The Curiosity Shoppe: Pt. 1

A set of bells that hung from a thick blue rope clanged together in a discordant rhythm as I stepped into the shop.  It wasn't a pretty sound, like chimes, but it wasn't completely unpleasant either.  It reminded me of another place and time, when life was much simpler, and store doors weren't automatic.  As a child, I grew up going to Ben Franklin, a general store where I would spend all my money on tasty candy.  Though this store was nothing like that Ben Franklin, as it smelled of mildew and old books, the bells sounded exactly the same.

"Welcome," came a husky voice from the back.  I looked up to see a stream of smoke coming from a large wooden bookshelf, and the smell of cherry tobacco crept into my nostrils.  Apparently nobody had told him it that it was 2016 and you weren't allowed to smoke in public stores in our city.  And while I was allergic to most forms of smoke, the fragrance of pipe tobacco was an overpoweringly delicious one.

"Hi there," I replied, feeling silly at waving to a bookshelf.

"Sorry about the smoke, usually I have my air purifier running.  Although today it seems to have pooped out on me," the husky voice spoke, as a very bearded older man peeked out at me from the other side of the bookshelf.

"It's okay, I rather like it."  I smiled, and he smiled back.  The smell reminded me of when I was little and my grandfather would smoke his pipe on rainy nights with a roaring fire going while reading me stories from Jules Verne.  I never understood the them, but I loved to listen to him read while smelling the tobacco from his pipe as it filled the room.

"Well, that's wonderful, because I just lit up.  Won't you join me?"  His long, dark grey hair was pulled back into a low ponytail.  He gestured for me to sit in a gorgeous wooden chair in front of him.

I ran my hand along the back of it, it's intricate detail in exquisite shape for how old it was.

"1895," he explained.  "It's from the house of Windsor.  It sat in King George V's very dining room."

"Wow," I responded.  "It's in perfect condition." I marveled at the craftsmanship it must have taken to create something to beautiful. 

"That it is.  I just retrieved it yesterday from it's original owner," he said, as he took a big puff of his pipe.

"Really?  Wow.  So you got it from Queen Elizabeth?  That must have cost you a pretty penny."  I sat in the seat, careful to sit as slowly as possible so I didn't break any part of it. 

"You'd be surprised how much things go for these days," he murmured.  "So, what can I do you for?"  He reached down to snap one of his suspenders, which held up neatly pressed brown dress pants.

I looked around.  There were stacks of old books I didn't recognize piled up on every surface all over the room.  Wooden shelves held various clocks, figurines, and oddly shaped objects I couldn't even begin to describe but I found myself drawn to wanting to touch each one of them.  But I really hadn't known what I came in for, more of a curiosity than anything.  But since that was the name of the shop, it seemed to be the right idea.  "I don't really know, a knick knack perhaps?" I replied, while eyeing a strangely shaped palm-sized tube that I had an intense urge to put my hands on.

He looked me up and down, as if sizing me up.  "Perhaps."  He gave another puff, to which I gratefully inhaled the scent of. "Or, perhaps not.  You  don't look like a knick knack type of gal to me."

I almost laughed.  If he only knew, my house was full of them.  "No?"

"No.  If you have some, they aren't yours.  They were most likely gifted to you."

"Um, actually, you're right.  I inherited them."  I wondered how my looks gave away such a minor detail of my life. 

"I thought as so."  Puff, puff.  "No, you're more of a....wait, I have just the thing!"  He leapt out of his seat and rushed off to an area I could not see.

I was confused and excited at the same time.  What if he brought back something completely crazy?  Something I'd have to say no thank you for when he gave it to me?  But, what if he brought me back something spectacular?  I decided that either way, I'd be grateful and accept it.  Well, that is, unless it cost too much.  Then, either way, I'd have to politely decline, as I only had twenty dollars to spend.  I had driven past this shop a hundred times, but never went in.  I was either too busy, or just plain forgot about it.  Until today.  I found myself at the bank withdrawing my money to come here before I even made the choice to come.  After the money was in my purse, I drove my usual route and saw the shop sign and parked.  "The Curiosity Shoppe: Oddities and Antiquities" the sign read.  I've always been a sucker for all things odd.

"Just a minute!  I've almost found it!"  I could hear him rummaging around some unseen boxes.

