It’s Mother’s Day

 

And why do I honor this woman who gave birth to me?  Because she is my mother and that is what society dictates to us or do I honor her for who I have become?  For being there to guide me on this journey of life?  Or do I honor her because I want to celebrate us being women for her passing on her love and friendship to me so I can continue this cycle to my own daughter?

 

Growing up our house was the house that everyone hung out at especially when we were young.  My mom was able to stay home with us until I was 12 then she went to work to help pay for us to go to parochial schools.  But up to that time our house was THE house to hang out at.  Now I never really knew why, growing up I thought my mom was a royal meanie, until I had met up with friends at the funeral of a mutual classmate.  While we were reminiscing about growing up and living in a small town I asked why did we all hang out at our house and I was stunned by what I heard:

 

          “Your mom was the best.  She always made home made cookies for us.”  Didn’t every mom?

 

          “ Your dad would actually play with us – remember when he put the basketball hoop up and your mom and dad would stay out with us as long as our parents would let us and actually played the game with us.”  I thought they just wanted to make sure we didn’t get too rowdy and start goofing off.

 

          “Your mom actually listened to me when I had a problem.  She didn’t judge me.  She didn’t preach to me.  She didn’t tell me what to do.”  That’s because you weren’t her child.

 

          “Your mom taught me how to swim.”

          “Your mom was the funniest mom.  Remember when I came over for dinner and your dad wasn’t home, your mom made hot dogs.  I asked her to please pass the buns and she threw them over the chandelier to me and laughed at my startled face.  It was always fun at your house.”

          “Your mom knew how to do crafts and would play games with you.  You were really lucky.”

 

I stood there as story after story was told and I could feel the wave of love and admiration for my mom wash over me.  I felt proud and lucky that so many of this group felt touched by my mom.  I was lucky to have the kind of mom who did bake cookies, listened to what I had to say, wanted to know where I was, with whom and that I was to be home by a certain time.  A mom who drilled times tables into my head through all my pitching a fit and fighting with her.  A mom who had an endless supply of Band-Aids, Kool-Aid, squirt guns (still has these), tissues, laughs, a set of UNO cards and most importantly enough love for her own kids and those who needed her.

 

It is Mother’s Day and I honor my mom for all that she is to me but most importantly for all that she has done for me and those around me who have enriched my life as friends.  Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, my best friend.

 

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Submitted by Mary Kay

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Today is Mother’s Day. Right now I feel how lonely single does on Valentines Day. There is nothing like being left out of a holiday to get your spirits down. I know at one point in my life I did not have someone special when lover’s day came around. I was probably little, and at that time boys had cooties and were to be avoided at all costs. I remember some of the girls, though. They wouldn’t wear pink or red. They came to school as if it was any other day. They would accept valentines from others, but they were not interested in giving out any cards or candy. Attitudes grew as they did. Soon, Valentine’s Day was a day like any other day. It was spent with all of your single friends who could care less about what holiday it may be. 

 

I am not admitting that I wanted a family with a little boy and a little girl. I have not secretly picked out names for these unborn children. I do not have my baby things stashed away in hopes of passing them down one day. I do not sit in my guest bedroom imagining it as a nursery. So, why am I feeling so lonely today?

 

My maternity clock began ticking at my bridal shower. At the time, I was a young woman in the midst of all of my mother-in-law’s older friends. They could all be my mother. I would begin to open a gift, and I had to be sure to not tear the ribbon, or they said I would get pregnant on my honeymoon. I was careful with each package and preserved each ribbon from every gift. I made a big show about laying all of the un-torn ribbon at my feet making my point clear to them. They all began chatting about grandbabies, as many of the women already had them. My mother-in-law had a look on her face that day that tells me she will get her grandbaby. If not from this son’s union, surly her daughter or her oldest son would bless her with a grandbaby. 

 

I am the last of all of my married friends to be childless. There is even a couple that was married after we were, and she is due in December. Some of them have already had baby number two. I have many excuses. Right now my favorite is, “I am still finishing school.”

 

I fear that will not last much longer. I only have a few more months, and then every one will be on the belly watch. Many men do not know what this is, but women do. When we suspect a woman is pregnant, we will constantly but very inconspicuously watch that woman’s belly. We look for any hump, bump, or lump that will tell us if that woman is expecting a child. It is silly really. When that person is ready, they will tell you. Either way, you will know, for there is no way to hide a nine month old fetus growing under your shirt.

 

So, I am still sitting here feeling left out. You have not asked why I feel left out. For everything I have told you says that I am glad that I am not a mother. I told you that I am not ready, and I don’t know if or when I will ever be ready. Well, I sit here with news that will change my life forever. I am supposed to be happy about it. This is something I have joked about many times before. I have always thought knowing I could never have a baby would be a blessing to me! No more worries about having that oops baby. But, instead I sit here knowing Mother’s Day will never be a day that I will be a participant in. My body will never know what it is like to hold a baby in its womb. I sit here and mourn the loss of a baby who was never even conceived. There could have been two, or even three later down the road. But, now there is not even one. I can only sit here and think back to my bridal shower. I was so sure of what I wanted. I wonder what would have happened if I had ripped open a package and carelessly torn that ribbon in half.

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Submitted by freckledSasha

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It’s Mother’s Day.  Alice Cook lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling, it’s surface stained with years of smoking. A cigarette lay smoldering in the ashtray next to her bed.  She rolled over toward the bedside table, pushed past last night’s glass of vodka and grabbed the telephone. Alice checked to see if the ringer was off and then set it back down in its cradle.  She didn’t like taking phone calls.

 

Alice didn’t really care that it was Mother’s Day. It had been several years since she had cared. Several years since she received a phone call, several years since a card was left in the mailbox by the postman. It was an annoyance, really. To be burdened with the holiday, the expectations.  Who cares about flowers, anyway?  They looked pretty for two days and then wilt and die. What was the point? 

 

Alice’s daughter moved out of the house 10 years ago. That was the last time she had spoken to her.  Alice’s last words to Jackie were, “I hope you fail.  Just like your father.  You’ll be a failure!”  She had stood there on the front porch, arms crossed in defiance and contempt in her eyes as she watched her 17 year old daughter climb into a cab, armed with a small suitcase.  She saw her daughter’s picture on the front page of the paper some years later in one of those “local girl makes good” stories.  Alice didn’t read it. She balled it up and threw it into the fireplace.

 

She sat up in bed and took a deep breath. This prompted a series of coughing fits, and Alice grabbed for the vodka to quell it. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she got out of bed and shuffled out to the kitchen.  The coffee, set up the night before, smelled strong.  Breathing it in cleared her mind.  That could be a bad thing. Alice considered adding a dash of scotch to keep a slight haze in her head.

 

Heading out to the driveway for the paper, she stopped along the walkway to inspect her tulips. They were perhaps the only things she took pride in. At least these ones stayed alive with minimal attention. Her kind of offspring. 

 

Back in the kitchen Alice set the newspaper on the table. It was folded into thirds, and printed in pink scripted letters were the words “Happy Mother’s Day!” cheerfully on display.  Alice glanced at it and snorted. She raised her cup of coffee, laced with scotch, toward the paper. “It’s shaping up to be”, she mused.

