Genesis, the retelling

Okay, so as sometimes happens in the literary world, the journal that originally published my short story, GENESIS, Twisted Sister Literary Magazine, appears to have closed. That means, you lucky people, get to read the store without having to click on any petty links. Huzzah?

Genesis

The silence is nice in the beginning. I don’t like most people, except for you, so it is freeing to be alone. The bodies are unsettling, though. Their cloudy gray eyes watch me as I dance away the first few nights, high on survival and disco. I can feel their resentment, their disappointment, as if they somehow know our secret even now. I can’t leave them in the house with me. They’re starting to smell. I don’t look at their faces as I tug and pull on arms and legs, straining to get them out of the door and into the backyard. I can no longer think of them as my family. You, you were my family, my new beginning.

Even after I drag them out of the house, the smell still comes in when the windows are open. That ripe, wet scent of decay, like a sour drain that’s been vomited in. Flies are everywhere. Their buzzing replaces the electric hum of life and appliances, though louder and more persistent. I twitch when they land on me. I wonder, are they surprised to find me warm and breathing? 

I wonder where you were when it happened.

The power lasts a week; the taps go dry two days later. It all goes dark in the end. I’m running out of food and there’s no more water. Riding my bike in circles through town, over and over, the streets too clogged with cars and bodies to drive. I stop at every store I see, peering in the windows, trying to open the doors, but they’re all closed up tight.

It’s my third day of searching and I find a store whose door is held open by a leg, now mottled purple and green. I push and push and am finally able to slide the door open. The large store that once claimed the lowest prices in town is still and dark, silent yet full of people. Why had they all come here at the end? I step over the bodies and try to find my way around with only the murky light from the high windows to guide me.

 Up and down the aisles I wander, trying not to look at the bodies and trying to not breathe through my nose. I carry boxes and bottles to the door, not thinking of how I will get it all home. I suppose I am also looking for someone else like me, someone alive. I’m looking for you, too, but you aren’t here so I settle for water and cans of soup. And batteries, lots of batteries. By now, all the dairy is spoiled, the bread green, the meat rotted. Lots of rotting meat everywhere I look. I know I will have to come back and move the bodies somewhere, but I can’t do it today. I’m just too tired, too sick, so I carry what I can and go home.

 Was it you who left the portable CD player where I could find it? It must have been. Only you would remember how happy music makes me. I sing loudly, dance wildly, and I can almost forget what happened. Almost.

 Sometimes I think I’m glad you weren’t with me at the end. I don’t think I could have stood to watch the light go from your eyes, the love leave your body. At least this way, not knowing, I can still have hope. Hope that I you might someday come back to me.

 The wildlife is starting to move in. Packs of wild dogs roam and fight over the bodies while cats with feral eyes watch me from around corners. Vultures cast delicate shadows as they circle overhead. They’re drawn to the smell.

 I find a wagon, the bright red plastic fading to a dull orange in the sun, and use it to drag food and water home from the store. It’s easier to go in there now that I moved the bodies to the large freezer and I can’t smell them anymore. One day I am surprised to find a deer running in panic up and down the aisles. Someone must have left the main door open. I don’t think it was me, but I don’t know who else it could have been.

 I vomit all day long now. Flies swarm around me as I retch, eager for what my body is revolting against. I want to crawl into bed and cry, but there’s too much to do, too much to prepare for. I wish there was someone here that could help me through what I know is coming in the winter. 

*********************

It’s been nine weeks now. I see you sometimes. A curtain twitches or a shadow moves in a mirror and my heart leaps that it must be you. That you, too, somehow survived and have come home to me. I can’t be the only one left. If there is me, then there must be another, and why should it not be you? But the footsteps I hear in the night are never yours. I don’t know who it is.

You told me that everything would be okay, that you would always take care of us, but you’re not here now. How am I supposed to do this without you? I feel like I am forgetting who you were, who I was. I can’t remember what it was like before. There is only the way it is now.

The windows of the other houses are eyes watching me. I think I can hear screams from behind the locked doors. I look in a window and wish I hadn’t. Those people had a hungry dog. Nature has returned to reclaim what was taken and I am no longer alone in the house. At night, I can hear sounds like whispers and see eyes glowing red in the dark halls upstairs. I sleep in the living room now where it’s safer.

I wish I had a gun.

The summer storms are here, worse than I remember. Naked, I let the warm rain wash over me while the winds and the lightning rage. Lots of rain, but I am never clean, never the same as I was before. Heat follows the storms and the smell outside becomes unbearable. I cower in the cellar, a towel over my face, failing to stop the assault that breathing brings. I stay down there too long and the rats come, sniffing at my feet, so I have to leave.

I look in the mirror in the hall, but it’s a pale stranger who looks back at me. I wonder who she is. In bright red lipstick, I write my name and yours on the wall so I won’t forget and the letters bleed across the wallpaper. Annie. Colin.

 I can’t reach the food on the top shelves at the store, so I have to climb up on boxes and I worry that I might fall. I’m going to have to start taking things from the storeroom. Eventually, though, there will be no more food and then what will I do?

 Sweat makes rivers down my body and my skin glows red and shiny with blisters as I walk, my toy wagon rattling behind me, always searching. Searching for more stores, more water, more food, the possibility of people. Keeping busy makes it easier to ignore the smells, but it is impossible to ignore the bodies. Black and swollen and oozing, they don’t look human anymore. The insects and maggots are so active that it seems like the corpses are moving and might rise once again to dance in the streets. Even the wild dogs feast elsewhere now.

*************************

 Four months alone and the sun leaves too soon these days. Red and gold fly on the wind and the grass turns silver in the cold of night. The air smells of damp leaves instead of bodies. It’s still a death smell, but a sweeter one. My clothes are too tight and ragged and I am cold. I drag bags home from the store, stuffed with too-big tourist sweatshirts and sports team scarves. I try to light a fire, but something is wrong with the fireplace and the house fills with smoke. I have candles, lots of candles, but they don’t give off much heat. If I use them all I’ll be left in the dark with the voices.

 The thought of being alone in winter frightens me most of all.

 I fell today. Just a small cut on my leg, but it scares me. What if I get hurt? More than a cut? Or get sick? And how did that box get into the middle of the aisle where I tripped over it? You know I have no need of cat litter.

 I feel someone watching me. Following me. Footsteps walk in time with mine down the streets, but when I turn, no one is there. Why are they hiding? It can’t be you. You would never hide from me. I walk fast, almost running, when a root grabs my foot and I fall. The pain is harsh and brings tears. I hear laughter behind me. Sounds I remember from long ago when others would point and laugh. Mean laughter. I do not look back again.

 I see strange things in the mirror, so I cover it with a blanket, but that doesn’t stop the noises.

 My music never stops playing. I can see you dancing next to me, laughing, and it makes me happy. A raccoon watches from the kitchen and I think he is happy, too.

 It’s getting harder for me to walk so far, to drag the heavy wagon back home, but I still go, trying to get enough food and water before it snows. The storeroom has plenty for me but I’m not the only one that’s been here. More boxes, things I don’t need, stacked in the aisles. Bottles broken, shelves swept clear. A pink greeting card by the door. ‘Thinking of you’, it says. I can hear their whispers, feel their stares. I hurry home.

 I don’t want to go to that store anymore, but I don’t have a choice. 

 I’ve lost track of the days. When was the last time I saw you? I can’t remember and that makes me sad. It is snowing again today. The other snows were just enough to paint the world white, but this one is stronger. Cold fingers reach into the house to find me hiding under layers of blankets with a flashlight and a book, like when I was a child. I light candles, but no matter what I do, I am cold. I fall asleep and in my dreams a face is pressed up against the window watching me, watching the candles. It almost looks like you. In the morning, I can almost see footprints leading to the window, but the wind is blowing them away. The snow keeps falling.

 I hear the whispers upstairs. They do not listen when I scream at them. My voice is rusty and rough, and when I try to talk it is just wordless moans. 

 I will not make it another night without more heat. I plaster the windows with newspaper and spend hours putting candles in the living room, so many that it is hard to walk.  Moving keeps me warm, but I am so tired. Tired of living. Tired of everything. The storm grows angry as night falls. I heat spoonfuls of soup with a candle flame, but that does little to warm me. The music is loud to help silence the sounds from upstairs and from the storm. Candlelight seems to dance with the music, shadows flickering on the walls. Windows rattle in the their frames, little protection against the storm outside. I am too cold, too burdened, to dance, so I wrap myself in blankets and wait for the end of the storm. Wait for the end of it all.

Wind and glass explode into the room as a branch crashes through the window. My cheek stings and blood stains my blanket red. The candles that are still standing catch the curtains and flames climb the fabric to the newspapers that line the windows. My screams are louder than the wind as I back away from the fire, candles falling, flames marking my path. The music keeps playing.

I am not cold now.

 Smoke chokes me, tries to drag me down. Do I hear screams from upstairs? I slip through the fingers of fire and burst through the door into the storm. The wind tries to rip my blanket, my skin, from me. I think I see faces at the windows, laughing in the flames. One of them looks like you.

 The heat from the house is powerful and I am warm in my blanket. Flames reach to the sky, turning the snow red. The storm does not scare me now. The fire is my friend. A tree stands over me while I wait for whatever happens next.

 I press a hand to my stomach, where the last part of you moves and kicks.

 I am not alone after all.

End of 2023

Here we are. The time of year of reflections and resolutions and promises to ourselves and others. The time when we swear that we will BE better, DO better. And some may actually do it.

But I’m not here to talk about that. Y’all do what you’re gonna do.

What I am here to talk about is what I’ve somehow managed to accomplish this year.

It’s been a weird year. Work is weird. Family is weird (not bad, just weird). My mental health took a beating a few months ago and I’m still working to pull myself out of it. I found out that I have moderate hearing loss in my right ear and am trying to save up the money for a hearing aid since insurance won’t pay for it.

And with all of this, I’m still trying to find time to write and edit and submit. So, without further ado, here are my stats for the year:

• Individual pieces submitted: 17

• Journals submitted to: 74

• Total individual pieces submitted across the journals: 196

• Submissions withdrawn: 11

• Individual rejections: 144

• Pieces accepted: 6

• Journals closed during submission window: 1

• Submissions still pending: 25

• Pieces published: 5

• Pieces slated for publishing in 2024: 1

So what does all this mean?