"Take your time, I have all day," I replied back.  I did not, in fact, have all day, but I also wasn't in a rush, either.   I looked around some more.  That same tubular piece didn't call out to me anymore.  It had only been a fleeting impulse.  Which was good, because I didn't want to have to trade what he was giving me for something else.  That seemed rude.

When the shop owner was near me, his tobacco smoke masked the smell of old books and must, but now it was back.  Normally smoke and mold irritated my sinuses so much I would have to leave, but this place...well, it sort of felt like my grandfather.  Even the haphazard stacks of sheet music, or what I thought was sheet music, reminded me of his old den where we'd read his stories.  As I concentrated on the stacks to see if I could make out the composers, I could hear a piano playing somewhere in the distance.  "Chopin," I whispered, as I closed my eyes. 

"Ahh, here it is."  He walked back into my view with his hand behind his back.  "Now, keep an open mind, as this doesn't look very exciting.  But I assure you, my dear, it is definitely more than what it seems.  In fact," he leaned in close to my face, "it's more than meets the eye."  His adorable wink looked as though he had a tic, as his entire upper body shook as he did it. 

It's a Transformer, I thought.  I knew it, it's a toy.  But then his hands held out a silver box in front of me.  It was plain, with only an indentated line cut out all the way around the sides of the box, but it least it wasn't Optimus Prime.  "Oh, neat, thank you."  I took the box in my hands, which felt as if it was both a combination of heavy and light at the same time.

He frowned.  "You don't like it?"

"No, no, I do.  I just, had no idea what to expect.  Is it a...paperweight?"  I turned it over in my hands, but it was the same both top and bottom.

He chuckled once again as he drew in a breath from his pipe.  "Oh no, it's definitely not that.  Well, unless you want it to be.  Do you want it to be a paperweight?"

His question confused me, but I played along.  "No, I'd like it to be a..." but before I could finish, a small buzzing noise took up in my ears.  I plugged and unplugged my ears, hoping to erasing the ringing.  But it didn't work.  I glanced around.  "Did some machine just turn on?  Maybe your air purifier is working again?"

He glanced back at the machine that was definitely off.  "Come again?"

"That buzzing noise that just started."  I tried plugging and unplugging my ear again to no avail.

He smiled.  "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about.  What do you think about the cube?"

And just like that, the buzzing stopped, and a cold, yet pleasant, tingling spread through my hands that seemed to come from the cube itself.  "I don't know what it is, but I love it.  How much?"

The man reached up to finger his collar for a moment while he thought. "How much what?"

I almost laughed but then felt bad.  Maybe he had a bit of dementia as my grandfather did before he died?  It started out as simple things, as forgetting what he was talking about and then progressed to forgetting where he was.  It's a sad way to go, so I hoped I was wrong.  "Money.  How much does it cost?"

He waved away my words with his hand.  "Consider it a gift.  It wasn't for sale anyways."

I was surprised.  A stranger giving me a gift for no reason?  I wasn't used to that.  "Oh no, I have to pay you something.  You won't make any money just giving your stuff away."  Maybe he did have dementia?  Doing things out of the ordinary was one of the signs.  But perhaps he always did this?  I had no way of knowing.

"Fine.  Let's make a deal.  If you can figure out how it works, I will let you come back and pay me what you think it's worth.  Deal?"  He took another puff of his pipe, but then set it down on a tray.

How it worked?  I didn't understand what he meant.  Yes, he definitely had dementia, I thought as  I reached into my purse to fish out some money.  "Here, let me give you at least twenty dollars for it.  And if it doesn't do anything for me when I get home, I will just bring it back for a refund.  Is that okay?"

He didn't look pleased, but also not angry either.  "If that's the way you want to play it.  Sure then."  He took the money from my hand and placed it onto the table next to him.

His responses were so cryptic that, by then, I was beginning to get uncomfortable.  "Thank you so very much.  I don't need a bag, I will just put it in my purse for now."  I stood to go and slipped the cube into my purse.  He stood up as well.

"Thank you and while I wish I could say I hope to see you again soon, I cannot, because that would mean I picked the wrong gift for you.  And that will be the first time I ever got one wrong in the history of my shop."  He held the door open for me as the discordant bells rang once again.  The afternoon light had turned a gloomy shade of gray.