 

She knocked back the cup of coffee. What was the sense in letting it get cold, after all?  Helping herself to another blend of caffeine and scotch, Alice breathed it in with relish. She settled into her chair and unfolded the paper. It was full of the usual Mother’s Day drivel. There was a story about one mother’s quest to keep her son’s memory alive by planting a memory garden. There was another story about a mom’s award for her volunteer services to a local orphanage.  A waste of time, Alice thought.

 

Opening up the newspaper she caught sight of the headline on page 3. “Acclaimed author Jacqueline Cook dead at 27”.  Her daughter’s picture, taken from the jacket cover of her latest novel, stared back at Alice. Jackie was beautiful and laughing, with a light in her eyes that Alice vaguely remembered from her childhood. Alice felt strangely numb as she read the article, eyes darting over the details of Jackie’s life as though she were a stranger and not her daughter’s mother.  How had she not known about this? Cold began to spread through her belly like ice and she started to shake.

 

Alice Cook set her cup down.  

 

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Submitted by Elizabeth

 

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I still laugh when I think about it, though it is not really funny. I think that when people face a horrible tragedy, we rely on humor to keep us grounded and be able to make it through the day. It was only after a year had passed that I was able to look back and think of anything other than the searing pain deep in my heart. After those twelve months, I gained the courage to go through those damn boxes in the attic. I don’t know what made me go up there, but one Saturday afternoon I had the sudden urge to reconnect with my wife.

     One foot in front of the other, I made my way up the squeaking attic stairs. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, and as they did, I slowly took in the space in front of me. When I moved into the new place, I had some family members take the boxes up there for me. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So, when I decided to start going through her things, I didn’t know where to begin.

     The first box I opened took my breath away. All of her clothes were neatly folded as she had them in her dresser. I pushed the box away as I felt my head become light. I tried another one that was shallow with a gift box lid. The silver frame inside held a picture of the both of us on our Honeymoon. She had wanted to go to the Bahamas, but our tight budget would only allow for the Florida Keys. We drove there one Sunday morning, and it was the best trip we ever made up to that time. As I picked up the picture frame, a stack of loose photos were revealed.

     I had bought a waterproof camera for the snorkeling we would be doing on the trip. As I flipped through those photos, I soon found myself smiling. She was scared to go into the water. She was convinced there would be a shark that would eat her up. I had to physically pull her off of the tour boat. We made a huge splash, and for a moment she was so shocked she could only hit me in the shoulder and call me names. After a minute of that, she soon realized there was no shark lurking in the water waiting for her. We got horrible sunburns on our backs from the hours of snorkeling we did over those four wonderful days.

     The day that would change my life started out great. I got up for work, and beat the early morning traffic. Once there, I glanced at the clock and wondered if she had dragged herself out of bed yet. She had an impossible time getting up and getting ready. She was always late, and it used to infuriate me. I think of all of the grief I gave her for the dozens of occasions we either completely missed, or when we were thirty minutes fashionably late. I always asked her, “Would it kill you to be on time for once?” She gave me a look melted my heart and won me over again and again.

     That night we had dinner reservations at our favorite hotel restaurant for our eighth anniversary. I had planned for a 6:30 pm dinner, and I arrived separately coming right from work. As 7:00 pm came and went without so much as a word from her, I called her cell phone but was sent to her voice mail. Half joking I asked in my usual way, “Come on, Sarah, would it kill you? Just this one time is all I was asking for.”

     Turns out she had left work early and was headed for the restaurant when she was involved in a head-on accident. She had made every attempt to be there on time for me, and it actually did kill her. It isn’t really funny, but looking through all of those pictures reminded me of all of the great times we had together, even if we were late for all of them. I still laugh when I think of me leaving that message on her voice mail. I can just see her looking down on me saying something like, “See? I tried to tell you.” She has that look on her face, and all I can do is smile. It is the only way I can make it through the day.

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Submitted by freckledSasha

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I still laugh when I think about it.  If I didn’t laugh, I would most surely be an emotional quivering mass on the floor.  Laughter is the only thing that keeps me going these days.  I had loved Justin more than anyone in my life and gave myself to him selflessly.  He was the perfect example of everything a man should be; charming, intelligent, caring and most of all, loving.  It’s amazing how quickly it all changes when life throws you a fast ball.

 

We were in the car, traveling to see his mother.  When I had first met her, she was markedly distant, although polite and courteous during our stay.  She had warmed up over the five years we had been together and I had become her friend and confidante.  Since the trip was over five hours one way, he and I would usually try to play games to pass the time. 

 

The first two hours of the journey had gone by remarkably fast considering traffic wasn’t overly cooperative and we had been singing along to the radio and talking about our future.  We wanted to buy a house and have kids; but the debate seemed to be around which should come first.  He felt we should just start trying for a baby since we had already been together so long.  I felt we should be traditional and get married first.  We talked about the pros and cons of both sides, but couldn’t seem to agree on a plan of action.  We decided we should let the subject alone for a while and play a game instead.

 

Justin’s favorite car game was “I Spy” and he was quite good at it.  Of course this was the game he wanted to play and I readily agreed.  We started out with some easy ones to get warmed up before trying to make them more difficult.

 

“I spy with my little eye, something that is black,” Justin grinned at me with that mischievous look on his face. 

 

“But half the WORLD is black!” I whined.

 

“C’mon, now, be a good sport, Tasha,” he chastised me gently.

 

I grumbled and began to name everything I could see that was black.  After about fifteen straight minutes of this, I was getting frustrated because I just could NOT guess what he was thinking of.

 

“How about a hint, honey?” I finally asked him.

 

“A hint?  I NEVER give you hints!” he exclaimed.  “Why don’t you just keep guessing?”

 

“Please, Justin!” I begged.  “Just one hint and I won’t ask for another.”

 

“Well, alright,” he obliged.  “Look on the floor by your feet.”

 

I gave him an incredulous look and did as he asked.

 

I was later told that was what had saved my life.

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Submitted by Alicia

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I still laugh when I think about it.

 

A rumble of thunder met me as I walked out the door to have a cigarette before I started my busy day at work.  I pulled my jacket collar up around my neck as a slight gust of wind reminded that it was cooler than usual outside today.  As I turned my back to shield the lighter from the breeze, a flash of lightening followed by a roll of thunder made me jump slightly.  It was like someone sneaking up behind you and taking your picture unexpectedly.....then laughing because the image of you they caught on film was akin to the look of a deer in the headlights.

 

Then came the rain, beating down on the metal awning covering the walkway like those proverbial pennies from heaven.  I backed closer to the door to get away from the rain that was misting around me.  With my cup of coffee in one hand and my cigarette in the other hand, I watched people running toward the building as if they were dodging the raindrops, but not really succeeding.  It seems no one is ever prepared for the rain...even though they have an umbrella....somewhere.

 

Usually, when I have my morning smoke, I'm greeted by the sunrise...a sky full of orange and purple and pink and blue and gray.  But this morning was different, and sometimes, different is good.  Sometimes it's nice to start the day with something other than orange and purple and pink and blue and gray.  And I watched my different day unfold in between the drops of rain and the noise and flashes of light that accompanied it.  And it felt good.  It felt good to be different.