Basically, I submitted 17 different pieces (3 previously published stories; 1 new story; 2 photos; 1 book; 10 poems) to 74 different journals. Of those, one publication closed and I withdrew 11 submissions because the piece had been accepted elsewhere (as an aside, one piece got accepted by two publications before I remembered to withdraw it. People really like ‘The Graveyard on Church Street.’ You should read it).

Of the 10 poems I submitted, 5 got accepted, which is a 50% acceptance rate. Four got published in 2023: Void, Faces, The Graveyard on Church Street, and The Sea Cannot Turn to Stone. My other poem, Together, is slated for publication in January 2024, but I am including it in this year’s stats because I can.

One short story got published this year, Sebastian the Safety Squirrel. I strongly recommend you read it; it’s hilarious.

I still have 13 publications that I am waiting to hear back from on various submissions. Publishing is not for the feint of heart.

Now, on to the statistics for this website and my author page on Facebook.

My Facebook author page (Allison Walters Luther, Author) currently has 55 followers. I wish it were more, but it’ll grow in time. Come on by if you so desire!

For this website, allisonwaltersluther.com, I am extremely proud of the reach I have achieved this year:

• 658 visits from 615 unique visitors with 875 total page views.

• Visitors from 16 different countries! United States, United Kingdom, Canada, South Africa, Singapore, Australia, Switzerland, China, Spain, France, Ghana, Russia, Italy, Germany, Belgium, and India.

• Here in the US, I reached 30 states: Missouri, New Mexico, Kentucky, Vermont, New Hampshire, Minnesota, Colorado, Arizona, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Wisconsin, New Jersey, Florida, Ohio, Oregon, Michigan, Connecticut, New York, Massachusetts, Illinois, Utah, Georgia, North Carolina, Indiana, Virginia, California, Wyoming, Iowa, Texas, and Washington. (As a side note for my Indiana friends and family: you need to step up your game. I’ve had more hits from Wyoming and I don’t even know anyone in Wyoming!)
  

And now? What comes next in a non-resolution sort of way? Who knows. I’m slowly working through editing on my book, The Other Side of Winter, with the help of my wonderful editor, Jeni. I’ve got Sensitivity Readers lined up for once the revisions are done. I’m still writing poetry and have three different short stories in progress right now. I turn 48 in 2024 and it’s all really starting to come together.

I want to thank all of you for the support over the past year, especially Adam, Shannon, Jami, Jily, and Laura, along with the others who have cheered me on from around the world. It means the world to me and I can only hope that my writing has touched you in some meaningful way. That’s all I can ask for.

Have a great 2024!

The Graveyard On Church Street

My poem, The Graveyard on Church Street, was published October 30, 2023 by Poetry Catalog. As mentioned on my ‘Published Works’ page, this is an extremely emotional and personal poem for me. The Graveyard on Church Street is a real place, located in St. George’s, Telford, England, where I lived for a brief time in the late 90s.

St. George’s Parish Church on Church Street was just around the corner from where I lived at the time. It was a very difficult time in my life for a variety of reasons, but, in the middle of the night, when things would get especially bad at home, I would leave and walk to the church. Or, more specifically, the graveyard.

Now, I am an atheist. I don't go to church unless it’s for a wedding or a funeral. But I do love cemeteries. Very, very old cemeteries, to be exact. And England is full of very, very old cemeteries. I also have an intense love of English and Scottish history. And this cemetery, right around the corner from my flat, was OLD. The oldest stone I could read was from the 1700s, I think. I took some pencil rubbings of some of the stones, but those got left behind when I came back to the States.

Anyway, whenever home was no longer home, I would leave and walk to the church. This was in the early months of the year, January, February, March, and it was COLD. And it was the middle of the night, usually 11pm or later. I would walk there and the wrought iron side gate would always be open, as if it were expecting me. I would spend hours walking amongst the graves and crying.

In the end, I came back to the States in mid-March and I still think I left a part of myself in that old, cold, lonely graveyard.

(Photo take via Google Earth of the actual graveyard on Church Street, St. George’s, Telford, England.)

Economy of Recognition

I read an article yesterday (Interview with Cleo Qian) that resonated with me. (And I absolutely want to give full credit of the phrase “economy of recognition” to Cleo Qian. That is her beautiful construction, not mine, but it struck a spark for me.)

From the interview in Famous Writing Routines with Cleo Qian:

Your work has appeared in over 20 outlets and you have received recognition for your writing, including the Zoetrope: All Story Short Fiction Competition, Pushcart Prize nominations, and support from the Sundress Academy for the Arts. How do you think this type of recognition has impacted on your writing career overall? 

When you frame it like that, it seems like a lot of recognition. But this belies how much rejection I have faced in proportion. I have a spreadsheet – I have probably been receiving a hundred rejections a year for nearly a decade. I have complicated feelings about the economy of recognition.

What is the ‘economy of recognition’?

In the seven years I’ve been submitting to journals, magazines, and contests, my acceptance rate is just over 21%. Is that good? Is that bad? Is the glass half-empty or half-full? Does it mean anything at all? Does anybody really know what time it is? (An important question from the band Chicago.)

Putting yourself and your work out into the ether of an incredibly subjective space (art and, more specifically, writing) is daunting. Nah, more than that. It’s scary as fuck. There are few rules and even those that exist can be broken if you break them the “right” way. What one person loves, another person hates. What one journal rejects, another accepts, saying “This was perfection!” (Seriously. That happened.)

"C'est la vie,” say the old folks, “It goes to show you never can tell.” At least according to Chuck Berry.

So, how much should we, as writers and artists, worry about recognition? And how personally should we take rejection?

Which leads to another question: does “recognition” only come from outside sources or does it also come from friends/family/personal aquaintances/fuck buddies/whatever? To put it another way: if a piece is accepted by a magazine and published online, and receives praise from strangers, but no family or friends comment or share it, what does that mean for the author? Is recognition worth more if it comes from the world at large or if it comes from the writer/artist’s inner circle? Does it change if something is published in hard copy or only digitally? What about the form, the genre? Are novels worth more recognition than short stories and are short stories worth more than poems? What about romance versus literary versus horror?

(And, although I’m not specifically talking about payment or financials here, it still begs the question: Does actual monetization play into this and, if so, how? If you make money off a piece, does that make it more worthy [worthier?] of recognition?)

Privilege also factors in, because of course it does. The more privileged you are, the better connected you are, the more money you have and are willing to spend, the bigger the reach you can achieve. The bigger the reach means increased recognition. Increased recognition leads to bigger reach. And so on and so on and scooby-dooby-dooby, in the words of Sly and the Family Stone. This is a big part of why helping to expand an artist’s reach, if you are able to, is so important, even if it’s just sharing a link on your Facebook page.

Ultimately, I put myself and my work out into the world to be, hopefully, widely read and enjoyed. I clutch every acceptance like a dragon hoards books. Every like, every share, every comment, mean something to me. The more recognition, the more encouragement, I get makes it easier to push through the hard times when imposter syndrome is kicking my ass. It’s like an endorphin rush. It keeps me going.

And the rejections? Eh, it comes with the territory. Some sting more than others, but I can’t be afraid of them. Silence from the inner-circle? That’s harder to take.

So how does one do the calculus of economy of recognition? How much of ourselves do we put into that equation? And what does it cost us?

It’s a hard thing to answer.

The Sea Cannot Turn to Stone

Welcome to 2023! I’m hitting the ground running, I swear, even though it is nearly March already. How the hell did that happen?

Anyway, I started submitting pieces right away, on January 1st. All poetry to start with, still trying to place the pieces that didn’t find a home last year. I’ve also dusted off a comedy piece I wrote for a contest years ago, Sebastian the Safety Squirrel, and am trying to place that as well.

But that’s not why we’re here today, is it? Nope! I bring you here today to talk about my poem, THE SEA CANNOT TURN TO STONE. This is a re-telling of the Medusa myth, born from a submission call by my friend Jaime Dill and her literary journal, Full Mood Magazine, on the theme of ‘Mythos’. While ultimately we realized that my Medusa wasn’t the right fit for Full Mood, I was so incredibly excited and in love with this piece that I started shopping it around, finally finding a home at JAKE, The Anti-Literary Magazine.

This poem is by far the longest I have ever written, starting off at over 1,000 words before being trimmed down to 750-ish. I find it to be extremely powerful and have had people comment that this is their favorite thing I’ve written thus far.

THE SEA CANNOT TURN TO STONE does carry a Content Warning for Sexual Violence, although it is NOT graphically described and only circumspectly mentioned in one stanza. Please do not read it if it will make you feel uncomfortable.

Allison’s Year of Poetry (2022)

You know the saying ‘the days are long but the years are short?’ That’s kind of how I’m feeling right now. I’m exhausted. It’s been a long year, a weird year, yet it also seems to have flown by. Or maybe I just need a nap. Yeah, it’s probably that.

But still, it’s been a strange year, especially for my writing. Normally, up until this year, almost all of my work has been short fiction pieces plus my novel, The Other Side of Winter. I haven’t really written poetry in decades. No real reason, just the way it was.

I am, however, nothing if not full of wild and varied ideas. My poor ADHD brain will just spit out a phrase or an image and it lands on the paper however it chooses to land, in whatever form it wants.

This year, that seems to have been poetry.

2022 has been the year when I’ve published the most pieces ever, with a total of seven: two stories and five poems. I’ll get to those celebrations in a minute.

But first, I want to talk about all the stuff you, as a reader, don’t necessarily get to see. Mostly, the rejections that come with putting your work out there, into the hands of total strangers, and asking them to deem it worthy of publication. It’s not just a matter of sending in a story or a poem and they publish it right away. Some journals get thousands of submissions. Some only publish during certain times of the year. Regardless, it takes an extreme amount of time on their part to read every submission and decide if it meets their requirements, their aesthetic, their vision. And most of the time, it doesn’t. It can take months to hear back from a publication, even if it is a rejection. Most rejections I’ve received have been polite form letters, which is fine. Others go a bit more in-depth, letting me know what they liked. But at the end of the day, it’s a yes or a no.