Again, confused by his answer, I just waved, and walked quickly to my car.  I didn't look back, but I could feel him watching me as I got into my vehicle.  As I drove away, rain had started to pour down washing the day's dirt into the sewers  I looked up to wave at him, but instead of reciprocating, he just shut the door and flipped over the open sign to closed.  I kept my eyes on the road, but I saw in my side mirror that he also shut off the lights inside the store.  Who shuts down their store at three in the afternoon due to a little rain? I wondered, unable to shake off the eerie feeling that something wasn't quite right with the whole transaction.

Today was an odd day, but at least it was one that will go down as memorable.  I reached over to feel the large square that was taking up a large amount of my purse.  It didn't feel cold anymore and I couldn't hear any humming either.  It must had been my imagination, I assured myself.  I had no idea what I was going to do with a metal cube, other than use it as a paperweight, but I would wait until I got home to see.  Maybe I could look it up online?  It could be worth something.  Or, it could be something he made in his garage.

It didn't matter, I had to think about it later, as I had to get home for the cable guy to come over and hook up my internet and television.  Although I couldn't shake the idea that something more than strange had happened just now.  Or how the man knew I had inherited all my knick knacks.  One thing was for sure though: there was something different about his gift.  And hopefully I'd be able to figure out what. 



Click here for part two. (link when part two is ready)

Read More »

Getting Ready for NaNoWriMo 2016!!

So I am preparing for this year's book contest, where you write a book in 30 days in November, and I am actually very, very excited! 

I thought I was deciding late to participate, but as it turns out, I have loads of time to work out what I am going to do with my story.  Now, normally, I am NOT a planner, I do not outline or do anything at all, I just write.  But, for some reason, it takes me YEARS to write a novel, that COULD only take me a few months, if I just planned it right (meaning a way that fits my personality).

Because yes, for my brain, there is a right way and a wrong way to plan.  If I do it the wrong way (which I did once), then I am 100% turned off to the idea of that novel.  But, if I do it the right way?  It lays out a foundation where I can still be creative without a million details bogging down my brain to remember (which is what slows me down and eventually turns me off completely).

One thing I normally plan out before I write a book: my characters.  I plan out what they look like and somewhat of who they are.  Who they really are comes out in the story, but I just do a basic, rough sketch of their personalities and let them blossom from there.  Because as I am writing, they react in real ways that I can't control ahead of the story.  Kind of like you really don't know someone until you see them in all situations.  The same goes for characters: I don't know how my MC (main character) will act if their dog dies, or if their house blows up.  I won't know that until it actually happens.

So, instead of planning out a million details, I do it fast and loose (there's a watercolor strategy called that, look it up!) and as little as I can so I basically know where I am going.  Once upon a time, I tried to do the "million detail" way with a story that took place on a Native American reservation.  I even made charts with pics of who would play my characters in a movie.  And when I was all done, I found it had sucked me dry of all my creativity!  Gone.  Kaput.  I just said "Nope!" and put the story away and still haven't gone back to it (actually that story and the one I ended up choosing were the two I was deciding between for this year's NaNoWriMo).

So, how will I get ready this year?  For those of you who I deem CC personalities (this is the term I use on my organizational/art website meaning "Chaotic Creative"), planning a novel can be very annoying.  But sometimes you might feel that you need some direction.  As my 15 year old son said yesterday, who is also writing a novel next month, "Just because you write 50,000 words in 30 days doesn't mean it will be good.  Anyone can write 50,000 random words.  And what will that get you?  Editing the crap out of it for the next year?".  He has a great point.  Which is why I decided this year, to do some plotting first.

Those of us who don't normally plot may find ourselves wanting to use October to work out our novels in at least some way before November 1st comes, so we're not staring at an empty page and wondering "what's next?".  But where to even start?