 

I inhaled the last pull from cigarette and let the smoke out slowly, savoring it and watching my exhale drift off with the breeze of a stormy morning.  As I walked back inside the building, leaving the wind and rain and noise outside, I wished, for just one second, that I could stay out there just a little bit longer.  But instead, I walked back to my office and looked at the stack of files on my desk that needed, no, screamed for my attention.

 

I took off my jacket, placed it on the back of my desk chair, looked at the files on my desk, then walked past them.  I walked back out of my office door, down the hallway and out the door from which I had just returned.  The large awning that had just been my protector from the inclement weather was now nothing more than a piece of metal meant for others to stay dry.  I didn't need it's protection.....I needed different, today.

 

As I walked in the grass, I stepped in puddles that were forming in the hollowed-out places in the lawn and laughed as they splashed up on my pant legs.  I raised my head upward.....facing the source of all this morning mayhem....and I stuck out my tongue to catch droplets of water that tasted as pure as spring water.

 

For a few minutes....I was Andy Dufresne and this was my Shawshank Redemption.  Free at last....free at last....thank God Almighty I was free at last.  I stretched out my arms and let the spring rain soak me to my very bones.  And I remembered how good it felt as a child, playing in the rain, uninhibited, carefree, naughty, reckless.....and different.

 

Different is good.  And at that moment, I knew my life was going to be different....because I made it that way.

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Submitted by Cindy

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I still laugh when I think about it. I was drying the water from my face when my mother came into the bathroom, slightly out of breath from climbing the stairs. “What did Jim want?” I asked, wiping a bit of soap from my ear.

 

“A pair of tweezers,” she replied as she steadied herself with a hand on the doorknob.

 

“What did he need a pair of tweezers for?” I wondered out loud as I reached for my makeup bag.  Surely if one of my girls had managed to get a splinter in a finger I would have heard a war cry by now.

 

My mother shrugged her shoulders. “Maybe he’s going to shape his eyebrows?”  We both giggled as she left the bathroom.

 

I tried to imagine my husband shaping his brows. That would be very metro-sexual of him, wouldn’t it?  I giggled some more, thinking that perhaps he might schedule himself a manicure and a waxing next. I stifled a guffaw to keep my hand steady as I drew the black lines over my eyelids.  A poke in the eye at this point would be very troubling, indeed.

 

I checked the clock. In order to be at the Young Authors conference on time we would need to leave in 20 minutes.  Mentally I scrolled down the checklist of things to do, figuring that so long as nothing cropped up, we should be able to leave without delay.

 

My mother came back to the bathroom to kick me out. “I need to pee!”

 

“Well you could have told me that before I set up shop!” I was nearly done anyway. One more swipe of mascara and I should be all set.

 

“I didn’t know I had to go until just now. Out!” she ordered.  Just then I heard Jim coming up the stairs. He rounded the corner and stood in the doorway, blocking me in.  “Are you about ready to go?” he asked me.  I had a certain issue with time management so I forgave him for asking.

 

“Just about,” I replied. “Hey, what did you need those tweezers for?”

 

“I had this crazy eyebrow! It was longer than the rest of them so I had to pull it out.  It wasn’t there yesterday!”

 

My mom and I began laughing while Jim stood there befuddled.  When we didn’t stop Jim assumed an explanation was in order.  “I didn’t want to look like one of those old men with caterpillars eyebrows.”

 

Now my mother and I were howling. I looked over at her and saw that her face was turning bright red.  She was doubled over, hovering above the toilet. Gasping for breath, she farted.  “Oh, God!” she cried. “I still need to pee! Get out!”

 

I could feel the tears spilling from my eyes. A glance in the mirror showed black tracks down my cheeks, my mascara destroyed.  I practically crawled out of the bathroom, leaving my mother to her…business.

 

We left 5 minutes late.

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Submitted by Elizabeth

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"I still laugh when I think about it; yet at the time I was terribly
embarrassed."  I smilingly replied to Samantha's query about my first
swimsuit, as I settled comfortably on the couch, whilst Sam lounging at my
feet, her bony elbows resting on skinny scruffy jean-clad knees, waited
impatiently.

"Please Nana," she begged, "What was it like?"

"Sam, the first swimsuit I remember was the most wonderful ripe cherry red
in colour, made by a family friend who kindly invited me to stay at her
beach-front holiday home when I was eleven.

Myra, kept abreast of the latest fashion trends.  I adored it when she
visited.  She had more shoes than I imagined anyone could ever own, and she
dressed up to go down town on a Friday; shoes to match her outfit that
usually consisted of a dress and jacket and an elaborately concocted hat
resting on her tightly permed blue-rinsed curls.  Myra's hats could have a
jaunty feather perched at a ridiculous angle from an upturned brim, or
perhaps a breathtakingly ostentatious brooch pinned rakishly on an otherwise
modest beret.  Yes Sam, Myra had style!

She was a dressmaker and had fashioned herself a sky blue swimsuit into
which she had inserted a bra shelf.  Sam!  Please don't look like that!  Bra
shelves may be all the rage today, but in my younger days they were unheard
of.  Myra was a little vain you see.  She had a tiny bust and contrived to
design clothes to hide, what she considered was, a major figure deficiency. 
I'll let you into a secret Sam. Myra wore falsies!  No, not false teeth,
though she had them as well, but padded inserts for her bra, carefully
constructed to give balance to her shape.

I quickly accepted her invitation to spend a week at the beach, but pleaded
a case of poverty on behalf of my parents, as until then I had worn hand-me
down swimming togs.  Myra, who was held in high regard as a seamstress, and
who had contacts with commercial fabric outlets, generously offered to sew a
swimsuit using the latest wool-jersey fabric.  Many of my friends had
elasticised swimsuits that clung to figures burgeoning into womanhood, but I
knew my conservative parents put those suits into the category of belonging
to a brazen hussy; a label I was encouraged to avoid.  I decided on red, a
colour my Dad frowned upon, but Sam, there are some little battles every
girl must win.  If I couldn't have an off-the-peg elasticised model I
certainly intended wearing red.  She measured me and within days I was the
proud possessor of a designer swimsuit.

Early the next week, after travelling a dusty winding road to the little
wooden beach house, we unpacked our food and clothes, and hurried onto the
sand that was golden and warm.  I ran towards the waves.  The tide had
turned and was coming in, the breakers riding higher and higher towards the
sand dunes as they broke in curling white crescents.  It was a glorious day.
  The sun shone brightly from a cloudless sky and I looked forward, with
anticipation, to spending endless happy hours swimming, building
sandcastles, and adding to my collection of shells.  I wore my brand new red
swimsuit.  Myra had thoughtfully provided a white rubber cap to protect my
long hair from the ravages of sun and surf.

Cautiously I tested the water.  It was almost warm!  I paddled into the
breakers and jumped as a wave tossed itself against my bare legs.  Venturing
out further the salty water was soon up to waist level.  I turned towards
the shore, dived into the surf and dog-paddled back to where Myra was
waiting with my towel.  As I waded out of the shallows my swimsuit felt
strange.  The weight of the water made it hang low; the crotch, full of
sand, anchored it around my knees like a peg securing a tent, and my budding
breasts peeked above the drooping neckline.  Yes Sam, you can laugh; I must
have looked a sight!"

