Years ago, when my kids were just tiny specs of what they are now, a best friend of mine would drive from her house, nearly an hour away, just to cook dinner for me.
At least once a week.
She invited herself of course, as all good friends do. In my state, it never would have entered my mind to entice another person into my varying vortex. When it began, I had only a single child. The task was…
Helena chooses a seat at the very end, as far away from everyone as possible and right next to the window. As she swings her bag across the table and onto the chair in front of her, a familiar voice disrupts any peace she thought she might be able to steal.
“Bags don’t get a seat. House rules.”
“And rules were made to be broken.” Helena replies without looking up.
I tried to eat. I really did. But the numbers kept jumbling around in my tummy—making their way up my throat and filling my mouth, leaving no room for food. I could barely stomach the math test I was about to endure, never mind the syrupy oatmeal my mom has been simmering on the stove top for the last half hour.
The sweet smell is what woke me. A deep inhale, one eye open, then the other. What…
We’re friends, right? Yes, I know we are. Know how? Well…you’re here. Reading this post.
I’ve been gone a long time. But you’re not mad. Or angry. You’re not even upset. Maybe missing me—I secretly hope—a little sad even, and that’s natural. It means you’re a good human. You care. But what you’re notdoing is questioning my intent. Or commitment. Or the relationship we’ve built together, just…
The Band-Aids are blue. Four that I can see. One masking each little knee poking from below her skirt’s hem and one on each elbow, like patches covering holes on an old man’s cardigan. The rest are hidden, but I know they’re there. They’re always there.
Back one night as she lay on her firm cot, she whispered into the lamp’s soft glow; “They can change, you know. When I’m happy, they turn…
I entered a contest a while back. I didn’t win. Or even place this time. Which stings. But it’s okay. It’s okay, because I always pay extra to receive a serving of critique alongside my disappointment. And sometimes. When I’m lucky. It ends up making my disappointment taste like dessert.
Yes, there were words like, uneven and cliche (ouch) but the words that really stood out for me were…wonde…
A spoonful of potato hits the plate with a wallop and a little spec of mash lands on the hand holding it. Instead of shuffling on like most, he pauses, making eye contact. I steel myself, waiting for a curse word or a dirty look but all I see is empathy.
It’s the last place I want to be and if I hadn’t already committed, I’d be home, covers over my head.
When I think of someone I haven’t seen for a long time. Or someone I will never see again. I see their hands. My mind pictures the shape of their nails. The length of their fingers. Slender. Wide. Rounded or squared. The curve of their wrist. The gestures they made.
Unique. Personal.
But they change. Our hands.
Fingers bend with an arthritic curve. Skin tells of our days…
I tend to write dark stuff. Most of my stories are either dark fantasy or horror, and many of them don’t end well for at least some of the cast. This once prompted Nimue to comment that all my stories seem sad.
In truth, I try to weave a fair amount of humor into my stuff, and the more I write, the less consistently tragic my stories have become. Still, if you write horror, you’re going to…
dexraven
I tend to write dark stuff. Most of my stories are either dark fantasy or horror, and many of them don’t end well for at least some of the cast. This once prompted Nimue to comment that all my stories seem sad.