1. 1. Come up with a story idea.  Which is kind of DUH, but at the same time, some don't, and find themselves sitting there on November 1st hoping something comes to them.  Do yourself a favor and come up with something now.  Need a way to generate a story?  Download and print the amazing Story Idea Generator my husband and I created for our writing class!  If you use it, let us know down below if you like it.  It's goofy and silly, but it will get your creative juices flowing and might spark some ideas for a real story :)  (We used it last night with hubby and it generated a 73 year old UPS package handler who's prized possession was his beloved lawnmower who only listens to R&B music.  The story's main climax will take place in a grocery store with a villain who looks like Henry Rollins.  Um....yeah....LOL  That sounds fantastic, doesn't it??)  So have some fun, and use it today!
2. 2. Characters.  I always do names first.  Google name generators and write down some you like.  Here is a sheet I made for a class that my hubby and I taught (the dot com website on the sheet is no longer active) to keep track of a whole slew of names.  Pick names you like, and then put them on the sheet and pick from there for your story.  Here is an AMAZING character sheet that I adore once you get done finding a name.  It's from a fabulous book about writing a novel in 30 days.  I highly recommend it. 
3. 3. Try the 8pt story arc as a plotting tool.  This technique is so simple and so easy, it doesn't feel like you're doing any extra work at all.  I used blank flashcards that are hole-punched and put on a ring for this.  You can make your own with index cards, or buy what I have, which is the brand name Myndology from Walmart (though I can't find them on Walmart.com) for a few bucks.  I wrote my book title on the first sheet, then I went from 1-8 , one on each card, and wrote what will happen in that stage for my arc.  Here is the link to the 8pt story arc. (the link to the book on the website isn't correct, you can get this book for $7 for Kindle, or around $15 for a print book, just search the title on Amazon)
4. 4. If you did number 3 above, then try this one next for more oompfh!  Flesh out a little more of your story idea (meaning, give yourself ideas--these are not set in stone as the index cards are removable and replaceable).  Or try our sheet on plotting to see if any of the techniques sound interesting to you.  I will say that too much plotting sucks out my creativity, so I don't do too much--I only try to write one small sentence for each plot point.  I will say this version of plotting is a LOT more intricate, and may not work for CC personality types. 
5. 5. If neither of these work for pre-writing for you, then maybe get out some 4x6 cards and write only scenes you know have to go in the story.  Sometimes I write dialogue, too.  Like things I want to crop up in the story somewhere or in particular scenes I want to be added.  And that's it and go from there.  Let this be your "fast and loose" outline.
6. 6. Another way is to print out these setting cards my husband I created for our class, and write all the settings you want have in your book, and go from there.  Find a way to work in each setting into the story and use it as a loose outline.

And I think that's it for now :)  Plotting doesn't have to drain the creative energy out of you.  Even if the only pre-writing is developing your characters a bit, that will go a LONG way in your editing later.  Knowing who you're writing about, will set the tone for everything in your book.

What about you?  Are you a total pre-planner?  A type A personality?  Or are you a CC, where you just write and let the story unfold as you go?  Or are you somewhere in between?  For more fun, here a few more worksheets from our 2-day weekend intensive class:

How to Make a Logline
Your Story's Soundtrack
Book Title Creation Ideas

If you have any suggestions for plotting, planning or otherwise, please share them below!  And thanks for reading, and happy writing!



Oh, if you're doing NaNoWriMo, feel free to add me: jalynnb27. 

Read More »

NaNoWriMo 2016

So I've decided to do NaNoWriMo this year.  That's National Novel Writing Month, which starts November 1st.  You get 30 days to write a 50,000 word novel.  You win by finishing!  We'll see...I haven't done it yet, but maybe this year??  Possibly?

It's called "Chasing the Sea", and here is the sample cover:

Are you doing NaNoWriMo this year?  If so, let me know below!  What are you writing?  Do you have a cover yet?  If so, link it below!





Happy Writing!! 

Read More »

A Triple-Ply Win

She looked at the shopping cart as I placed the twelve pack of toilet paper in.  "What's that?  That's horrible.  Here, let me buy you the good stuff," she said with a wink.

She said good stuff as if it was some kind of kinky new drug that everyone wanted, but nobody could afford.

"But I like this kind.  And it's on sale for four dollars.  You can't beat that," I replied, hoping she'd drop the subject.  And while I only have five dollars in my bank account, I still wanted the buy the kind I wanted, not what she told me to buy.

"Nah," she said, as she took it out of the cart and put it back on the pyramid of store brand toilet paper.

We pushed the cart with the squeaky wheel down the paper aisle of the drug store, where one could grab some paper plates, paper towels, paper napkins, and toilet paper, but no actual paper.  I wondered why the sandpaper wasn't in this aisle.  Or maybe some fly paper?  Her clearing her throat brought me out of my asinine thoughts of all things paper.

"Here," she said, pleased, as she held up some triple-ply-wood-chip-toilet-paper in my face.