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Submitted my Meadow Lark

The shrill ringing of the telephone dragged me out of a deep sleep.  I groped for my dressing gown, and stumbling through the door into the passageway reached the phone just as it became silent.  Botheration!  The luminous green hands on the face of the bedside alarm clock showed six o’clock … what a time to phone!  Within moments the jangling noise once again broke the silence, and this time I managed to pick up the receiver before the caller terminated the connection.

“Hello Lana,” burbled an excited voice I vaguely identified as the office junior.

I desisted snapping back and replied, in what was an extremely civilised tone for such an early hour, “’Morning Paula, why are you phoning so early?”

Paula continued gabbling, which made it difficult for me to make out exactly what she wanted.  “Lana,” she said, “you have to come into work early this morning.  Cyclone Trixie is heading our way and we have to move all the documents from the shelves of the Manager’s office.  We need you to help!”

Global warming had increased the occurrence of terrifying tropical storms. Last year, not only had a ferry sunk, but also flying roofing iron had caused considerable damage and broken branches or uprooted trees blocked the motorway. Previously I given little thought to the intensity of cyclones as we lived several miles inland where the city was protected by the surrounding coastal hills. Now the full force of Cyclone Trixie was about to provide us with a quick education in the ways of wanton destruction. I assured her I was on my way.

Outside the early morning was deceptively calm.  A watery sun crept over the horizon promising a golden day.  From the dim recesses of my mind I recalled that a cyclone is preceded by a period of calm.  This must be the calm.  Soon the wind would increase to a howling gale and trees and buildings would be flattened by the onslaught.  Windows could blow in!  Before leaving for the office I must do everything possible to make my own home storm proof.  I closed windows in the line of direct attack, opened leeward louvers, and moved pots of cacti and succulents to a sheltered corner before hurriedly ushering my devoted companion, Archie the Aberdeen Terrier, into the front seat of the car.  It would be too dangerous to leave him at home alone.  Should the storm lift the roof there would be no protection and he would be dreadfully afraid.

Ten minutes later I was driving to my workplace surprised at the relative lack of traffic on the road.  Perhaps people had already left the area and only the foolhardy stayed?  Obviously it was up to those remaining to keep the calm, to organise, and to prevent widespread destruction.  This was not a task for the faint hearted!  As I sped along, nearing the city-centre, lights of several skyscrapers beamed their busy glow to the awakening day. People were visible bustling around the offices.  The tall building that was my workplace loomed and after parking the car I ran, carrying Archie, to the escalator, where I bumped into Mr. Wilberforce, my immediate superior.  We stood together as we were carried to the fourth floor.  Mr. Wilberforce was as agitated as I, as we discussed some of the problems we might encounter … the chief one being exactly the safest place for the important files.  He suggested the Board Room; that grandiose, wood- paneled office with a huge polished oval table and plush chairs, and a hidden seldom-used safe, built into the floor.

Up and up to the fifth floor, the sixth floor, and finally the seventh floor … our destination!  Mr. Wilberforce opened the door and on the reception desk lay a calendar open on the new month, April.  Paula had left a note, ‘April Fools!’

 

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Submitted by Meadow Lark

 

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If it weren’t for the color of the shoes I would never have noticed them.  A bright orange, the color stood out in a stark contrast to the grayness of the bathroom stalls that surrounded it.

 

I only caught them at a glance. I don’t make it a point to notice what’s going on in a bathroom stall but there they were.  In the moment that it took for me to notice the bright orange color of the shoes I registered that they were high heel shoes, probably about 3 inches high. And they sat quiet and still while their owner did their business.  And so did I.  After I was finished and on my way out of the bathroom I caught sight of them once more, again still and quiet.

 

It was some time later in the morning when I entered the same bathroom.  Too much coffee forced the inevitable and I waited too long to do nature’s business. I fumbled with my zipper on my jeans in a near panic, all the while doing the childhood “pee pee” dance, squirming around.

 

While washing my hands I caught sight of the same bright orange shoes. I became curious as to who the owner was. I hadn’t seen anyone wearing them in the office, but of course it could have been a customer. Our appointments usually don’t last more than an hour, so that scenario was probably out. Hmm. Oh, well.  I left the bathroom.

 

My curiosity really piqued when I went back in a few hours later, after lunch. Same shoes, same stall. Still and quiet feet, just as before. What on earth?  At the sink I washed my hands, slowly.  Then I took my time metering out the generic brown paper towel.  I looked toward the stall in the mirror but saw no movement.  I tore away the paper and dried my hands. After I tossed the paper I feigned checking my makeup and hair (as if!) and moved around, trying to get a glimpse into the stall through the crack of the door. Yes, there was definitely a person in there. Brown hair. A bit bigger than me in size. Green top (with orange shoes??). No movement.  I bit my lip.

 

What if that person were hurt? Unconscious?  Dead? That last thought made my stomach do a flip and I began to panic. What the hell?  Could that person in there actually be dead?  Okay, I need to get someone. Call 911. I started toward the door before common sense took over. Perhaps I should try talking to the woman in the stall before I went calling 911 on the assumption that she was dead.

 

“Ma’am? Is everything ok in there?”  I felt like an idiot but what else could I do under the circumstances? “Hello?”  I leaned closer to the stall and knocked on it, hoping that this would elicit an indignant response, if nothing else. No reply.

 

Taking a deep breath, I looked through the crack in the stall. Yep, there she was. Head laying on her shoulder, pants pushed down to her knees. Oh, man.  I tried using my fingernail to turn the lock on the door and promptly broke a nail. Damn! I just had a manicure! I grabbed for my badge and used the corner of it to unlock the door and swung it open. She lay there, still as death. I reached over to check her pulse and felt nothing. Was I doing it right? Damn! Damn! Damn!

 

Her hand shot up and grabbed me by the arm. The last thing I remember before hitting my head on the floor was “April fools!”

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 Submitted by Elizabeth

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I lay there, staring at the ceiling, thinking I would wake up any minute. Then the throbbing of my bloodied face, and the sounds of my parents yelling at each other, glass breaking, fists smashing, brought me back to reality. This reality. It was not pretty, nor fun. I adjusted the cold rag and closed my eyes with a sigh. Silently I prayed that my little sisters would stay in bed tonight, and not get up for anything. I was not going to be able to cover for them if they got in his way. Usually I would try to place myself between them and dad, that way they were just scared to death, instead of scared and bloody. It usually worked, but tonight I didn’t think I could handle anymore.

I had come home from school, and started my chores… like any other day. Then dad had come home, and all hell had broken loose. I don’t know where or what my mother was doing… heck, she was probably so high that she didn’t either. I was standing in the kitchen at the sink doing dishes when he came in from the garage. This was always a scary spot to be. You were in the direct line of fire if he came in throwing things because you were right in front of the door. He passed by once, and I heard him in the back room slamming things into the wall of his room, the pitch of his voice growing louder and louder. He came by again and went to the living room. The sound of glass shattering as some unidentified object flew through the lower pane of the window brought my bladder into my stomach. I knew I couldn’t be lucky three times in a row. I was right.

On his third pass, he noticed that I was rinsing in one side of the sink, and washing in the other. The last time I had gotten in trouble for the way I was doing dishes, I was rinsing with the running water. This time I had plugged the sink like dad had showed me, and was making sure to keep it as clean as possible to use for rinsing. He stopped dead in his tracks. It was like slow motion on TV, you see it coming, and yell, “Run stupid!! Don’t just stand there!!”  Because YOU can see what is coming. Dad put his hand down into the sink, and then around my throat all in one lightening fast swoop.  The next thing I know, I am up against the wall and he’s in my face screaming,” How the hell are you going to rinse off all the soap with warm water?? It needs to be HOT!. How many times am I going to have to show you??”

