialogue.  I don’t know how it worked out.  I don’t know if I’ll try it again.  Either way, I worked on it and finished it and here it is. 🙂

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Crosswalks, The Social Forest, & Why Nobody Trusts Squirrels

In Fiction, Funny, Random, Writing on January 23, 2013 at 10:03 pm

I’m not really sure what this writing would even be. It actually started as a ridiculous story that I made up while driving late one night and running on very little sleep. I blamed it on being slap-happy at the time, but then I kind of felt like this was a very weird little goldmine I’d created – especially since I also recently discovered that people often really think that deer only cross where there are signs. Even if you get bored with my little story here, at least skip to the bottom and see what I’ve included. This stuff makes me find myself in this horrible see-saw of being morbidly entertained while struggling to deal with the fact that I’ve lost hope in all humans. Anyways, skim through, read, whatever you like to do, my little creation on the breakdown of the social forest…

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Rows of the Deceased

In Fiction, Writing on October 25, 2012 at 4:21 pm

As promised, here is one of my first legitimate fiction writings.  It was for a writing portfolio for a class I was in many, many years ago and I ended up getting an almost-perfect grade on both this writing and the portfolio as a whole.  I intend to revisit this writing at some point to flesh it out a little bit, update it so it’s more mature, etc., but I haven’t taken the time yet.  So I give this to you, Blog World, in its original form straight out of the mind of 17-year-old me.

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