Here are my statistics for 2022:

• 13 pieces submitted (2 stories, 11 poems)

• 86 separate submissions to 79 different publications — I submitted the same pieces to multiple journals and also submitted to the same journals a couple of different times during the year. Usually, the poem submissions were bundled into a group of 3-5 poems at a time, depending on the requirements of the publisher.

• 23 submissions withdrawn as the pieces had been accepted elsewhere

• 22 total rejections for my two short stories, “Ruby” and “The Sycamore Table”

• 72 rejections for individual poems, even if they were submitted in a batch

• 2 submissions I still haven’t heard back from yet

• 2 short stories published

• 5 poems published in 4 journals (1 journal published two of my poems)

• 1 poem published in hard copy; the rest were all released digitally

And I did all this while also writing for NaNoWriMo, getting The Other Side of Winter ready for editing, and working on a couple of other concepts. Plus, you know, my day job and my family and everything else.

Like I said, it’s been a hell of a year. The spreadsheet where I track my submissions is more colorful than it has ever been, but there was an awful lot of red (rejections). It’s all part of being a writer. Not everyone is going to like everything and that’s okay. Hell, even I don’t like everything I write sometimes. Other times, I impress the fuck out of myself.

Which brings to the good part of this post: THE CELEBRATIONS!

Of course, you can find all these links on my Published Works page, but I’m going to share them again here because why not?

Half-Life - poem (CW: attempted suicide)

The Sycamore Table - short story

Ruby - short story

Bleeding - poem, published in hard copy. All sales benefit the Center for Reproductive Rights.

Fractured - poem

Burning Bridges and Wise Woman - two poems published by the same journal

For now, I’m working on editing The Other Side of Winter. Editing is a scary place to be, but I am loving working with my editor, Jeni. Shit’s starting to get real and I’m eager to see where I can take this novel. Speaking of TOSofW, later this month will mark 8 years since I first started the story that has become so incredibly important to me.

I hope you all have a wonderful winter and holiday season, however you celebrate. Thank you to all who have read my work and supported me this year. I love you, dear readers!

Have a happy New Year!

NaNoWriMo Win and Other News

I did it. I finished National Novel Writing Month! I was able to knock out just over 50,000 words in 26 days. Is it done? Not by a long shot. Is it any good? Fuck if I know. Will I finish it? It’s got potential, definitely. We’ll see what happens down the road.

In other news, the novel I have finished, The Other Side of Winter, has been with my editor, Jeni, since October and she’s finished with it! We’re meeting on Monday to discuss a few things and then she’ll be sending over notes and thoughts. I’m terrified, but ready to jump back into another revision on this story that means so much to me.

No new publishing updates for now, although I have submissions to six journals still pending. I’m in no rush. It’s been a productive year, which I’ll sum up in another post in late December.

For now, I’ll leave you with the prologue and first chapter of my NaNo book, Before the Snow Flies. It’s very rough and unedited, but I’m all-in-all pleased.

Prologue

Springfield Sentinel, March 18, 1848 -

       Family slain, daughter survives, farm worker missing

                The McDonald family was found gruesomely murdered yesterday in Haven. The bodies of Jebediah McDonald, his wife Marison, and three of their children, Mary, Abilene, and Marcus, were found in various locations around their farm, all with multiple bloody wounds to the heads and torsos. A blood-smeared axe lay in the front garden, as if thrown away by the perpetrator.

       The bodies were discovered when the McDonalds’ eldest daughter, Julia, returned home from visiting a friend in Concord. Neighbors report her screams could be heard for almost half a mile. Police estimate the family had been dead for a least a full day.

       Money, jewels, silver, were all left undisturbed in the house. Only Jebediah’s prize stallion, Barnaby, is missing. Mr. Stanton of Stanton’s General Store, reports seeing the McDonalds’ employee, Billy Snyder, riding through town early in the morning of the 16th of March. “I didn’t think much of it,” said Stanton. “But the boy did seem to be in an awful hurry.”

Anyone with knowledge of Billy Snyder’s whereabouts is asked to contact Wilford Briscoe at the Sentinel or Sergeant Greaves of the police.

#

Lancaster Gazette - February 13, 1848

       Tired of the crowds? Longing for adventure? Come on, men, and join on for a trip to California! Help with the livestock and travel for free! Leaving from Cincinnati in late March. Reply to George Walters at the Cincinnati post office. California is Paradise on Earth!

Chapter One

The entry room at the police station was colder than the spring air outside and Julia pulled her cloak closer around her, looking down at the floor.

“Unfortunately, Miss McDonald, we don’t have any new information for you. You should go home and wait. We’ll contact you when we know more.” Sergeant Greaves was behind his desk, not sure what to tell the young woman standing behind the bar and really wanting to get back to the cases he knew he would be able to solve.

“But you must know something. It’s been two weeks.” Her voice was shaking, scrubbed rough by so many tears and screams.

Sergeant Greaves sat back down, shaking his head. “As I told you previously, Billy Snyder was seen riding out of town to an unknown destination.”

“On my father’s horse, yes, I know. You think he did it?”

“The newspapers and evidence seem to point to him. Do you know of anyone else who would have a motive?”

“No one. Everyone loved my father and family.”

“Why do you think he chose the day he did? Did he know you were coming back? Had you been communicating with him at all?”

“I don’t recall ever speaking with him, much less discussing my plans. Maybe he overheard Mother or — “

“How well did you know Billy Snyder?” Greaves was convinced that the suspect and the pretty daughter were closer than she was willing to admit. He didn’t trust unmarried women of her age. At all.

“I didn’t know him at all. He’d only been working for my father for a couple of months. I don’t know why anyone would have done this.”

“Well, there you go. This just may be one of those things that happens sometimes. A tragedy, no doubt, but one of those things we may never get an answer for.” He reached for some papers on his desk, hoping that it would signify that the conversation was over.

“So that’s it? You’re not going to do anything?”

“What would you have us do?”

“Is someone going after him? After Billy?”

“We don’t know where he went, so it’s rather difficult to know where to go.” Greaves glanced up at her, choosing not to notice the tears dripping down her face. “Leave this to the professionals, Miss. We know what we’re doing.”

Julia finally looked up, her brown eyes locking firm with the sergeant’s. He startled a bit at the ferocity in them, not the meek, sad eyes he’d seen previously.

“Given what I’ve seen so far, I seriously doubt that, Sergeant Greaves. Thank you for your time.”

She turned on her heel and walked out of the station, head held high. Not bothering to close the door behind her, the March wind swirled in and swept the papers off the sergeant’s desk.

#

Julia hadn’t been back to her family’s house since the day her world got turned upside down. She stood outside the gate, looking around to see if anyone was there, or if anyone was paying any attention to her. If asked, she wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint her desire to remain invisible, but she’d rather that people not see her going into that house of horrors.

Moving quickly through the front door, left unlocked by the police she noted in frustration, she flinched at the muddy footprints on the formerly pristine floor. Aggie, the housemaid, would be furious, she thought, before realizing Aggie probably wouldn’t be coming back.

None of them would be coming back.

Up the stairs, not looking at the bloody handprints on the wall. Down the hall to her room, eyes straight ahead to avoid looking in the other rooms, knowing how the blood had pooled and splashed as the axe swung. She knew her room was safe to be in.

Her eyes moved over the room, the bright quit her Grandmere had made for her, still smooth and untouched on her bed. She would definitely be taking that with her. She was grateful to have a place to stay, but her friend Marnie was far shorter than she was and she couldn’t keep borrowing dresses forever. She might as well take other things while she was here. She’d really rather not ever come back into this house ever again.

This was the house she was born in, was raised in. Closing her eyes, she could still see with her mind’s eye the idyllic days of chasing chickens through the barnyard with her sisters. Hours spent at the piano, her mother poking her in the back to make her sit up straighter. Racing up and down the stairs on rainy days, playing the nonsense games children always play. So many memories, forever stained by blood.

It was the thought of blood stains that set her in motion. Leaving her belongings in her room, she’d come back to get them later, she hurried back out into the hall, down the stairs, past the portraits of her family that hung in the great hall and seemed to be begging her for help, through the kitchen and out through the pantry and washing room, into the back garden.

Snow had started to fall, light, fluffy flakes that clung to Julia’s hair and cloak, the air as sharp as the axe that killed her family. Last year’s grass, frozen and silver, crunched as she hurried to the barn. From far away, or maybe just up the street, the sounds of horses and people and laughter filtered through to her. The sound of people living while she was in service to the dead.

#

The barn was empty of livestock, as she had known it would be. The cows and remaining horses (oh, how Father had loved Barnaby), had been taken to a nearby neighbor, along with the chickens and the ornery rooster who delighted in chasing Julia if he thought she was getting too close to his harem. The smell still lingered, though, of hay and manure and the comforting scent that the cows always seemed to have about them.

It wasn’t the livestock she was there for.

Out through the back of the barn, a couple of dozen yards away, lay the bunk house. Full during the late spring and into autumn with crop workers, in the winter it was only occupied by whatever seasonal work Father managed to hire to help with the livestock.

This year, that was Billy Snyder. He had come on at the beginning of the year, replacing old Curry Mathews who broke his leg falling out of the hayloft when he had over-imbibed. (Wasn’t Mother just scandalized by that?). Julia never paid him much mind. She usually didn’t interact with the outside workers, unless Mother asked her to take their meals out to them if Aggie was busy.

Now, standing in the bunk house, door swinging shut behind her so the only light was coming in through the grimy windows, floor gritty under her boots, she tried to recall what all she knew about Billy Snyder.

It wasn’t much.

He was older than her 24 years, she thought, but probably not much older. He wasn’t local, but she couldn’t say where he’d come from, just a vague recollection of overhearing Father saying something to Mother about him. Maybe that he was from Pennsylvania? Virginia? Not Ohio, she was almost certain of that. Maybe.

She moved cautiously through the bunk house. She was never allowed inside at all, especially if the men were about. It wasn’t safe, Mother always said, but would never explain why.

All of the bunks were bare of linens and hay-tick mattresses, except for the one in the far corner. That bed was neatly made, corners folded tight and crisp. A bible stood on the bedside table.

