Saturday, October 25, 2014


Am I a psychopath? 
I didn't cry at our wedding. Maybe that's why he left me. I stare at myself in the mirror. Even now, the tears wouldn't fall. I push my hair back. He loved my hair. Insisted I keep it waist-length. I stand at my sink, the usual clutter of lotion and perfume and makeup overwhelming. His sink, always neat, always perfect, was still perfectly neat. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed.
I throw open a drawer. He's gone. The scissors glint dully. He's gone. I knew what I had to do. Yes. My hair would be the first to go. 
Am I psycho? 
Soft, beautifully shiny locks of hair fall to the floor around me. My toes itch as the hair blankets them. So much time and effort had gone into the maintenance of this mane of hair. And all of it had been for him. Only him. 
"Mommy? What are you doing?"
I turn cold psycho eyes onto my five year old girl. "Nothing. Go back to bed."
"Go back to bed! NOW!"
The tears came. Oh, they came in loud screaming bursts. But they weren't my own. No. Not mine. Gwen stomped up the stairs. "Where's daddy? I want daddy! You're so mean! I hate you!"
I squeeze my hands closed, nails biting into my palms. I want so badly to go upstairs and show Gwen the definition of mean. That settles it. Anger issues. Inability to empathize. I'm a psychopath. 
I look into the mirror. Hollow and empty. Just... nothing. I never thought of myself as one of those wives who lived only for their husbands, but it turns out he was the dam holding what was me in place. The dam broke and I drained away.
I study my new look. And I thought I looked ragged before. I throw the scissors down."Dumbass, what were you thinking? You don't have time to go to get that fixed tomorrow before his funeral."

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Photo from: 

Friday, October 24, 2014

Fateful Tea

This is an older work of mine from 

Strength does not lie in what you have. It lies in what you can give.

"It's way too early in the morning for my tea to be lecturing me."

Christen dumped precisely three spoonfuls of sugar into the tea while she waited for her toast to brown. She ripped the offensive tag off her tea bag. Kelly had given her the 'Yogi' brand tea along with other natural health foods. What a tree hugger.

Ever the creature of habit, she made her way back to her bed with wheat toast slathered in butter and honey. Just like she did every morning. She adjusted her pillows and got ready to flip on the TV. Just like all the other mornings. They all blurred away into nothingness. She absently reached for the tea and sloshed some onto her nightstand.

"Damn it."

The sleeve of her robe would do for clean up. Now that her seventy-nine-year-old bones were settled down in bed, she wouldn't rouse them again for a towel. No real reason to move anymore anyway.

Henry had left last year, only to die in a younger woman's arms. Serves him right, the old bastard. She had given her best years to him, given up her figure to give him children, and what did he give her? Shit. That's what. Pure shit.

Christen sipped the hot tea. At least it tasted good, even if it was preachy. What did the fruitcakes at the tea factory know anyway? She had given everything to Henry. She snorted. The act of giving hadn't made her strong. It left her weak. And old. And alone.

She had nothing--nothing but a couple spoiled brats. The only one that stayed close was a Mother-Earth- worshiping hippie that wanted to sponge off her social security checks. Wasn't Kelly supposed to be the one taking care of her now?

"The moment I become a burden, it's off to the nursing home with me."

She lost her appetite. Stupid tea. Stupid, fateful tea. That's how it always starts.

At least that is how her relationship with Henry started. He had been nice, but nothing more. She shook her head. No, he had been more-- annoying. And those stupid jokes. She rolled her eyes. Always with the goofy jokes. She could've done better. He wasn't that attractive. But she made the mistake of ordering that damn tea.

The waiter placed a hard sweet tea in front of her and with a flourish. He winked and then thunked Henry's beer down in front of him. The waiter stood close, brushing against her. "Is there anything else I can get you while you wait?"

Henry answered for her. "No. Now get the hell away from my date." He glared at the waiter until he retreated.

The awful, fateful tea worked its magic. The alcohol had her laughing at his jokes and the caffeine made her antsy enough to suggest a walk along the river.

Henry wasn't so bad after all. He had a nice jawline. And that mouth, why hadn't she noticed how sexy his mouth was earlier? She watched his lips form words. He was talking about his job as an Aircraft surfaces assembler. Whatever that was.

He was tall--looked to be six-two. She wasn't short at five-seven and required anyone she dated to be at least one or two inches taller. He was beginning to pass her tests.

The effects of the tea wore off. "I'm ready to go home now." She turned, walking in the other direction.

Henry grabbed her wrist and pulled. "I've been watching you at church."

"That's not creepy."

"I've known since the moment I saw you that I wanted to... get to know you better."

Christen looked up into his eyes for the first time and saw flecks of green floating on a sea of dark blue. More than that, she saw sincerity.

He put his hands on her hips and gently pulled her closer, moving slowly to read her reaction. "You're so beautiful. And not just on the outside. You are kind and gentle." His hands skimmed up her sides. "You're the woman I want to marry." His eyes searched her face. One deep, slow breath and he lowered his head.

The world had contracted around them. Just like in the movies. The camera spins around, light shines down from above, and noise fades to the background. Christen's fate was sealed.

She raised a trembling hand to her lips, tingling with phantom sensations. She wiped away a tear. The old, dead bastard. May he forever rotate in his grave. Her tea sat on her nightstand, quietly challenging her. What did she have left to give?

She threw off the blankets and stood. "Let's see where this hippie tea takes me."

Thursday, October 23, 2014

Hello Blog.

We've met before. Blog and I.

We didn't get along. I could launch into the traditional excuses for when a couple breaks up and do my best to place the blame anywhere but on me. Except running a blog isn't a romantic relationship and the harsh truth is I had nothing of value to say. So Blog and I parted ways.

What has changed? And why am I talking to you like you care? WELL. I'm reading a book called 'How to BLOG A Book' by Nina Amir and endorsed by Writer's Digest. Book is working very hard to breathe life back into my relationship with Blog, not that we ever were exclusive or had a real 'thing'. I'm skeptical. How can blogging a first draft of a novel be a good thing? Especially blogging my first draft which usually resembles something closer to a pile of.... words.

Book assures me that all aspiring authors must have a relationship with Blog if they want to get anywhere. Book also recommends that I make numerous appearances on talk shows in all mediums; internet, radio, and television. And produce my own videos. And post on social media. And have extremely long mailing list. All of that while giving frequent talks to small, medium and large groups. Book is quite confident in my abilities. Thanks, Book. You're sweet.

Book has even more recommendations on how to build an author's platform, but has told me that I'm giving away too many secrets. So I'm sorry, but if you want more of these tips, Book insists that you must go to Writer's Digest Bookstore and take it home. I haven't had time to get to know Book very well yet. We're not in the "I love you so much I'm taking you into the tub with me" phase yet, and I'm not sure we ever will be, but Book isn't without its charms. It did bring me here after all.

My first real post on my blog. About a blog. While reading about how to blog. I keep glancing around, half expecting a blog paradox or a blogpocalypse. I'm not sure what a blogpocalypse would look like. Maybe something like what happens to my first drift when my cat, Fallon, climbs onto my laptop and sits down.

And for the unanswered question: why you should care? I guess you don't and won't... perhaps shouldn't, but that's okay. Blog and I shall just yammer away over here in our own little corner. I'll get to know Blog and learn its quirks, discover its annoying habits, listen to the bad jokes. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find something worth saying.

Healing in Room Twenty

This story is a continuation of Doris Lessing's 'To Room Nineteen'. Lessing's powerful story is about a woman, Susan, who ...