"That's six dollars and seventy-nine cents.  Why would I get that when I can get the other one for four dollars?" I eyed the packaged skeptically, hating to deviate from my usual brand.  This was so typical of her, acting as if she's doing something nice for me when in reality she's simultaneously showing off how poor I was and how much she hates me by buying me something sub-par that was much more expensive than I could afford myself.  It was a tale as old as time.

"It has three times as much on each roll.  Do you know what that means?"  She looked at me and waited for a response.

I did not, because I did not care to even imagine what it meant.  It was only shitty toilet paper, no pun intended.

She sighed.  "That means, you get three of your rolls on one of these rolls.  This is what I use at home."  She plunked it into her cart.

Lies, I thought to myself.  I knew the kind she used, and it wasn't that brand.  "Oh, cool.  That's nice.  I prefer the other brand though."

"Nonsense."  And that was that.  She marched up to the counter and paid for the bags of candy she had (which she pretended were for the kids but in reality were hoarded in her dresser drawer).  Next came the scratchy toilet paper.  I watched as the cashier rang it up, wishing it was the store brand I adored, but alas, was not.  As it fell into the grocery bag, I literally sighed out loud, as my hopes and dreams for a non-hurting undercarriage when I wiped were slowly drifting away.  I couldn't afford to buy more until payday, which was over a week away, so I was stuck with that.  But today was no different than usual.  She would see my family hurting for something, and she will swoop in and take over, only to make things worse.  For years, I used to think she was the queen of poor choices, but now I knew it for what it was: intentional chaos for her own pleasure.

"Nineteen forty-eight," the cashier remarked as her dangle bracelets jingled while she twisted the end of her ponytail around her fingers.

"Here," she handed me her debit card.  "You do it.  I'll be out in the car.  Give your keys to your son so he can load the car."  She couldn't remember her debit pin anymore, so I was always the dedicated payer, even if it wasn't with my own money.

I forked over my keys to my son like the robot I was, paid for her candy and my wretched TP with her card, and fidgeted where I stood as I waited for the receipt.

The cashier flashed me a smile as she handed it to me.  "Your mom is nice.  She sure buys a lot of candy for your kids."

I smiled back.  If she only knew.  "She sure does.  Thanks."

I frowned as I took the receipt, knowing it was all over, she won.  Mother had done it again and all I was left with was this piece of paper that was probably softer than that TP.  But then I looked down at my hand realized what I was holding: the key to returning that horrible ass wiping paper after I took her home.  A smile spread across my face.  I can buy two packages for only a tiny bit more money, I thought to myself, as the automatic doors opened in front of me and I hopped up and down.  In that moment, I had one less worry to think about that week.  One less thing to stress about (my undercarriage was saved!).  And I would let my mother think we loved the ever-loving crap out of that toilet paper, which meant her attempt at controlling me didn't work, which gave me a better reason to smile.

The irritating weekly drug store run turned out to be quite a blessing in disguise.  I walked out to my car, hopped in the driver's seat, and drove us all home, knowing that for once, I won.  It was small, triple-ply win, but a win nonetheless.  And that was all I needed to get me through the rest of my day. 

Read More »

Those Few Short Weeks

It was six years ago today.  I would never have known had I not opened my Facebook and there sat the anniversary date.

He was a complicated man.  He was like an ogre: he had layers.  And the fact he was grumpy for the entire time I knew him.  An ogre with a heart of gold, though.  Despite his grumpiness, he would help you no matter what you needed.  If he was able, he was willing.

But in the end, all he had were complications.  People vying over the custody of his young daughters.  People wanting to see him, but us having to refuse them based upon his wishes, and then us getting blamed for keeping them away.  It's okay though, let them blame someone.  Anyone other than themselves, right?  Because that's the life they all lived back then and probably still do today: nothing is their fault, it's always someone else's.

But the truth is: he made his bed.  And then he died in it. And we were left to pick up the pieces.

Six years ago today was a horrible day.  His house was full of people we knew and didn't know, all come to see his lifeless body lay there, after a long battle with cancer.  He was married by then.  Only for a short time, a year or so.  Love was a factor, yes, but in the end, complication won the day.  Everything was complicated: from what they were going to do that day, to when his daughters were coming and going.  They had gotten full custody of them a short while back, due to their mother being on drugs.  He had met her through NA fifteen years prior.  She was on and off drugs many times throughout their life together.  This was just most recent relapse.  It was a feat of great strength on his part for him to have stayed sober all of those years, even through his crippling depression that almost took his life right after she left him.