Everything was coated in dust. (If the police had been in here, wouldn’t there be signs?) The bed disturbed, things moved around? She ran her hands over the bed, pulled the covers back. She wasn’t sure what she was looking for, exactly. Just some hint of the man, who he’d been, where he’d come from. And, most importantly, where he might be headed now.

After finding nothing in the bed, she moved to the table. The black bound Bible was heavy in her hands. She opened the cover to find the name ‘William David Snyder’ written inside. Maybe she had been hoping to find a list of relatives, as some people marked their Bibles that way, but it was just his own name. She tossed the book on the bed in disgust and nearly laughed when it bounced off, thudding to the floor on the other side of the bed. Out of habit if not reverence, she went to pick it up and noticed a couple of pieces of paper had shaken themselves loose. The larger one, folded up, revealed to be a map of California, a circle marked around the area of Sutter’s Fort, as near as she could tell in the dim light of the bunk house. The other was a piece of newsprint, the ink smearing on her fingers. It was an advertisement.

Lancaster Gazette - February 13, 1848

                   Tired of the crowds? Longing for adventure? Come on, men, and join on for a trip to California! Help with the livestock and travel for free! Leaving from Cincinnati in late March. Reply to George Walters at the Cincinnati post office. California is Paradise on Earth!

#

She took both pieces with her, leaving everything else as she found it. It was obvious to her that the police had not found these items and her first instinct was to hand them over immediately. But stepping back out into the yard, the snow still falling, a plan started to form in her head. If she were to go through with it, it would the boldest, most reckless thing she had ever done. Her parents would have been horrified to know what she was contemplating. Her sisters wouldn’t have understood. Her brother, her dear beloved brother Marcus, would have laughed at her audacity, but still cheered her on.

She could nearly hear their voices in her mind.

But only she could make the decision. She was all they had left to make sense of this horror.

And so, it seemed like an easy decision.

Back into the house, back up the steps and into the attic to fetch the old carpetbag that Father had used on his frequent travels. She held it to her face, inhaling the familiar scents of tobacco and leather, before shaking herself free of the memories that threatened to overwhelm her.

Back down to her room, where she had previously thought to gather up her dresses and shoes. But she wasn’t going to need those now, is she? Moving quickly, she folded Grandmere’s quilt and laid it on the bottom of the carpet bag. Dresses, shoes, won’t be able to use them. Good riddance to the corsets, too. At this point, Julia was starting to think her idea had some definite good points to it, as foolhardy and dangerous as it might be.

Her eyes swept over her room one last time, knowing that she might very well never see it again. The window where she could look out over the fields and smell the blossoms from the apple trees, blooms that she would certainly miss this year. Her wardrobe with its neatly hanging dresses, shoes lined up neatly underneath. The delicate smell of the lavender sachet that Aggie always insisted be used. The hours spent giggling with Marnie, hours spent daydreaming at her desk, of good sleep and a sheltered life.

And she was leaving it all behind.

With a stiff spine and a head full of doubts, she walked quickly across to Marcus’s room. Here…. here there was damage. Horror. Boots tracks everywhere, some bloody, some muddy. Pools of blood staining the floor (why didn’t someone clean that up?), finally dry and not the tacky-sticky mess they were the day that everything changed.

The bed was the worst. The blue quilt that had covered the mattress was now colored a deep wine red, so soaked with blood it was. Tufts of feather ticking lay everywhere, pulled by the axe from the gashes in the mattress and pillow. The headboard, carved by Grandfather two score years ago, sat splintered and crooked, pale flesh of the wood showing through its wounds.

This had been the first room she had gone into, the first body she had found, the first scream she had screamed, and her vomit sat, congealed, just inside the doorway as testament to her distress.

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of images but couldn’t escape them. Her brother, her TWIN, closer than even her sisters, sprawled on the bed. Most of him anyway. His left arm was severed just above the elbow and had fallen to the floor. His eyes bulged with horror below the gash into his skull and her nightmares at night wondered what it was he saw in his last moments.

She could still smell the blood. It followed everywhere she went, like a demon attached to her soul.

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes and moved quickly to Marcus’s wardrobe. Not as neat as hers, she nonetheless was able to quickly find several pairs of trousers and some shirts. At least they all smelled relatively clean. His boots, his good boots for church and courting, were tossed in the corner and she stooped to retrieve them.

She had little doubt that his clothes would fit, for she was tall for a woman, nearly five feet 10 inches and he was, in his eyes, short, and they were much the same height. The boots were going to be trickier, but she’d find a way to make it work.

She had to.

#

The kitchen was overly warm, the door propped open for cooling air that did little to ease Julia’s discomfort as she perched on a stool, back tense and fluttering stomach.

“I can’t let you do this, Julie.” Marnie stood behind her, brushing out Julia’s long chestnut hair. Unbound, it hung nearly to the floor. “You’ll be killed by Indians! Or worse! Look at what happened to those Donner people!” Her voice was high, bordering on screeching and Julia did her best to keep from sighing in exasperation. As much as she loved Marnie, and she did, she could really do without the frequent dramatics.

“Marnie, please. I need to go. I need to find this man and see what he knows about my family. I can’t….” She stopped, hand pressed to her chest as she tried to control the wails of despair that were always hovering over her, just waiting to be released. “I can’t go on living without knowing what happened. How am supposed to do that?”

“How does any woman go on after a tragedy? You do what you must.” Marnie spoke with the authority of a betrothed woman, soon to be making her own home and own family.

“And what must I do?”

“Get married, as quickly as possible. Staunton Sinclair would have you in a minute, you know that. Sell the farm, marry Staunton, start a family.”

“I don’t want to marry Staunton. I want to know what happened to my family!”

“Why? What good will it do?”

Julia lurched off the stool, sending it clattering to the floor, and glared at Marnie for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, but loaded with fury. Marnie took a step back, for she had seen that look before and was always glad that she had never been on the receiving end. Until now.

“Marnie, I love you. But you have no idea what I’ve been going through. What I’ve lost. It’s more than just the house. It’s even more than just my family. It’s my own soul. It’s gone. And every night, I try to pray and God doesn’t listen. The only answer I get is the sound of my families screams in my dreams. Every night.” She stopped to catch her breath, never minding the tears on her face. “I need the screaming to stop.”

Julia grabbed a bunch of her hair, mourning the pride she had always had in it but knowing it could always grow out again. She held out a trembling hand to Marnie, who handed her the shears and turned away sobbing. The shears made a crunching noise as they bit through the hair as handful by handful, Julia’s tresses dropped to the floor.

The air from the open door felt good on her bare neck, like a promise of a brighter future where the screams have stopped.

NaNoWriMo 2022 is Nearly Here. What The Hell?

For those of you who don’t know, National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) is a world-wide writing challenge to write a 50,000-word novel in the month of November. Thirty days for 50,000 words, which is just over 1,666 words per day. If you hit 50K, you win. If you don’t, you don’t.

Who determines if you win? Well…. you do. It’s self-reporting. Can you cheat? Absolutely! Does that make you a horrible person? Eh, I dunno. It’s fairly low stakes. You do you, I guess.

What do you get if you win? Bragging rights, really. And you can buy a T-shirt. And they give you a nifty little PDF certificate that says you won. Again, low stakes.

Some people take it VERY seriously, with outline and ideas months ahead of time. Other people shrug and do what they can, not caring one way to the other.

There’s swag. There’s groups and communities. You get to challenge yourself, if that’s something you’re into (I’m not one to judge).

My first time doing NaNoWriMo was way back in 2012. I had a two-year-old and a newborn and I was totally kidding myself about my capabilities. I did not finish that year.

Next year, 2013, I was seven months pregnant. We were getting ready to sell our house in preparation for moving from California to Washington. My middle kid, barely a year old, got sick with a stomach thing that lasted for over a week. I know it will come as a surprise, but I didn’t finish that year either.

But I did finish in 2014. And I have finished, or WON!, every year since except for 2019. I was still decompressing after leaving a toxic job situation and had just started a new position. I knew I wasn’t going to be able to do it and I didn’t even try. But still, I have seven NaNo Winner t-shirts in my closet. I’m gonna have them made into a quilt someday.

It’s always an interesting experience for me. I generally try and push myself out of my comfort zone, to write something outside of my typical genres or in a different style or point-of-view than I usually use. It can lead to some interesting places. In 2016, after the election, the villagers in my story unexpectedly led an uprising against their tyrannical leader. <shrug> Shit gets wild sometimes.

But now here we are in 2022. NaNo starts a week from today. And I have planned…. Nothing. Honestly, I’ve got nothing. My book, The Other Side of Winter, is still with my editor. I had planned to work on that revision for NaNo, but I don’t think it’ll be back in enough time and, really, that’s not something I want to try and sprint through. Chess, not checkers, and all that.

My writing brain has been foggy lately. I have all the ideas. All the Brain Dragons™. I just don’t have the words. And it sucks. I think, in order to get unstuck, I just need to push through it and NaNo might be the perfect time for that.

At this point, it’s either going to be:

A weird time-bendy thing about early 20th-century paranormal enthusiasts trying to solve the mystery of an abandoned house.

or

A Donner Party-esque tale of overland migration in the 1840s in which our plucky heroine is also chasing after her family’s murderer.

Who knows. I guess I’ll figure it out in a week or so. That’s part of the fun of National Novel Writing Month for me.

(image is the official NaNoWriMo 2022 graphic)

Brain Dragons

I currently have a thunder of Brain Dragons. Ideas for at least two or three stories as well as miscellaneous poems. Plus the editing I’m supposed to be doing on The Other Side of Winter.

The Sycamore Table

Wow, two pieces published so far this year! I’m impressed with myself. (If you know me at all, you know it takes a lot to make me say that. Imposter syndrome is real, y’all.)

So, this is The Sycamore Table. I love this piece. I had originally submitted it to Flash Fiction Magazine and was given some really great editorial advice by one of their editors, Allison Renner. I’ve been working really hard on finding a home for this one and it finally landed at Bright Flash Literary Review!