I could not move, I could not talk; I was pinned to the wall. But I could pee. And oh did I. I think back now and wonder why at 15 years old, I would piss all over myself if my father looked at my cross eyed.  And then I remember why. There was a flash of fists, and ringing in my head and that was that. I woke up in my room, in my bed, with a cold rag on my face. Which brings us back to my current train of thought about my sisters; … as long as they stay out of sight, they would be ok.

I drifted off. I could still hear my mom crying, and my dad yelling. Then he went out to mess with his motorcycle in the garage and the house was still. It was safe to relax and try to sleep.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and weight on my bed at my back. Dazed, I tried to shake the sleep from my eyes. My lip was numb, and my left eye was swollen shut still, so things were a bit hazy. I thought I heard someone crying again.

“I’m so sorry jess. This isn’t how things were supposed to be. This isn’t the kind of dad I wanted to be. Your mom isn’t the kind of mom I thought she’d be. I really do love you, and I am so sorry.”  It was my dad, and he was in tears.

I didn’t know what to do. I thought I was dreaming. I lifted my hand and patted my fathers knee and said,” It’s okay dad, I love you still anyways.” And after a minute he left my room.

The next morning, nothing was said of the night before. Life was normal, well at least as normal as it was in our house. And to this day, I still don’t know if I was dreaming... I am afraid to ask. So it stays my secret in the darkness.

 

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Submitted by Jessica

 

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She was walking home from school when she made her decision.  Her parents had moved her to this small fishing community a month prior and she was inexplicably drawn to the forest behind their house.  She fancied she could hear the wind calling her name as it gently caressed the branches of the trees.  Today, she was going to follow that voice. Her heart swelled with anticipation of what she might discover.

 

She let herself in to the house with the key her father had given her and went directly to the kitchen.  She would pack herself some snacks and water to bring in case she became hungry.  After scribbling a brief note to her parents as explanation for her absence, she donned a light coat and headed towards the backyard.  The grass extended about 300 feet until it merged with the tree line.  It was quite a large yard, larger than she had ever had before.

 

The birds were chirping and she could hear the incessant buzz of unseen insects as she entered the woods.  It was a beautiful day with nary a cloud in the sky and the sunlight filtered through the leaves like glittering diamonds.  She stopped for a moment to inhale the sweet smell of lilacs and pine needles and sighed to herself with happiness.  Her parents had been convinced that the move to the country was just what they needed to re-connect as a family.  She had vehemently disagreed but they had only been here a month and she had already changed her mind.  She hated to admit it, but her parents had been right.

 

She made a mental note of her surroundings and then decided to press on and explore a bit.  Throughout her life, animals had been eerily attracted to her. When she was only two years old, a baby fawn had come right up to her as she was playing in the sandbox at her aunt’s house.  He had merely sniffed at her at first. When she held out a fistful of grass he nibbled at it ever so gently, much to her glees of delight.  Her mother and grandmother had been nearby watching the entire episode.  Her mother had been wide-eyed and afraid, but her grandmother had whispered that she may have “the touch.”  She had heard this story many times as she got older. She was special, her grandmother said.  To this day, she wondered why.

 

Her reverie was broken by the soft crunch of something moving across the forest floor.  She turned around and was face to face with a small fox, with three babies in tow.  The animals looked at her with recognition and did not appear to be scared of her.  She tentatively reached out, making a soft cooing sound in the back of her throat.  The fox came to her with no hesitation and put its nose in her outstretched palm.  She scratched under its chin and slowly brought her other hand up to rub its ears.  She had never seen a fox act like this before.  But then again, she had never been this close to one either.  She found herself thinking about “the touch” her grandmother referred to.

 

She thought back to the conversation she had had with her Nana the day of the big move.  They were in her room, sitting on some boxes as the movers hurried in and out of the house with laden arms.

 

“You must remember that you are not like other little girls, Cassandra.  You are special and have a tenderness that animals can sense in you.  You are a kindred spirit and will be able to use your talents when the time is right.  Do you understand, my darling?”

 

She nodded that she did and got up to give her Nana a hug.

 

“How will I know when the time is right, Nana?” she asked

 

“Your heart will tell you, my child.  You will know.” Tears shimmered in her Nana’s eyes.  “Now go see if your parents need any help.  I think it is about time for goodbye.”

 

The fox was nuzzling her hand and her mind came back to the present.  She felt so connected in this wonderful place and thought this was why she had felt as though the forest had been calling to her.  It occurred to her that this was her destiny. As she gently rubbed the soft fur on the fox’s head, she couldn’t help but wonder what the future had in store for her.

 

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Submitted by Alicia

 

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Once upon a time, before yesterday, it was expected that girls would learn the Crafts of Womanhood in preparation for a career in matrimony and motherhood.  From an early age we were encouraged to ply a needle and thread, beginning with stitching wool onto pieces of cardboard in which holes had been punched.  Bright colours helped to make the finished article a work of art, or a mess, depending on the needlewoman’s expertise.

When I reached the illustrious third year of primary schooling we were introduced to a more advanced form of wool craft.  We brought from home pieces of sugar bag, a brown-Hessian type fabric that could be turned into a variety of useful articles if one was imaginative and industrious.  We diligently pulled threads in the warp and the weft.  Beginning in the bottom right hand corner, and using colourful wool scraps seconded from the knitting bag, we X-stitched along the row, up the next row continuing to the top, changing colour as we either ran out of one shade or desired a Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat design.  These were taken home and prominently displayed by our proud Mother, and used to carry hot pots to the bench.  Not only were they decorative, they were practical, both essential prerequisites for a future homemaker.

At the age of eleven our school deemed it essential that girls learn to cook while the boys learned woodwork.  One term before cooking classes began we had to make a cooking apron and hat.  White was the only choice of colour, but for distinctive individuality we were expected to embroider our name, on apron and hat, in a colour of our choice.  The aprons were carefully cut out from a crisp white fabric that had to be starched to keep its prim stiffness.  We had not at this stage progressed to using a treadle sewing machine, so it was needle and thread hemming all around.  Tiny stitches were acceptable … anything else was rudely pulled out by the teacher overseeing this important addition of womanly attributes.  Thankfully I must have had a good eye and a steady hand and apart from a rather grubby finished article I was fortunate to complete my apron and hat without the embarrassment of having my work held before the class for derision, and subsequent ripping out.  I chose red for the embroidery.  The hat was similar to a nurse’s cap of that era, a world away from the plastic head cover-all that is in vogue today.

One year I tried tapestry.  Sadly I never finished that article, and it was only recently, after examining it closely and deciding it had no further use in my life, that I consigned it, regretfully, to the rubbish bin.  It did have a lot of pulling out!  I did not have the endurance needed for intensive needlework on canvas.