He was happy with his eventual wife (not the mother of his children), in the beginning.  But it didn't take her that long for her true nature to rear its ugly head.  The more his ex was having issues with her addiction, the more they had his daughters.  The new wife didn't like that very much.  She wanted him all to herself.  So the more they stayed, the meaner she got.  And the meaner she got, the more his depression came back.  And the more depressed he was, the more grumpier he became.  Until their lives were full of nothing but arguing, yelling, punishing, and blaming.  His daughters got the brunt of it, with him in the middle, wanting to defend them, but too weak to say much.  Somewhere, along the lines of his childhood, he was taught: the mean lady gets her way.  And that's how he lived his life, letting whatever mean woman he married or was dating to control him or his family.

One day, many years after his death, his ex came to me all proud-like and told me that while he married, he still had feelings for her.

"You know he still loved me, right?" she said, beaming as if it was the best thing in the world.  She was trying to tell me she had won.  That she was the one whose name was on his lips as he passed from this world to the next.  I guess it was something to hold onto for her.  I guess it made her sleep better at night, knowing that she was forgiven for what she had done to him.  

When she left him, he was in surgery.  He had had a tumor on his shoulder and was having it removed.  And instead of her picking him up from the hospital, she had sent a mutual friend of theirs to get him, as she and the kids were living somewhere else.  

"Where is she?" he asked.

"She's gone," he replied.  

And then he went home, to his empty house where she and his daughters were just at earlier in the day retrieving more of their belongings and swallowed a bottle of pills.  

Luckily the friend had come back, worried about his mental health, knowing this breakup would break him.  He found him laying on the floor, unconscious, empty pill bottle by his side, and called 911.  They pumped his stomach and saved his life.  He started seeing a new psychiatrist and got on pills that actually helped.  He went back to live in his empty house, and saw his next door neighbor, who was more his age, was single and also alone.  He made his move and the rest was history.  

I can imagine the guilt his ex felt about being the cause of his near death experience, his, attempted suicide.  And she drove him into the arms of his neighbor, who he later married.  She was jealous and angry.  But the idea that he still loved her during his marriage to another woman brought her solace.  It brought her comfort on those cold nights when she thought of "what might've been".  But in reality, she dodged a huge bullet for her.  She didn't have to take care of him during his dying days.  She could just block out her own life with the drugs she was taking instead.  No wiping of his fevered brow.  No holding his barf bag after chemo.  No endless doctor appointments for a man she never really loved.  No, she could have her cake and eat it, too.  

Now, she can be the "forlorn widow", who has endless sadness for the love she lost, the love she once had, who cancer tore away from her.  Forget the fact she chose to leave him and his subsequent actions, she was a "cancer widow".  And his wife could end up being "the monster" who treated her step-children like dirt and made her husband's life a living hell so much so that he wished he has stayed with his ex.  Yes, what a perfect little bow to wrap up that entire chapter of her life in.  What a great story to tell the grandchildren one day. 

Because in the end, all we have are the stories we tell ourselves.  Truth goes out the window in favor of wishful thinking.  And if you tell yourself a story for long enough, you will start to believe it, and it will eventually become your truth.  Your truth is different from the truth.  Because the latter is the one that everyone knows.  And the first one is the one only you remember.  But one day, someone will remember the truth and your truth be the one flying out the window.

When she said this to me, I wanted to reply back with, "Did he love you when he was with her?  Unfortunately, yes. But that's not something to be proud of. Because the ONLY time I ever saw him truly happy? Was when you left him. I had never seen him happier. He had a pep in his step, he laughed, he made real jokes, not at anyone's expense. He was smiling constantly. He was nice to everyone. His sarcastic jokes were gone. He was a new man. But he couldn't help but fall back into the same old crap eventually when that's all he's known his whole life: being with women who treat him like shit. So him still loving you? Is something that should make you sad. It makes me sad. Not because he was with someone else, but because he thought he didn't deserve better than you. Or the one he was with. So don't run around being proud of that fact. It's nothing to be proud of. All it shows was how damaged he was. He deserved so much better than the lot he got in life. So, so much better."