What I love most about The Sycamore Table is the cadence of the words, how they flow, and the almost folk-lore or fairy-tale feeling to it. The theme of three also plays a big role, signifying past, present, and future.

I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

Half-Life (or what it feels like to finally have something published after two years)

Well, I said I hopefully had some good news coming and here it is!

My poem, Half-Life, has been honored with publication in the inaugural issue of Mental Rhythm Magazine. I don’t write much poetry these days, but I’m trying to flow more in that direction and see what happens. Half-Life is, I think, the first poem I’ve ever had published, if you don’t count the two pieces from the early ‘00s that were released in an anthology from a “we’ll publish you as long as you buy one of the books” places. Shrug. I was naive back then, what can I say?

Anyway…..Half-Life is out in the world now. Do be aware that it alludes to attempted suicide and please do not read it if you will find that upsetting.

This is my first piece published since When May Came was released in 2020. I am hoping to have more pieces out there soon; I still have two short stories out on submission with a variety of journals.

It’s a bit weird to have something published after so long, but these past couple of years have been weird, so it all tracks, I guess. Imposter syndrome is a very real thing, though.

You can read Half-Life here: Half-Life. And don’t forget to check out the other wonderful pieces from talented authors in this issue as well.

Be safe, be kind, and have a great day!

No News is Good News, Right? Right??

Nothing exciting to report, but just wanted to, you know, check in.

Historically, for reasons I’m not going to go into here, this time of year is a difficult one for me. I’m handling it better this year, I think.

Ah….now, let’s talk about submissions!

When last we spoke, I had two different stories submitted to four different publications. That was January, I think. Anyway, now, in March, I am at two stories PLUS a poem. Did y’all know I write poetry? I know, I’m shocked, too! So two stories and one poem spread across twenty-five submissions. Out of those submissions, I’ve already gotten passes (or rejections, if you please) from eleven of them. Sure, it hurts, especially the one who couldn’t even get my main character’s name correct. Yes, it’s disappointing. Is it a natural part of writing? You betcha! So I just keep on keepin’ on, as the song says. My pieces will find a home when it’s the right home.

In other writing news, I am very nearly done with the latest draft of my novel, The Other Side of Winter. This has been something I have been working on for more than seven years at this point and it only vaguely resembles the story that it started out to be. I’m very excited about it and once it’s done, I’ll send it out into the world of beta-readers and critique partners. Then another couple rounds of editing and revising and it’ll be ready to start the query process. And that’s when being able to deal with rejection will really come in handy.

In the meantime, I’m just gonna keep writing and keep submitting! I’ve got lots of new idea that I want to flesh out as soon as The Other Side of Winter is done. It’s all very exciting!

I hope you all are doing well, dear readers! And I hope I will have some acceptances to share with you soon!

Be kind and stay safe!

Happy Not 2021 Anymore!

I’m not really here to talk about 2021. It sucked for a lot of people. I hope 2022 will be better.

Earlier today, I was looking through my Facebook memories and came across something I wrote on New Year’s Eve in 2017. It’s still one of my favorites.

Another favorite end-of-year piece is Burning Day which was published by Cauldron Anthology in early 2018. I love it so. You should go read it and read some of my other stories while you’re at it.

On December 29, I marked seven years since I started on my novel, The Other Side of Winter (formerly Bad River). I’ve gone through at least 10 rewrites and the story it has become only very vaguely resembles the story it started out as. I am extremely depressed that I haven’t been able to finish it yet. I pitched it to some agents a few years ago and they were very interested. Then life and kids and jobs got in the way and I just…haven’t been able to finish it. I am hoping to reclaim some of my time this year and actually get it done. Ada, Louis, Breezy, Red, Jennie, Hark, Enos, and Polly are all really wanting to meet you. I’ve got some other idea for novel-length projects floating around as well.

I currently have two short stories out on submission at four different publications. I should hopefully start hearing back from them in January.

I’m also considering starting up a Beta Reading business. We’ll see how that pans out.

For now, I will bid you good-bye. I hope 2022 treats you and your family well. Stay safe, mask up, and get vaxxed!

Here is my New Years Lucky Lemon Pig. Her name is Betty, after Betty White.

The World’s Biggest Chicken

Whew. Can I just say that this whole new website thing is just nonsense? Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but damn this has taken a chunk of my soul these last couple weeks. 

I had decided to switch from WordPress to SquareSpace, for a variety of reasons. I spent some time redesigning it within the SquareSpace templates. I fretted over pictures. I transferred all the old blog posts over (and that took some time, let me tell you). Then, when I went to actually transfer the domain and the site over, I hit some technological snags. I am not good with the technology, but in the end, I got it figured out.

While all of this was going on, I got the results of the third challenge of the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2021. This was the furthest I had ever advanced in this contest, so I was already thrilled but not expecting much. This round was over Halloween weekend, so already a busy time. I was given the prompts of Drama/A Sculpture/A Pizza. So, I had to write a drama that contained both a sculpture and a pizza. In 1,000 words. Ready, Set, Go. 

As I expected, I did not advance to the final round. And that’s okay. Making it to the semi-finals was great! And, honestly, the weekend that the finals were held on were so chaotic here at home that I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish much anyway. 

I’m not sure how many writers were in my heat. Probably 50? Maybe? Regardless, the top three writers in each heat would advance to the finals. The rankings were listed as 1st, 2nd, 3rd, Honorable Mention, Honorable Mention 2, etc., etc. And I, dear readers, did manage to snag an Honorable Mention 2! So, fifth place out of 50-ish? Not too bad at all. I am really, really pleased. 

What the judges had to say: “I really enjoyed this heartfelt, poignant story. My heart broke a little.” “The unexpected but meaningful connection between Melly and Ava was well-developed. Rather than let it be an unrealistic or instant bond, the author slowly established the trust between them with natural and poignant dialogue.” “I thought the end of the story was delightful - the way they laughed and cried was wonderfully infectious. Great job!”

So here it is…… The World’s Biggest Chicken

In true ‘don’t-blink-or-you’ll-miss-it’ style, the town of Friendly, Utah, flashed by before Melly even realized she was there. She pulled over to the side of the road, looking again at the letter she had carried with her for so many miles. It told her to look for the Big Chicken, whatever the hell that meant.

But, sure enough, five miles down the road, Melly found it. 

The World’s Biggest Chicken, in fact, if the signs could be believed. Melly also learned the chicken sculpture, dubbed ‘Bruce,’ was 80 feet of granite, weighing in at an impressive four tons.

All Melly could think was: “What the actual fuck?”

A glance at her phone showed that she was early. Between the heat and her nerves, Melly needed a drink. The letter had mentioned a restaurant, but Melly was surprised to see an Italian place just yards away from the chicken. She would have expected a greasy diner, not a formal-looking place named ‘Bruce’s Pasta House’. 

This was a strange town. 

She looked again at the Chicken, shrugged, and walked towards the restaurant. 

#

Melly blinked in the dim light of the restaurant, the cool air raising goosebumps on her arms. A voice boomed from behind the counter. “Welcome! Take a seat, they all have views of the World’s Biggest Chicken!”

Melly sat where she could see both the chicken (as promised) and the parking lot, sipping at the ice water the jovial server brought. And she waited. 

An hour passed before the door opened and a woman walked in. Melly’s heart sank. Not her father.  

The server, who seemed to be the only one working, greeted her by name. “Oh, hey, Ava.”

The woman waved vaguely, walking to Melly’s table. 

“Sorry I’m late.” No explanation, no introduction. The woman’s face was drawn and tense, her hands shaky. 

The server came over, setting down a drink and a slice of pepperoni pizza no one had ordered. His voice was softer than before. “Ava, I’m so sorry to hear about—” His voice cut off at a sharp look from the woman and he retreated to the counter. 

Melly and the woman eyed each other warily. “Who are you? I was supposed to meet Ryan Balke here?”

The woman sighed. “I’m Ava. I was Ryan’s wife. Maybe I still am. I don’t actually know.”

“His wife? But…. I’m his—”

“Daughter, yes. I read your letters. And you look like him; especially around the eyes.”

“I…I got this letter, though. It said to come out. Didn’t he send it? There was no signature.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s from me. I just didn’t know what to do after….”

“After what?” 

“Ryan left.” Ava laughed darkly. “Thirty-three days ago now. I woke up and he was gone.” She shrugged. “That was a week after your third letter arrived. I haven’t heard from him since.”

“I just…. don’t understand. Why did he leave?” Melly’s head began to spin with a sense of loss, of never knowing what she had never known. 

Ava shrugged again and slid an envelope across the table, pushing the pizza off to the side. She gazed out of the window at the chicken and Melly could see how pale she was, how red her eyes were. 

The envelope wasn’t sealed and only contained one creased piece of paper, obviously folded and opened many times. She spread it open before her. In blue ink, were the words “Tell her I’m sorry.”

That’s it. Nothing else. She turned the letter over, looked inside the envelope in a vain attempt to find something, anything else. 

“Is this all?” The threatened tears finally broke through, splashing on her cheeks. 

Ava shook her head. “That’s all that was in the letter, I swear. But this was sitting next to it.” She handed over a picture. In it, a man sat, holding a small girl, barely older than a baby, on his lap. “The two of you, I think. I’m not sure.”

“It is. My mom had a copy.” She started weeping openly. “He really was my father then?”

“So it seems.”

“Then why did he leave?”

“Oh, honey, if I knew, I’d tell you.”

 “Did you know about me?” She wasn’t sure she wanted the answer. 

“Not until your letters started showing up. He never said a word. Can you…. Can you tell me what happened?”

“He and Mom never got married. He left when she was pregnant and only came back once, when that picture was taken. She wrote his name on the back of the picture, but never talked about him, even when I asked. She…. She died when I was 12. I lived with my grandparents. They said to not bother looking, I was better off without him. He wasn’t even on my birth certificate. They’re gone now, too, so I thought…. I’ve looked for so long.” All the hours searching on her computer, the money she couldn’t afford to spend on so-called People Tracers. Finally, one had come through with an address. She thought she was done looking. She thought she could have a dad. 

“I’m so sorry he did this to you. Again.” Ava reached across the table and took her hands. 