Another project completed, when we were flooded out of our home and spending a few days staying near the seaside, was an X-stitch supper cloth.  Now one must remember that back in the good old days it was a sin to slap a coffee mug on a naked table.  In the interests of decorum and breeding the table needed a cloth, and the cup rested on a saucer.  I X-stitched yellow roses, and red roses with a few green leaves interspersed, onto the four corners of a counted thread white cloth that measured a meter square.  With mitered corners and delicate hemming I have to boast that my supper cloth was shown in a school display as an example of what young ladies could master if they had patience and perseverance, and some measure of skill combined with a keen eye for detail.

I progressed to using a sewing machine, and, as matrimony and motherhood came my way, I branched out into making clothes, drapes and cushion covers, dolls clothes, toys and fancy-dress, all done from necessity, not from choice.  One day in the future, I may again take up the needle and thread … if I have the inclination of course!   Perhaps a tapestry?

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Submitted by Meadow Lark

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It was a work of art.

 

A magnificent, gleaming piece of engineering brilliance that surpassed no other. And it was mine! I do not recall getting it for any special reason although I’m sure it wasn’t Christmas. Perhaps for my birthday because it was warm enough to be outside…

 

Regardless of why I got it, I was just happy to have it! As I knelt next to it and ran my hands across the smooth contoured banana seat up the half-sissy bar and back down over the rear fender, I am sure the look of utter astonishment on my face relayed to my parents the joy and humility in which I accepted this cherished gift.

 

All of the sudden, I wasn’t in the tiny little town in northwest Missouri, I wasn’t the six year old son of a man and woman struggling to make ends meet, I was Evel Knievel sitting at the top of the ramp at Caesar’s Palace. I looked out over the crowd, cheering me to risk life and limb for their enjoyment. Screaming and chanting my name as the flash bulbs exploded and my image was recorded for the history books.

 

I looked down at the 18 buses lined up. They were my nemesis. They were the only thing standing between me and my destiny. I would conquer these buses! They would be mine before this day was over!

 

The landing at the end of the jump would be smooth. I would glide to a perfectly executed hook stop. I would remove my helmet and raise my hands to the air in defiance of death. People would remember that moment. Little boys would fantasize about it…

 

My dad wakes me from my little daydream by asking if I’m OK.

 

I respond by telling him I am fine and he asks if I am ever going to try out my new bike. The butterfly’s in my belly kick into overdrive as I realize I have never ridden a bike before.

 

Our home at the time was just outside of town. In my mind, I remember it as a big hill on a gravel road. I have since been back to that house to see where I spent those formative years of my life and the hill is little more than a small rise. But it seemed just as steep to me that day as that ramp was in Caesar’s Palace.

 

Back then, there were no such things as a ‘bike helmet’. The only ‘safety equipment’ you had were the cells located between your two ears. Apparently, I had some defective equipment.

 

Like little boys often do though, I forgot about any sorts of danger or safety precautions as that daydream started to replay in my head. I lined up my new bike at the top of the hill. I honestly believe I could see those buses at the bottom of the hill as the crowd cheered me on.

 

I picked up my feet and placed them on the pedals and, for the very first time I was riding… A wobble here and there but I could start to feel the wind against my face. And it felt good. Now I tried to pedal. Another few wobbles but I was starting to get the hang of it. The crowd’s cheering reached a frenzied crescendo of chanting my name.

 

Then… a collective groan rose from the crowd as the bike and its rider got a little too close to the edge of the road. Once into the soft dirt, the rider, with his lack of experience, could not recover.

 

I had that bike for many years. The handlebars would never be completely straight as a result of that first mishap but the crowd in my head still cheered.

 

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Submitted by Zman

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The weather was absolutely atrocious.  Lightening, thunder and wind pounding heavy against the house.  When I looked outside, I could barely see the house across the street.  "Guess we're in for the night," I told Maggie.  Looking up at her name, she meowed her sentiments to me.  Then she turned and ran for the bedroom where she hid under the bed.

 

I was suppose to have a date tonight.  First time in what seemed like forever.  I had given up the ghost of 'Prince Charming' a long time ago.  That was for everyone else, not me.  But once again, I was putting myself out there.  I had never lived my life second guessing myself, and I wasn't about to start now. 

 

He and I had been chatting on line for about two months.  He was nice enough and about my age.  You know, that middle age thing.  Where you're too young to be old, and too old to be young?  Of course, if you're at either end of that spectrum, I'm sure you don't understand.  He was a self described middle age man with just a little middle age spread.  That made me smile.  He was about 6'2".  That was a plus, as I was 5'8".  "I wonder if I'm shrinking, though," I thought to myself. 

 

He was scheduled to arrive at 7.  I had taken my daughter to a neighbor's house so I could enjoy some adult conversation.  I knew I could talk about work, politics, and possibly, religion.  He had to be open-minded enough, though.  But given the weather was so bad, I truthfully didn't expect to see Him.  However, there had been no phone call or email to advise otherwise.  And I didn't want to jinx the date.  I didn't call or email, either.  Instead, I dressed in my gray wool slacks and red turtleneck.  I applied my makeup and swept up my hair. 

 

It was 6:50PM.  The rain was continuing to come down.  My nerves were beginning to feel rattled.  "What should I do?" I wondered to myself.  "If he doesn't show up?"  I was fearing rejection, even though the possibility of a cancellation was warranted. 

 

As if on cue, at 7PM, a bolt of lightening shattered the dark, and the thunder quaked the evening.  In the noise and the light, I did not realize a car had turned into my drive.  When He rapped on my door, I about jumped out of my skin.  Gathering my composure, I unlatched the door, and opened it.  There He stood in his Jimmy Stewartesque pose with carnation in hand.  He was tall.  And he had a very slight middle age spread.  That made me smile. 

 

I held the door for Him, and He handed me the carnation.  I took his coat.  Then I did the most natural thing in the world.  I hugged him, as though I was hugging an old friend after years of absence.  I welcomed Him into my home.  As the weather was so bad, we decided to stay in.  Dominos always delivers.  They're like the mailman-rain, sleet, snow or hail.  Maybe it didn't seem all that romantic at first, but when the power went out and I had to light the candles, suddenly eating pizza by candlelight was. 

 

The glow of the candles poured over the walls.  We talked about everything.  I know my face was flushed with all the laughter we shared that evening.  It was absolutely euphoric.  I forgot about the weather.  By the time I realized it was no longer storming, it was after midnight.  He knew I expected him to be a gentleman.  So He gathered his coat and we began to say our goodnights.  I knew it would be the first of many. 

 

While this was the most sane thing I had done in a long time, He leaned forward to gently brush my lips with his, and his words to me were, "You must be crazy."

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Submitted by Suddenly Susan

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Debra needed a drink.  Today had been a day beyond hell.  Stepping out of her car into the parking lot of the Randy Dragon, she locked the doors and dropped the keys into her pocket.

Inside, the atmosphere swirling with smoke and laughter, warm beer and greasy fried foods was like a welcome home.  A smile was spreading slowly across her face as she pushed her way to the bar.  Minutes later, drink in hand, she turned to face the tiny corner stage.  Friday night used to be “open mike”, but the advent of karaoke had changed that.  Now every Jim, Joan and Larry tried to dazzle a current attraction with their “superstar” vocals.  The fact that most of these people were tone deaf didn’t detract from the fun.  Some nights were better than stand-up.