But instead all I could muster out was "Oh, he did?  That's nice."  I figured he was dead, so what was my purpose for destroying her truth?  Let her believe she was the one who won.  Because in reality?  Nobody won.  Everyone lost.  In the literary world, we'd call this a tragedy.  No happy ending for anyone.  Normally everyone dies, but one day that will happen.  Death is inevitable.  If letting her believe she won while she's still alive will bring her a little bit of happiness, then so be it.  Nobody likes a tragedy.  Let someone win.  Even if that win is a lie.  

His memory today shouldn't be about winners and losers.  It should be a for life well lived.  And for me?  Remembering those few short weeks when he was actually happy, after she left him, before he got with his wife, is what I want his memory to be.  When he smiled and meant it.  When he hugged people for no reason.  When he had a pep in his step.  A twinkle in his eye.  When his love was greater than his sorrow.  When we all got a glimpse of his true self.  His true nature.  Of what he was meant to really be.  Because for those few short weeks?  He was free.  No woman to control him or bring him down.  Freedom can make a person show their true self to the world, to take off their masks of anger and hurt and just be.  That's what today's memory is for me and always will be.  

Those few short weeks, when my old friend was free. 

Read More »

The Gurlz: Chapter One

The moment she walked into the door, I knew she was going to be trouble.

It was a Tuesday.  No, scratch that.  It was a Wednesday.  I remember, because Wednesday was and is the day I'm normally late due to my weekly hair washing (I don't care what anyone says, dirty hair is the best kind of hair to style...and I have a LOT of it, and washing and drying my hair, alone, takes four hours).  But for some reason, on that particular fall hump day, I was early.  My intuition as a witch is spot on and something told me to get to school early that morning.  I skipped blow-drying my hair and just pulled it up into a wet pony, and flew off to school.

And I don't mean I actually flew.  I am not that kind of witch.  I am the kind that drives a silver 2016 Mercedes-Benz E350.  Only hags and transients uses brooms.  Gross.

But anyways, my girls and I met up in the triangle (an idiotic name for the triangle courtyard in the middle of our school) to discuss what we all felt.  It was like we all woke up with this feeling, this wave of excitement.  Like how you wake up on Christmas, and forget it's Christmas for a moment, and then you remember?  That was how it felt that morning.  But we had no idea what we were excited about.  But we soon were going to find out.

Like magic (maybe it was magic?) the doors to the triangle wooshed open with nobody touching them and she walked in.  And we just knew, we had to have her.  Patent leather boots.  Spiked black hair.  Skull earrings that dangled to her shoulders.  This bitch knew how to handle herself, and not having her on our side meant we'd have to deal with her.  And who wants that?  No, we had to get her to join us.  Our little crew.  Our gang of misfits.  Our coalition of the baddest witches in town.

We are like Legion West's mafia, of sorts.  You don't fuck with us.  You don't look at us the wrong way.  You don't owe us a favor, because we'll come collecting.  Every witch fears us.  Every witch wants to be us.  That goes for the teachers and administration, too.  Heck, I think the whole town is in unison with the slogan "The Gurlz Run Opal Bay".  And a day doesn't go by when anyone forgets that shit.  Not even once.

But Addison?  She wasn't like anyone we'd ever met before.  Sure, I am pretty badass myself, but Addy just didn't give a fuck.  About anything.  She was.....an extreme version of me.  The only difference was that I was known for my temper.  Get on my bad side, and I'll blow up.  Literally.  But not her.  She'll just smile quietly, and plot her revenge.  Addy was, is, and always will be the master of revenge.  And even I know better to mess with that kind of talent.

Oh yeah, my name is Phee, which is short for Phoenix.  Phoenix River.  No, I am not named after a place, though my ancestors were.  Nor am I related to that dead famous guy River Phoenix.  Nobody my age even knows who that guy is, other than those of us who have seen "Stand by Me".  And that's only a handful.  When I was in grade school they used to sing to me "Take me down to Phoenix River, where the grass is green and her face eats slivers..."

It doesn't make any damn sense, but we were like seven.  And kids are assholes (and the only reason we knew about Guns N Roses at that age was because we had an art teacher who played NOTHING but that band during class--he was so retro).  But at least they stopped making fun of my red hair.  They just wanted to piss me off to watch me catch on fire.  The teachers used to tell my parents I was dangerous to have in school, but they insisted that I would not kill anyone as long as the kids would stop picking on me.  Soon after, the administration cracked down hard on bullying and nobody said a word to me again.  Like, ever.  Until I got into school and joined The Gurlz.  They weren't afraid of me at all.  They used to tell me "Bitches who stick together, sick together."  Which means we were each other's guard dogs and if somebody fucks with any one of us?  We'll sick our guard dogs on them.