Melly sniffed, snot dripping down her face. “And I’m sorry he left you, too.” She cracked a twisted smile. “I guess he’s the World’s Biggest Chicken, huh?”

A brief pause and Ava started laughing, quietly at first, then louder and louder, until Melly got caught up in it and began to laugh, too. 

Their laughter was so loud the server came running back out into the dining room. “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, Tyler.” Ava was gasping, tears streaming down her face. “I think everything is going to be just fine.” She looked over at Melly. “Are you hungry at all?”

Melly nodded. 

Ava slid the slice of pizza across to her. “They make great pizza. Eat up and we’ll talk some more.” 

THE END

New Website

For a while now, I’ve been less than enthusiastic about my earlier website that was hosted by WordPress. So I decided to switch things up a bit and now you’re seeing the fruit of my labors. The issue I’m currently running into with SquareSpace is that I just don’t get how it works quite yet. But I’m figuring things out! That said, my unpublished stories and previous blog posts may look a little wonky or I may have to put them all into one huge post here. I hope not, though.

In the meantime, I’ve got a couple of short stories submitted to various publications for consideration and am waiting to hear on the third round of NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2021. I would expect that to be any time soon, but I’m not particularly holding out hope of advancing.

Dead Drop

Hello again!

I was surprised when the results for the second challenge of the NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Challenge 2021 came out last night. I wasn't expecting them for a least another month, especially with National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) starting on Monday.

I was even more surprised to learn that I will be advancing to the next round. Yay me! As you may or may not remember, for this challenge, everyone is guaranteed at least two rounds and you are awarded points for each round. Your total points after the two rounds determines if you advance or not. There's approximately 35 writers in each heat (thousands of entrants overall) and only the Top Five in each heat will advance. I earned 14 points (2nd place) in the first challenge and 10 points (6th place) in the second challenge, so I will be participating in the next round. This is the first time I've ever advanced to this point, so I am super excited!

BRAND NEW INFORMATION THAT I JUST FOUND OUT: Only 15% of participants (of 4,022) move on to semi-finals. That's me, y'all!

This next round will take place this weekend (prompts given at 9pm PT tomorrow and story due by 9pm PT on Sunday) and then I'll be jumping straight into NaNoWriMo on Monday.

But those are problems for Future Allison. For now, let us look at the story that got me to this point.

NYCMidnight gives random prompts that your story must fit into. For this challenger, my prompts were: Spy Genre/Boxing Gym/Jelly Doughnut. All in 1,000 words with 48 hours to write it.

I'll be honest, Spy Genre is not my favorite. We've been watching The Americans lately and I credit that with getting me through this. Still, I'm pleased with how it turned out. And here is what the judges had to say:

"The storyline is convincing, and the storytelling leverages engagement."

"I like the eerie simplicity of the task they have for Brad--and of course the fascinating twist at the end. Great job!"

"I liked the setting of the cold war and the idea of the drop happening at a big boxing match, it gives the moment significant gravitas."

So, here it is, in all its Jelly Doughnut glory.

Dead Drop

Gloria was good at biding her time and had attracted no notice from the shoppers at Tisdale Mall. She wasn’t there for them; it was the large unit at the end, with the sign reading ‘Dizzy’s Boxing,’ that held her attention.

At two o’clock exactly, she stepped out of the car. She strode purposely toward the building, gym bag swinging by her side, keeping her eyes trained for anything unusual.

Outside the gym, near a poster screaming ‘THE EXHIBITION FIGHT TO END THE COLD WAR,’ a man fell into step with her, neither acknowledging the other.

Inside Dizzy’s, fetid air wrapped them in the scents of sweat and the underlying tang of blood. The space was dominated by a large boxing ring and haphazardly set-up folding chairs.

A middle-aged man looked up from his clipboard. “I’m sorry. We’re closed right now.” He spread his hands in apology. “But we’re having a big fight tomorrow night. Tickets are just five dollars at the door. And we’ll be open as usual on Monday.”

Gloria let her shoulders sag, turning to the man next to her. “Oh, Michael. You said I could learn to box.” She pouted, tossing her hair in frustration. She enjoyed her job.

Michael planted a kiss on her cheek before walking over to the door, turning the sign to ‘closed.’ “Don’t worry, honey. You’ll learn to box if I have anything to say about it.” His American accent was flawless; no one would ever guess he was born in East Berlin.

“For sure, we offer classes to everyone, even ladies, but like I said, we’re closed….” He stepped towards her, leering. “I’d be happy to personally oversee your lessons on Monday.”

She sighed. “Monday doesn’t work for us.” She swung her fist, catching him in a swift upper cut, dropping him to the floor. “And I already know how to box.”

#

He came around quickly, eyes rolling in their sockets as he struggled against the handcuffs, screams muted by a gag. Gloria sat across from him, waiting, while Michael stood in the corner looking like a heavy from a gangster movie.

She began to speak, reaching for the folder on the desk between them. “Are you ready to listen now, Brad?” The man’s eyes widened and he started fighting against the gag again.

Michael reached over, smacking him on the back of the head. “Pay attention.”

“Surprised we know your name, Brad?” She put a small stack of photographs facing him. He looked at the first one and moaned, sweat beading on his forehead. “Not only do we know your name, but we know your wife’s name. And this….” Gloria tapped the picture. “This is not Holly, is it?”

Brad shook his head, his whole body going limp in defeat.

“Holly would probably be upset to see these pictures, wouldn’t she? She’d leave you? No more contact with your daughter except the check you’d have to send every month? No one wants that, Brad. Not you. Not me. Not Michael. Certainly not Holly and little Heather. We just want to do our jobs. Isn’t that what you want, Brad? To forget that this unpleasantness ever happened?”

Brad nodded hysterically, his eyes wide, practically bouncing in his chair.

“Okay, so this is what’s going to happen. You’re going to do a job for us.” Gloria reached into her gym bag and set a few items out on the desk. A pile of gym clothes. Two paper bags, one white, one pink. And a gun.

At the sight of the gun, Brad started thrashing again.

“Calm down. If I wanted to shoot you, I’d have done it already. I need you to do something for me. We’re gonna take the gag out now, but if you start to scream again, I will use the gun. Understand?”

He nodded and Michael tugged the gag so it hung limply around his neck. Brad promptly vomited in his lap.

Gloria waited. Once he was finished, went on. “Tomorrow night, at your exhibition fight, there will be a man called Feliks Mech. This is not his real name. He’ll be one of the coaches with Ozerov. You must give him these.” She slid the white bag across the desk. “You will say: ‘Excuse me, I think you dropped these.’ That’s all. Do not tell anyone about it. We’ll know if you do not do as we ask. Then Holly will know. Or we will come back with the gun. Understand?”

He nodded, his eyes lingering on the white bag.

“Go ahead and look.” Gloria chuckled. “It doesn’t matter.” She emptied the bag and a set of keys with a plain leather fob, tumbled to the table. “See? Nothing sinister. Just a set of keys. But important enough that we cannot leave this to chance. We’re depending on you, Brad. So are Holly and Heather.”

She motioned to the gym clothes. “You’ll want to change before you go home. You smell.”

Brad finally found his voice. “Who are you people?”

“No one you need to worry about, as long as you do this one thing. It’s such a little thing, isn’t it, Brad?”

Brad stared at the keys for a long moment and nodded.

#

Standing in the late afternoon sunshine, Gloria could feel Brad watching through the window.

“Think he’ll be okay?” Michael gazed across the parking lot.

“I’ll be here to make sure he is.” Gloria looked the other way, down the sidewalk. “Oh, I almost forgot. I picked these up for you earlier.” She handed him the pink paper bag, marked ‘Lizbet’s Bakery.’ “I know how much you like them.”

#

“Breaking news from KMAS…. A man’s body was found in the parking lot of Tisdale Mall today. The coroner estimates his time of death at approximately 4pm. The car he was in had been reported stolen and he carried no identification. Preliminary tests show that he was poisoned. A bag of jelly donuts from a local bakery was in his lap…”

A Cold Day in December

Once again, I found myself staring down the barrel of a NYCMidnight writing contest and wondering why the hell I do these things to myself. NYCMidnight does a multitude of contests throughout the year for writing and screenwriting. For the writing contests, they give the entrants a word count, a genre, a place, and an object, and you have to write within those guidelines. 

In this particular contest, the Flash Fiction Challenge 2021, I had 48 hours to write a 1,000 word story. There are four rounds to this particular contest and everyone is guaranteed to participate in the first two rounds. You are given a score on each story and the total of your scores after the second round will determine if you go on to the third. My prompts were: Romance/Reading Room/Permanent Marker. So I had to write a romance story that included a reading room and a permanent marker. In 1,000 words.

I don't do romance (just ask my husband). I read romance. I don't write it very well. Yet, here I was. 

I got the results of the first round earlier today. To my great surprise, I placed SECOND (I believe there were 35 people in my heat)! I've done several NYCMidnight contests before and I don't think I've placed higher than fourth. I'm absolutely thrilled! 

Judges' feedback includes: "What a heartbreaking story!" "This was a bittersweet, emotional piece to read. Well done!" "It's clear that the writer is talented at writing crowd scenes with a wide ensemble of characters."

So, without further ado....

A Cold Day in December

The television flickered an uncertain light as everyone gathered around it. Libby had never seen the Reading Room of the Winston Student Hall this crowded. Not that students ever really read in the Reading Room. Lately, it seemed to be primarily a gathering place for students to hotly the debate the war, the war that suddenly was all too real that night.

 The boys all crowded at the front, straining to hear the television over the muffled weeping coming from some of the girls in the back of the room. Rob Burke, always the tall, quiet one, stood next to the television, radiating tension. Libby wished she was able to be next to him, talk to him, try to take away the stress that was felt by every male student on campus that night. If he would even talk to her. It had been two weeks since their last date and it seems like he was going out of his way to avoid her.

A voice came from the television. The first draft lottery birthdate was announced as everyone in the room held their breath.

Rob turned to blank expanse of wall behind him, pulling something out his pocket. A quick movement that Libby couldn’t quite make out and then the harsh smell of a permanent marker wafted over the room as he wrote the date in big block letters on the wall. September 14.

“Rob!” A short, prissy girl hissed. “You can’t write on the wall like that.”