As one drunk patron after another made a fool of himself, Debra couldn’t help but put her crappy day aside.  A few more drinks and she was nearly ready to play the jester herself.  Thankfully, the Dragon was crowded, and the walk to the stage didn’t seem worth the effort.  She kept busy watching people come and go.  Letting the alcohol wash away the tension and strain until she felt human again; on the verge of happiness, but not quite there.

A table opened up on the far side of the room, and she motioned a waitress to follow her.  Ordering dinner, she switched to white wine.  Despite the nice paycheck, her “career” had become a chore.  She managed with less and less panache every day.  By Friday, the Randy Dragon was more than a stop on the way home, it WAS home.  She couldn’t remember the last time she left before last call.

Watching another bad performance of a favorite song was finally more than Debra could stand.  It was close to midnight, the bar was packed and dinner was a distant memory.  Without thinking, she stood and walked up to the DJ.  Giving him her song choice to queue up, she stepped up onto the stage.  The sea of movement threatened to spin her right off the little platform, so she held to the microphone stand like an anchor.

When the first notes of the song rose from the speakers, she closed her eyes and took the deepest breath she could take.  From somewhere deep inside her heart, the words rushed out in clear, crisp, perfect pitch.  The monitor was useless.  She felt every word.  Sailing through her veins with an ease she never dreamed existed, her own drunken performance silenced the house.  Final notes fading into nothingness, Debra opened her eyes to find that a sea of faces focused on her.  A man in a cowboy hat slowly brought his hands together in applause, and the room erupted in raucous abandon.  She stood there shaking, not really comprehending what she had just done.

As she stepped away, the waitress touched her arm, “Honey, I didn’t know you could sing!”  Debra smiled, but suddenly felt nauseous.  She focused on reaching the door and then on reaching her car.  Sitting behind the wheel trying desperately to catch her breath, memories flooded her mind.  Her mother singing softly to a little girl with auburn curls, her mother singing passionately for a family barbecue, her mother dressed in pretty sparkles walking onto a giant stage and singing with every bit of her soul to thousands of strangers, and finally, her mother lying under a white sheet that still wasn’t as white as her skin.  Debra’s sudden realization that she was about to quit her lucrative job to finish what her mother started shocked her to the core.

“Girlfriend,” she whispered to the empty air around her, “you must be crazy”.

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Submitted by Queen Bee

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Rowan had always liked Jon, since the first day she started her job. He wasn't overly handsome but she couldn’t resist a man who had great taste in suits. She often caught herself daydreaming about him. It killed her when she found out that he was married with three kids.

Not to mention, every time she would talk to him or was just passing by his face lit up with a dazzling smile that Rowan couldn’t resist. With his red hair, blue eyes, and great sense of humor he was different from all of the other men she'd ever met. She would flirt innocently with him when they talked, but mainly due to him initiating it.

One evening Rowan found herself working on a project with Jon that they had been spending countless hours on to have completed by the deadline. If it weren't for her he'd be totally lost when it came to the graphic designs. By midnight they had finished, he drove her home thanking her and insisting that he take her out to lunch the following day.

Naturally she wore her best skirt and blouse to work looking forward to an entire hour alone with him in a non-business environment. During lunch he was funny, adorable, and stealing her heart with every smile he put on her face.

They had returned to the office to finish out the afternoon and just as she was preparing to leave for the evening Jon came to her desk looking worried. The project they had worked on the previous day was about to fall apart unless she could make a few adjustments to one of the designs and get it back to their client in 10 minutes. After a few mouse clicks and a quick message to the client Rowan had saved the project.

Jon looked down at her sitting in his office chair and started to scream with excitement over what she had just done. Rowan stood up smiling at him as he wrapped his arms around her and pulled away just enough to kiss her on the lips.

She was in total shock and from his expression, so was Jon.

Rowan excused herself and quickly rushed off to her desk to gather her coat and purse to leave. Just as she was cursing her high-heeled shoe for tripping her, Jon came to her desk.

"I'm sorry... I didn't mean to,” he said.

Rowan held up her hand to silence him. "We'll just pretend like nothing ever happened."

Jon's eyes got big and without thinking he said, "I don't want to do that!"

"It doesn't matter, you're married!" Rowan shot back. She immediately had wished she held her tongue because he then looked back at her with a deep sadness in his eyes. But before she could say another word he started to speak again.

"I'm not married any more. I've been divorced for a year but with the CEO being a family man I didn’t want him to find out so…”

“So, you didn’t tell anyone.”  She finished for him.

"I like you Rowan.” He continued. “But it's been so long since I've dated that I don't really know what I'm doing. Plus, with no one knowing about the end of my marriage... well, you know where that's going. I guess now that you know everything you wouldn't want to have dinner with me sometime."

As a smile spread across her lips she replied, "You must be crazy."

 

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Submitted by Fat Chick

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The line was ringing, incessantly, it seemed to my overly anxious ears.  I prayed that he would answer, willed him to answer.  It wasn’t fair to get my hopes up only to dash them to the floor.  Still, the phone rang and I began to feel a ball of dread working its way up my throat.  I told myself I was NOT going to be upset if the letter was a fake, but deep down I knew I probably would be anyway.  Just as I had decided that my call was fruitless, I heard a click and a voice.

 

“Hello?” a breathless male voice inquired.

 

“Hi, this is April Barnes calling,” I stammered.  I had resigned myself to the fact that the phone was going to be unanswered.  Now my adrenalin flared and my mind raced; I searched for the intelligent words I had thought of earlier.

 

“I received a letter in the mail from Stephen and I was hoping I could speak with him?”  I was so nervous now I briefly debated hanging up and cutting my losses.

 

“This is Stephen.  How are you doing, April?” He sounded happy to hear from me; from ME!  I couldn’t believe I was actually talking to the King on the phone!

 

“I’m doing great, especially now that I have you on the phone!” I giggled nervously. “Is it OK to say that?  I’ve been waiting so long to meet you; I must admit I am a bit intimidated.”

 

He laughed out loud, the sound was hearty and like music to my ears.  What are you supposed to say to your idol once you are talking to him anyway?

 

“It’s fine and don’t be intimidated,” he laughed again.  “I’m human too and am probably more like you than you realize.  I’m hoping you are calling to take me up on my offer of coming out to Bangor for a visit?”

 

“That would be wonderful,” I responded.  I was trying really hard not to hyperventilate and not sound like an idiot to the master of words.  “What do you have in mind?”

 

“How about I pick you up this Saturday?  Steve told me where you live and I actually know the area quite well.  Will you be bringing anyone with you?”

 

“I may bring my husband but I haven’t asked him yet.  You don’t need to know definitely yet, do you?”  So, Steve HAD been the one to set this all up; I was going to drive over to his house as soon as I finished my call with the King to thank him and perhaps even kiss his feet!

 

“No, I don’t need to know quite yet.  If you can let me know by Thursday, that will be fine.  I want to make sure I have enough food for everyone to eat,” he responded.

 

“Sounds good,” I replied. Geesh, where were all the genius phrases I had thought of earlier?  The man was going to think I was an English dummy!  “I will talk with you again in a few days.”

 

We exchanged goodbyes and hung up.  I began jumping up and down and screaming to no one in particular, “I’m going to meet the KING!!!!  It’s going to be incredible!”