And we needed Addy to complete our pack.

(Phoenix's diary, page 1)
-------------------------------------------------------------------


"I need some espresso.  Like, now," said Parker, while eyeing her watch.

"Why do you even wear that thing, Park?  You look like a dumbass.  I know you have a cellphone so you can check the time, don't you?  And espresso yellows your teeth.  Drink a Monster instead.  With a straw," Casey pulled a pink can of Monster out of her bag and a straw out of the front zipper.

"Wow, you're always prepared, aren't you Case?" Parker smirked, yet still took the drink.

"Well, we are what we are, aren't we ladies?"  Casey smiled her cheerleader smile.

"You know the pink ones taste like ass, right?" Parker took a sip.  "Wait, why doesn't this one taste like ass?"

"Because it's the good one rebottled in the pink can, just for me!" she squealed.  "Our daddies aren't rich for nothing."

Phee laughed.  "You can say that again."

Dallas yawned.  "Why are were so early today?"

"I don't know.  Just something is coming, that's all.  I can feel it," Phee answered.

"Me, too," joined Casey.

"Yeah," Morgan agreed.

Parker whipped around to look at Morgan.  "Are you even a witch?  I don't recall you ever once having any magical powers in our presence.  Not once.  So how you can even feel what we're talking about?  Phee had to call you to get up and meet us here," she snapped.

Morgan looked down at her feet, looking like she might cry.

"Be nice, Park.  Today isn't the day."  Casey put a hand on Parker's shoulder.

"And stop calling me Park, Case.  You know I hate that!"

Casey shrugged her shoulders.  "I like when you call me Case.  It doesn't bother me.  Stop being a baby about things."

"Shut it!  I don't care if you...."

But before she could finish her sentence, the triangle's doors few open, crashing to the walls behind them.

"Whoah," whispered Phee.

They all stared.  And just as quickly as the doors opened, a girl appeared in the once empty doorway. She seemed to appear out of nowhere.  Which wasn't abnormal for a school filled with witches of various capabilities.  But it was still very mesmerizing.

And the girl was soon staring right at them.

"Are you the ones I am supposed to meet here?"

Casey stared back.  "Huh?"

The girl spread her black lips into a smile.  "You dumb bitches right there.  You're staring like I am some kind of circus freak or something.  Did the teachers or whatever send you guys to greet my ass or what?  Or are you all just slow?"

Phee snorted.  She already liked this girl.

"Come again?  You have no idea who we are, do you?" Casey's hands went to her hips.  "I would not be talking to us like that if I were you."

The girl smiled again, and walked a little closer.  "Oh really now?"

Phee jumped in between them.  "Settle down Casey.  I'd like to know what this stranger's name is before we hurt her for disrespecting us."  She held out her hand.

The girl stared at it.  "As for disrespecting anyone, you girls are the ones staring at me.  I kind of think you started it."

Phee withdrew her hand.  "Touche, Addison."  The name had just come to her out of nowhere.  "Wait, how'd you do that?"

Addison threw her head back and laughed.  "It's a parlor trick I picked up in Borneo."  She leaned into Phee's ear to whisper "I can put thoughts into other people's heads."

"Sweet," Dallas chimed in.  "What else can you do?"

"Well," Addison looked at her black fingernails to make sure none were chipped.  "I can spot a liar from a mile away.  And I can tell the future."

Dallas scoffed.  "My grandma can tell the future.  So can my mom.  That's the most common witch trait there is."

Morgan stifled a giggle.

Addison leaned in close, her breath hot in Dallas's face.  "No, I can tell you what bad deeds you'll do before you do them.  Well in advance."

Dallas swallowed.  "Well, that's different."

Addy stepped back.  "Yup.  Just like I know you're all going to ask me to be in your little group.  Which is why I got here early.  I could feel you bitches waiting to get a piece of me," she winked.

Parker laughed.  "Everyone except Morgan."

They all laughed together.  Morgan forced a smile.

"Watch out for this one, ladies," Addy pointed at her.  "She may come into her powers one day, and then you'll be sorry."

This made them all laugh again.  Except for Morgan, who was smirking.

Though nobody seemed to notice, but Addy...........



Click here for Chapter Two.

Read More »