“Shut up, Susan. There are bigger things to worry about tonight.” Sam, Rob’s friend, rumpled and handsome, snarled while the rest of the boys craned their necks to see if anyone in the room had the lethal birthdate.

More talking from the TV. Another date on the wall. April 24.

Then the next and the next….until….

From the television: “October 18.”

The marker rasped against the wall as Rob started to inscribe the next birthday for young men destined to die in Vietnam, but his shaking hand stilled, his face pale. A jagged line slashed down the wall as the marker fell from his hand and he ran out of the room, not even glancing at Libby as he went.

Everyone looked around in shock. Whispers of “Is that his birthday?” rocketed around the room. Sam caught Libby’s eye, their concern for Rob passing between them. She hurried out of the reading room, trying to think of where Rob may have gone as Sam took up the marker and continued writing dates on the wall.

She found him behind the Science Building, up on the small hill that overlooked the lake. She smiled faintly; this is where they had spent their last date.

He heard her approach and looked over his shoulder. A brief smile faded quickly as he sighed and looked back to the lake.

Libby wrapped her arms around herself, her thin sweater and blouse no match for the frigid December air. “Rob?”

He held out his hand to her. “We came here after our last date.”

She didn’t know what to say, so she merely nodded.

“I’m so sorry I’ve been ignoring you. I just knew this day was coming. I really like you and….if I had to leave, I didn’t want to start something I wouldn’t be able to finish.”

Libby stammered in confusion. “But…. None of those dates were your birthday. And even if…..” She gulped down her fear. “Even if your birthday was called, if you were one of the low numbers, you’ve got your student deferment. They can’t draft you while you’re in school.”

“Tommy’s birthday is October 18.”

Shit. On their date, he’d spoken about Tommy, his older brother. How he wasn’t as smart as Rob, not as athletic or masculine, but quiet and innocent and good, and how their father made his feelings very clear, about the failings of his eldest son. Libby knew how fiercely protective Rob was of Tommy.

“Oh no. Rob, I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t let him go alone.”

She was stunned. “What?” She wrenched her hand away from his, unable to comprehend his words.

“I’m going to enlist. Where he goes, I go.”

“But, Rob, you don’t have to go. How could you just…. When you don’t have to?”

“I do have to. I’m not letting him go over there by himself. He’d be so damned scared.”

Rob broke down, sobbing quietly into the cold night while Libby held him close and tried to think of something to say.

#

A week later, amid a flurry of protests from friends and faculty alike, Rob left Beaufort College. Under a hard, cold winter sky, Libby stood in the back of the crowd that was clustered around Rob’s car and waited.

Finally, Sam and she were the only ones left. She fought back the tears as she watched them hug their final goodbye. As Sam walked away, he briefly patted Libby’s shoulder.

Rob’s eyes glimmered with exhausted tears. They’d spent every possible minute together, laughing, talking, touching, but no words of love were exchanged, no promises made. They both knew the reality Rob was about to face.

They clung to each other in the bitter air, postponing the moment when they’d have to say goodbye.

“I don’t want you to wait for me to come back.”

“Rob….”

“I’m serious, Libby. I need to know that you’re getting on with your life while I’m over there. And if…if I make it through, well….Then we can see what happens.”

Libby nodded through her tears, falling into his arms for one final kiss.

#

Four silent, lonely months later, Libby found a crying Sam standing at her door, holding out a letter to her.

She didn’t have to read it to know what it said.

She turned away and shut the door.

#

Three years later, Libby and her husband, Sam Barton, announced the birth of their first child, a son named Robby.

Hide and Seek

It's been a weird long time since I've last been able to post anything. Between family life and a job that was exceedingly difficult for a variety of reasons, I didn't have much energy for writing for most of the last couple of years. Fortunately, I am now in a new job with steady hours (and more money) and the creativity is starting to creep back in, albeit slowly.

NYCMidnight ran their Short Story contest, starting in January. If you'll remember, they give the participants a genre, a person, and a situation/object. They set a word limit and a time limit and off you go!

This time, it was a 2,500 word limit in 8 days. I was assigned to action/adventure with pretending and a contortionist.

The results came out yesterday. I was given an Honorable Mention and, while I don't get to advance to the next round, I am very pleased with this result since I found this prompt to be particularly challenging.

Anyway, here it is.

Hide and Seek

Julia’s talent, her past, was widely known, but was seen as a quirk, an oddity. Certainly not anything useful. Most people only mentioned it to ask her to perform at parties.

She always said ‘no’.

She couldn’t say ‘no’ this time.

Julia’s heart sank when she saw the press had already gathered. There had been a public outcry to permanently barricade the opening to the unstable mine for ages and it was sure to get worse after this. Regardless of the outcome, her name would be forever associated with yet another tragedy.

“Julia, thank God you’re here.” Sheriff Lockett strode up to her, long brown braids bouncing against her back.

“How long have they been down there?” Julia shrugged off her jacket and began pulling her hair back into a low, tight bun.

“Over an hour, as near as we can figure. Did you feel that small quake earlier? That’s when it happened. We got the call at 10:07. Jake Capelli, you know him, right? He managed to escape and ran to the 7-11 for help.”

“Is he okay?” Images flashed in Julia’s mind of torn flesh and cracked skulls. And her son Aiden’s face, eyes closed forever.

“Not a scratch on him. He says he jumped clear when the wall came down. He’s at the station with his mom, eating ice cream.” They walked past the reporters, ignoring their shouted questions. “We don’t have a visual on the others. The engineers are afraid to shift the rock in case the whole thing comes down. We’ve dropped a mic into where we think they are but can’t hear anything.”

“How many are there?”

“Four. Will Arjen, Kevin Karamack, Owen Stevens, and Julius Robinson.”

Julia closed her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose. Aiden’s friends.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah. What do you need me to do?”

The sheriff spread out a blueprint on a small folding table. “This is where we think the boys are.” She pointed. “A vent shaft drops down into the next room here. There’s a corridor leading to the other side of the mine and another exit. No one’s been out that way in decades, so they’re checking now to see how stable it is.” She took a deep breath. “We need you to try and squeeze through the vent and see what’s going on down there. Lead them out the back way if you can. Fuck, Julie. That shaft is tiny. Do you think you can do this?”

Julia squinted as she looked toward the top of the mine. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

#

The vent was impossibly dark and smelled of rot. After the floods last year, Julia wondered how much mold she was about to crawl through. The little dust mask they had given her sure wasn’t going to offer much protection.

She should have a HazMat suit for this, she thought.

She wouldn’t have to contort much for this, not really. It wasn’t going to be like putting herself in a box like she used to back in Vegas. She just needed to pull her shoulders in a bit to get through the shaft. Easy peasy.

After double checking her safety harness (she didn’t need one, but the Sheriff insisted), she eased herself feet first into the vent. It wasn’t as tight of a squeeze as she had expected, but she could see why they didn’t have someone else try to navigate it. No one else would have fit.

As expected, the tube was only about 25 dark and dank feet long. Her headlamp barely pierced the gloom. Once she felt her feet hit open space, Julia wriggled a bit more and grabbed the edge of the pipe, swinging her body out into the chamber.

“Hello? Is anyone here?” Her voice carried into the dark as her arms quivered with the strain of holding on, though she knew her harness would catch her if she fell. She couldn’t see further than maybe a foot in any direction. “Lower me down.” The headset she was wearing made her voice sound tinny, but acknowledgement from above echoed back to her.

The drop was only about 20 feet, or so they thought, but she had no idea what she might possibly be landing on. If the whole chamber had collapsed….

Her feet touched down and she braced herself, feeling grit crunch under her shoes, waiting to see if what she was standing on would bear her weight. When it appeared safe, she spoke again into her mic. “I’m unhooking from the tether. Send down more lights.”

Another line dropped from above, a large flashlight nearly conking her on the head. Flipping it on, the beam landed on piles of rubble and dust, lots of dust.

But no boys.

#

“I need more light.”

Her request was answered swiftly with a bucket loaded with lanterns and safety flares. She turned on a couple of the lanterns and the whole chamber came into relief.

“Hello?” She eased around the piles of fallen rock, shining her flashlight into the crevices the lanterns couldn’t quite illuminate. “Will? Kevin? Julius? Owen? C’mon out, guys. Let’s get you home.”

There was nothing but silence in response.

“Sheriff? Um…There’s no one down here.”

“Say again?”

“The boys. They’re not here. I’m going to move down the corridor.”

The mic squawked and fell silent but not before she heard a muttered ‘God damnit’. Tucking some safety flares into her harness and grabbing an extra lantern, she took another look around the chamber before starting off into the black corridor. Rocks littered the way, although the ceiling appeared to be solid. In a couple of places, she had to scramble over small piles of rubble. One was larger than the others and as she was easing down the other side, a rock gave way underneath her.

She tumbled to the ground, crying out as a sharp edge cut into her calf. Blood ran down her leg. She let out a short scream, more surprised than anything. In the shaky light, the wound looked like it might require stitches. She had nothing to staunch the flow of blood with, so in the end she continued on, leaving a trail of blood after each limping footstep.

She kept calling out for the boys. There was no response.

#

The corridor seemed to stretch on forever. How big was this mine, anyway? She had to have been walking for at least a quarter of a mile.

“Hey, Sheriff Lockett?”

There was no answer, just bursts of static.

A couple of more tries and Julia realized she was probably too deep for the signal to cut through the rock. Well, shit. She was on her own with no idea where the kids were.

The further she went through the tunnel, the more rubble she encountered and, in a couple of instances, actually had to crawl over piles on her hands and knees, whimpering each time the cut on her leg came in contact with, well, anything.

Her breath came in harsh gasps. Even when she stopped to rest, it felt like she was trying to breathe underwater.

She couldn’t do this. They needed to find someone else, someone with more experience, better equipment. What the hell was she thinking, coming down here with nothing but a dust mask?

Where the hell were the kids? There was no sign of them. No kids, no clothing, no blood except her own. Just broken rocks, sharp pieces of metal, and dust falling from the ceiling. She was going back.

She had only retreated a few feet when a rumbling came from all around her.