 

Suddenly, I had a horrid thought.  What was I going to wear?  How was I going to keep from making a complete fool of myself in front of one of the most amazing writers of my generation?  What if I fell down his stairs or couldn’t make small talk when he picked me up?  Millions of thoughts were churning in my head and I hoped this wasn’t going to be a big mistake.

 

What if my husband didn’t want to go?  Well, I would go alone then and have just two measly sentences for him.  “You don’t want to go and meet the King?  You must be crazy!”

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Submitted by Mainebikerchick

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The sun cast a glistening silver veneer over the white-capped waves breaking onto the sand bar of the river mouth, and black-back gulls swooped in endless pursuit after shoals of small fish that were stranded in shallow pools created by the ebbing tide.

Patti, holidaying in a quaint, whitewashed, fisherman’s cottage with scarlet geraniums growing near the door, opened the blinds and breathed deeply; a sigh of relief escaping her lips.  Two days of persistent fog and cool winds had until now jeopardised her chances of crossing the wide expanse of sand to explore the island that was accessible at low tide for only a few days each year.  Today the correct combination of sand bar, tides, and the welcome sight of the sun creeping above the horizon made an expedition feasible.  After hurrying through breakfast she quickly packed a lunch, a water bottle and a muesli bar into a waterproof backpack, unchained Buster, her elderly golden retriever and together they ran down the narrow gravel path to the river’s edge.  Beyond the vast expanse of wind rippled sand and tiny pools stood the island, a rocky sentinel guarding the river-mouth.

“Come on Buster”, Patti called.  “If we are going to make this crossing today we had best hurry before the tide begins to turn.  I suppose I should have told them at the shop where we were heading for the day.   It’s too late now.”

Slipping of her sandals and buckling them together Patti began the trek towards the island.  She knew great grandfather had, last century, manned a whaling station on the far side and she understood there were still signs of habitation from those bygone days.  The island also housed an expanding colony of white herons, which Patti hoped to take a photo of, if time allowed.  She looked back.  The village appeared miles away, but she knew the island, at low tide, was about a mile from the mainland.  Not far to go now, she thought.  Buster raced ahead sending flocks of gulls and terns into the air.  Patti strode onto the island, threw her bag and shoes onto the sand, and ran in decreasing circles yelling out “I’ve made it!  I’ve reached the island!”   She executed a full cartwheel; she ran towards an outcrop of jagged rocks, climbed to the top waving her hands wildly, and joined Buster in a crazy bird chase.  An adrenalin rush fueled her sense of achievement making the trip worthwhile.

The noise of a huge wave crashing on the shore turned her attention to the tide.  Not only was it on the turn, but it was also filling the pools.  Patti was anxious.  What to do?  Should she camp on the island until the next tide, or risk the journey back?  In the distance dark clouds were gathering behind the hills … a sure sign of rain.  She grabbed her pack, whistled to Buster and hastily retraced her steps across the slowly filling passageway with the incoming waves crashing gently at her ankles.  Buster splashed ahead, but Patti decided she would feel safer if he stayed at heel, and called him in.  Together they headed homewards, Patti keeping up a running conversation with the dog in an attempt to calm her rising panic.

They had retreated half way.  Patti did not like the sight, or feel, of the seaweed swaying on the tide and wished she had not been so foolhardy.  Why hadn’t she checked the exact time of low tide?  If they had left an hour earlier this would not have happened.  Buster swam as he attempted to catch a piece of wood drifting by.  The water was up to Patti’s knees, and there was still some distance to travel.  A rogue number seven wave hurled seaweed onto Patti’s thighs and she felt a rising sense of terror.  She couldn’t swim, and while Buster was an excellent swimmer, she knew it was beyond his capabilities to rescue her should she be swept off her feet.  The water crept up and desperately she rolled her loose-fitting trousers even higher.  No way did she want to have the weight of saturated clothes pulling her down.  A waist high wave rolled in catching her unawares.    Patti held in check a scream as fear threatened to completely overwhelm her.  When the wave finally curved into debris-laden foam Patti spied dry sand, and safety, only meters away.  She stumbled to the shore and ran up the beach collapsing onto the warm sand and whispered to Buster, “Shall we do this again tomorrow old boy?”

Buster looked at her, tail between his legs, as much to say, “You must be crazy”.

 

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Submitted by Meadow Lark

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Autumn in Covington Falls, Idaho had always been a time of renewal for Professor Rachel Engel, until this year.  As head of the local college English department, Rachel was always excited about start of the new academic year, and an end to the hot, torpid days of summer.  Now comes the warm days; cool evenings when the foliage grew more beautiful everyday.  Her garden at the house was still a riot of yellow, orange, purple and burgundy from her prized plate-sized dahlias.  Autumn was always a time of constant activity of one sort or another, a time of year when everybody on the small Idaho campus moved with a sense of purpose.

On the first day of this new term, for the first time, Rachel was not looking forward to going back.  Reluctantly she stood at her kitchen sink, looking out the window at nothing, which she seemed to do a lot of these days.   She was pouring another cup of coffee when the doorbell rang.  So startled was she that she sloshed coffee onto her wrist, and dropped the cup in the sink.  Grabbing some ice from the dispenser on the refrigerator door she ran for the front door, but when she threw it open, there was no one there.  Then she glanced down and saw the package.  Curious she bent to pick it up, and immediately knew it was a manuscript.  Pretty hefty too, but it wasn’t the first time she had been asked to read someone’s first novel.  This was weird because nobody had asked her this time.

She quickly changed, noticed her wrist wasn’t too bad, and as she rushed out the door she grabbed the package she had set on the hall table and tucked it under her arm, shifting her briefcase to her other hand.  It wasn’t until after lunch that she remembered the package.  By the time she was crawling into bed that night, she had nearly finished reading the manuscript, which she had read avidly while eating her lonely dinner, as well as all evening.  Titled “A Second Chance” it was about an older divorced woman who found happiness and true love in the arms of a younger man.  Her own divorce last year had totally destroyed her confidence where men were concerned.  Being dumped for a grad student left a bitter taste in her mouth.  The manuscript was like getting even.  I’m still an attractive woman, she thought, this could happen.

The next morning as she was getting ready to leave she smiled at the new bounce to her step.  Then as she was once again pouring that second cup of coffee the doorbell rang.  This time without incident, she returned the pot to the burner, and calmly walked to the door.  On the doorstep this time, was the author of the manuscript.  He was a former student from her Creative Writing class five years back.  She recognized him instantly, not because of the high marks she had given him for the class, rather because he had elicited feelings in her back then that weren’t proper for a married woman.  Now she smiled and opened the door wide for him to enter.

“I have to confess that you were the inspiration for the book, which is why I wanted you to be the first to read it.  It wasn’t until I got home last week from New York that I discovered that you were divorced.  I have had such a crush on you since college, that I can’t hide the fact that I am delighted.  You will have dinner with me tonight.” 

It was more a statement than a request, and her eyes grew large as she looked at this sexy man, who wanted to spend time with her.  Her instinct was to refuse and something in her demeanor must have alerted him to a possible rejection coming. 

“Come on Rachel,” he said, “Don’t crush this young man’s heart again.  What’s one dinner?”

She smiled at him then and said, “No boy, I have no intention of turning you down.  If you thought that, then you must be crazy.”

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Submitted by Deborah (reposted to be included with the Weekend Project)

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