And suddenly, it wasn’t just rumbling, it wasn’t just dust. Pebbles were now falling as well, stones, pieces of tile from the ceiling, crashing around her, on her. She dove to the side, covering her head with her hands. She could see a small alcove lined with shelves just a few feet away.

Dodging falling rocks, she moved as fast as she could, her leg screaming in pain, and squeezed herself under a shelf, her knees up around her ears.

#

The shaking seemed to take forever to stop. When Julia was able to finally crawl out, unfolding her protesting body, she was horrified to find the corridor blocked, floor to ceiling, with fallen rocks in both directions.

She was trapped. And it was getting even harder to breathe.

Her voice echoed as she tried to call through her radio, but there was nothing but static in return. No response when she shouted for the boys, either.

She was alone.

She set up her last lantern, illuminating her predicament. But wait… what was that?

She had gotten turned around. Which way was which? But up near the top of one of the barricades, it looked like there was a small opening. Maybe she could get through. She had certainly gotten through smaller holes, albeit when she was much younger.

What other choice did she have? She could stay here and wait to be rescued, if that was even possible. Or she could try to save herself and find the missing boys.

Up she scrambled, searching for handholds, places to put her feet. Anything strong enough to support her weight.

Suddenly, the pile started to shift under her. She froze, clinging to a large stone jutting out from the pile. Small rocks rained down on her, cutting into her face and arms. She could feel tears start to trickle down her face.

She hadn’t cried since Aiden’s accident. Not since she had been unable to save him.

When the shaking stopped, she resumed her climb, wondering why on earth they felt compelled to make the top of the tunnel so fucking high?

At the top, she peered through the opening. She thought maybe, just maybe, the other side didn’t seem quite so dark as where she was, which could mean there was a light out there somewhere.

The hole was slightly smaller than a medium-sized doggie door, but big enough for her to wriggle through.

She switched off her flashlight, plunging herself into a darkness she never thought possible this side of the grave. She peered through the wall again and, yes, it did seem slightly brighter on that side of the rocks. She pulled the tab on one of the safety flares, setting it alight, and tossed it through the hole.

She blinked, trying to clear the dust and tears from her vision. There was a large, open space on the other side of the rocks and then what seemed to be another barrier. More rocks? Or perhaps the door to the outside Sheriff Lockett had pointed out to her?

#

She had definitely fit through tighter gaps before, but this felt different. No matter how she pulled her shoulders together, she couldn’t quite make the squeeze. She could feel her ligaments and tendons straining, her arms nearly coming out of their sockets. She pushed hard with her feet, popping through to the other side. Skin tore from her arms and she lost her grip. She braced herself for the fall, but in that instant a rock came loose, landing hard on her leg, which was still halfway through the opening.

The abrupt stop caused her to slam into the wall and her right shoulder popped loose from the impact. She screamed and scrambled hard with her left hand, trying to find something to support herself with. She pushed with her free leg and pulled with her hand until suddenly, her trapped ankle came free and she tumbled down the rock face, crashing onto the ground. Her head cracked on the floor and she lay there, dazed, hardly believing all that had happened to her.

And the worst part? She had failed. She had failed to find the boys. She prayed that they had already found their way down the corridor and to the door she had been promised was there.

In that moment, all she could do was cry. Cry for the boys. Cry for Aiden. Cry for herself.

And then the time for crying was over. She tried to stand but collapsed when she tried to put weight on her injured ankle. Probably broken. She cradled her right arm close to her body, not wanting to jostle her dislocated shoulder.

Looking around, she could see a wall at the end of the tunnel, not more than 100 feet away. And in that wall was a door with a grime-covered window that let through a meager light. That must have been what she had seen earlier.

Freedom was so close.

#

She pulled herself over to the wall and heaved herself onto her good leg, struggling not to pass out from pain. In an odd type of symmetry, it was her left ankle and her right shoulder that was injured, so she could hold onto the wall with her left hand for support and hop on her right foot. It was only for a short distance, she kept telling herself. She could do this.

When she reached the door, she leaned her forehead onto the cold metal surface and retched, bile splattering at her feet. She pressed the button on her radio.

“Is…is anyone there?”

Silence.

“Hello? Sheriff? Anyone? I need help.”

Silence and Julia could feel the tears welling up again when the radio screamed into life.

“Oh, thank God, Julia! Hang on, okay? They’re almost ready to try to open the door. Are you okay?”

“No. My ankle and my shoulder and my…” Her voice trailed off. “And I didn’t find the boys. There’s no sign of them anywhere down here.”

She could hear the Sheriff sigh, hearing disappointment in her voice. “Let’s just get you out of there.”

She had failed everyone.

“Julia? They want you to move away from the door as far as you can.”

She hopped backwards, screaming when she tripped on a rock, falling back to the floor.

With a cloud of dust, the door crashed down and sunlight, bright glorious sunlight, poured in. As Julia shielded her eyes from the sudden glare, she was aware of people rushing to her, calling her name and yelling for EMTs.

They lifted her onto a stretcher and carried her out into the day. Sheriff Lockett bent over her, brushing the dust from her face. “It’s going to be okay now, Julie. I’m so sorry about everything.”

Black started to creep around the edges of her vision and her voice was a rasping whisper. “Sorry for what?”

The sheriff turned her head and Julia followed her gaze.

Standing off to the side were the boys. Kevin, Julius, Owen, and Will. All looking perfectly fine. And terrified.

The sheriff patted her hand. “They thought it was a funny joke. Something Jake dared them to do.”

Julia tried to sit up and darkness overtook her. As she fainted, she heard the sheriff speak again.

“They were never down there at all.”

No Story is Ever Really Over

Maybe

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Sexual assault and harassment

This news cycle, this year, these past two years really, have had me on edge. I, like so many women, have lived under the shadow of past assaults and violations for way too long, and every time a woman's story gets dismissed, the knife gets twisted a little more.

I wrote Maybe in the fall of 2016. It seems cathartic to bring it back out now.

Maybe

Maybe you've met this man before, or maybe he’s a stranger. Maybe he holds a position of power, either professionally or socially. Maybe he's famous, or maybe he’s the man who bags your groceries. Maybe he’s family. Maybe he’s a friend. Maybe you used to date him or maybe you’re dating him now. Maybe he’s just some guy on the subway, in the library, at the bar. 

Maybe you shake his hand and he doesn't let go right away. Maybe his eyes travel down your body and the outfit that seemed so perfect earlier suddenly seems so wrong. Maybe he leans over and whispers in your ear about how sexy you look tonight. Maybe his hand travels up your arm and touches your breast, so briefly that you think that maybe, just maybe, you imagined it.

Maybe he grabs your ass as you walk past him on your way off the train. Maybe he sits down next to you at the park and pulls out his dick out of his pants. Maybe he tries to hit on you and, when you tell him you’re not interested, he calls you a bitch and a tease. Maybe he threatens to hurt you. 

Maybe he asks you to dance and you don't want to be rude, so you dance. And maybe he holds you too close. Maybe his hands grab your buttocks to pull you even closer. Maybe so close you can feel his erection pressing against your body. Maybe you freeze, not knowing what to do. Maybe you look around to see if anyone saw anything. Maybe no one did, or maybe you see other men watching the two of you, and they give you a wink. Maybe other women are watching, too, and you hear them call you a slut and a whore.

Maybe he finds you alone and corners you against the wall. Maybe he kisses you as you try to squirm away. Maybe he puts his hand under your skirt and touches you. Maybe he tries to put a finger inside you. Maybe he succeeds. Maybe you beg him to stop and he just laughs because he knows he can get away with it.

Maybe he rapes you. Maybe he doesn't.

Maybe you think about screaming. Maybe you think about making a scene, fighting him off. 

Then maybe you think that, maybe, you somehow encouraged this. That this was your fault. After all, you've always been told it's the woman's fault. Maybe your dress is too tight. Maybe you've been drinking. Maybe you were too friendly. Maybe you weren't friendly enough. Maybe you remember being groped as a child or as a teen and being told that this is just how men are and that, as a woman, maybe it is your responsibility to not provoke them.

Maybe you don’t remember provoking him, but you think that you must have, because why else would he be touching you like this?

Maybe his friends apologize for his behavior. He’s drunk, they say, and he didn’t mean it. Or maybe they just laugh about it. 

Maybe days later, months later, years later, you can still feel how rough his hand was as it pressed against your mouth to keep you from screaming.

Maybe you think that no one will believe you if you accuse him. After all, he's a man and you... Well, you're just a woman. Maybe they'll say you were a tease. Maybe they'll say you really liked it, had to have liked it, because of who he is, how he looks. Maybe they'll say that it was a compliment. You should be flattered, they'll say, that a man was willing to give someone like you attention. Maybe they'll laugh at you and say you need to loosen up, it was just a joke.

Maybe “boy will be boys”.

Maybe you think that there’s something wrong with you because you aren’t flattered by it. 

Maybe, if you say something, they’ll tell you how wrong you are, that you’re too old, too fat, too ugly, too you, for him to be interested. 

Maybe, if you say something, you'll lose your job and you can't afford that. Maybe he's the husband of your best friend and you don't want to hurt her. Maybe he's family. Maybe he’s a police officer and who would take your word over his? Maybe he's not famous, but he's bigger and stronger and you're afraid of what he might do if you speak out. 

Maybe you’ve spoken out before, only to receive rape and death threats on-line. Maybe people you’ve never met before started discussing your sexual history in chat rooms and comment sections, talking about what they’d like to do to you, and you felt assaulted all over again. 

Maybe you’ve told someone and they didn’t believe you. It couldn’t have happened like you said it did, how could it? He just doesn’t seem like that type. Maybe you wonder what type of man they mean only to realize you know all too well. 

So, maybe, you leave quietly, without a word. Maybe you walk quickly, your head down to hide your shame, or maybe you try to hold your head high, but it just feels so heavy. And maybe the heaviness never goes away. 

Maybe when you get home, you hide your new dress in the back of the closet, never to be worn again. Maybe you stand in a hot shower, trying to wash him off your soul. Maybe you cry yourself to sleep. Maybe you promise yourself that next time, next time you will do things differently.

Because maybe you know that there will be a next time. 

There always is.