Oh, Nancy

I don't entirely know what this is.  But I like it.  228 words.

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She folded her arms over her chest and one hand twitched, missing something.  She put all her weight on her bad hip before she could remember the years of falling down followed by surgery, winced, and immediately hid the pain.  No weakness – no mercy.  The picture would have been complete with a magnifying glass, a little more titan sheen to her graying hair.

“So,” she said.  “That’s it then.”

I shifted from foot to foot, like I was twenty again and being told off by my girlfriend.  Old habits die hard.  “That’s it,” I agreed, unsure what else she wanted to hear.  I wouldn’t look at her.

“Seventy years, Ned?  Seventy?  And you don’t have a word to say about any of it?”

“I guess we’re just…”  I took a breath, let it out.  “I guess we’re just going our separate ways.”

Her hand clenched around the imaginary handle and she raised the fist, as if about to strike me down with her wrath.  I left in a hurry, unable to say another word to assuage her.  There were no words.  There was nothing I could say or do to sum up our years together, nor to explain why it was time we part ways.

I could only thank my good Nickerson family fortune that I hadn’t had the guts to tangle with Nancy Drew in her prime.

These Feet

To be published in the Castle's literary magazine, The Black Swan!

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These feet have been blistered, burned, frozen, and beaten, but they have never let me down.  These feet are calloused and scared, cracked and worn, and I wear them as a badge for my bravery.  These feet have scraped the bottom of too many pools to count and been thrown into the air by the angry surge of the Atlantic Ocean.  These feet have been bullied and bloodied, but they have endured enough and they know that they deserve a real pedicure every now and again.  These feet have climbed to the tops of towers and belfries, pressed the gas pedal to the floor, and stood in Lac Léman in Geneva.  These feet itch and stink – itch for movement, stink of victorious sweat in sensible shoes.  These feet have irregularly cut toenails and bumps and scars and aches and pains that tell the story of my travels and survivals.  These feet have braved hot sand and rain puddles.  These feet stretch and bend, kneaded under tired fingers, before the throbbing in the darkness of another dreamless night.  These feet carry me on walking tours and through museums; they’ve touched marble and stone and grass the world over.  These feet have carried me to my dreams, screaming in agony but never backing down.  These feet are ugly and tough and ruined, and they have never faltered.  These feet luxuriate in damp boots and wool blankets alike.  These feet will never let me stop moving.

For You

If I can just be social for the next three years, I can get my degree and then go live in my cabin in the middle of the woods.  And I'll never make another social faux pas or ruin another friendship again.  I'll write, and I'll run into the city (in disguise) to get my fill of the hustle and bustle and midsummer humidity I once so loved.  I'll answer my fan mail and sometimes see the people who matter, the ones that still care, the few I managed not to alienate.  There aren't many.  There will be no more arguments, no more pressure, no more personal conversations, in your face, when I make everything worse or let someone down.  I'll answer only to myself (and a publisher).  And I won't ever have to hear that tone in your voice again, the one that says I've failed, tells me how I've hurt you, recounts every one of my missteps.  The phone will never ring and you, you will never be on the other end of the line, waiting for me to redeem myself.  I'll live alone - perhaps a possum and some mix tapes - and I'll live without fear.  I won't suffer lose or pain, because I love to lose myself and I'll never again be near the people I hurt, unable to hurt myself be reliving their pain.  I'll remove myself to save them, to save you, mostly to save myself, because I'm selfish and cold and what have I done?  I won't ever see your face again, which should count as punishment enough for me, for all I've done.  I'll spend a lifetime in nothing, which is better than despair.  Better than the look on your face when I said, "I'm sorry," and all you heard was goodbye.

A Long, Lonely Time

Still trying to decide if this should be expanded to include some of the other little glimpses into a doomed relationship, or if there's enough here to let it stand on its own.  Read and debate for yourself, then fill me in. 

The title is also tentative; it's a line from the song "Unchained Melody" :]

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A Long, Lonely Time

When they separate in 1966, she won’t be able to cry.  She won’t allow her self-pity to swallow her whole, nor will she allow the open stares of her friends and neighbors to anger or shame her.  She won’t look at their baby boy, the one she’d brought into the world just three months before the inevitable end of their relationship.  She won’t think back on the good times, the romance, the months and months and months of bliss that should have really warned her of the incomparable heartache to come.

Geneva Wren will only be able to think of the rain.

Driving in the Dark

I have no idea what's going on here.  Inspired by watching The Matrix and then driving my dad to the train station on a foggy night.

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Happily Ever After

Happily Ever After  

Lou dragged James out to the courtyard to shake some sense into him.  He trailed along behind like a puppet on broken strings, stumbling almost drunkenly to keep up with her and seemingly unaware of the damage he’d done.  Once in the shadows of her favorite poplar trees, far from the prying eyes of the other party guests, Lou paused to take hold of James’ shoulders and literally shook him.

“Are you insane?” she demanded to know, though she obviously had her own ideas on the subject.  “You’re throwing your life away!”

“So getting married ruins your life?” James shot back.  He shrugged her off.  “Then why the hell are you doing it?”

“Your brother and I – ”

“You and my brother are bloody idiots, same as everyone else here.”

Lou reached out to him again, only to be rebuked, none too gently.  “You don’t mean that.  You’re not thinking clearly, Jamsey.”

“Don’t call me that!” he barked, shoving her so roughly she stumbled in her fancy ball gown.  He felt sorry the minute he did it – God, she looked beautiful – but there was no turning back after this night.  He fought to reach some semblance of calm, then exhaled slowly.  “Adi’s good enough for me.  We work well enough.  Why shouldn’t she be my wife?”

“I…I just…”  Lou pursed her lips, willing him to look at her.  He wouldn’t.  There was a laundry list of reasons, the same reasons his father would be throwing at him soon enough.  Adrienne was tawdry.  Adrienne was loose.  Adrienne was a bad influence.  But Lou could almost overlook all that, if she thought James actually loved her enough to make that kind of commitment.  She sat heavily on a nearby stone bench, the cold seeping through the taffeta princess gown, and decided upon, “Adi was just never the kind of girl I pictured you marrying.”

“Oh, yeah?  Me neither,” he replied, snide.  “I always thought – always hoped – I’d find someone…”  He shook his head and turned back towards the party lights, letting the meaning linger between them.  He’d made it clear enough over the last few years, after he’d broken free of his awkward teen years, after he’d come to realize what a jerk his brother had been and how wonderful Louisa always was and certainly always would be.

“James,” she sighed, and she could say no more.  They both shivered at the sound of his name on her lips.

You May Kiss the Bride?

For fun and laughs.  Inspired by a real conversation (unfortunately).  This one's for you, Roomie!


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You May Kiss the Bride?

There came a time in my life when I found myself married to my roommate.  He wasn’t an immigrant trying to keep his green card.  He wasn’t running from the law.  He wasn’t the love of my life.  In all truth, he wasn’t a “he” at all.  Her name was Kelsey, and we’d been friends since ninth grade AP Biology.

I wasn’t in love with her and, as far as I know, she hid no secret passions for me.  We had gotten close over panicked phone calls about chemistry homework, over food runs and the school musical and shared friends.  When the time came for all of us to go our separate ways, Kelsey and I didn’t.  We both went to a small liberal arts college in the middle of Boston, pursuing our dreams and pledging to keep each other motivated along the way.

It was just at the end of the spring semester of our freshmen year when, unceremoniously, Kelsey and I decided we would wed.  Our school only allowed seniors to move into off-campus housing, but we were both already fed up with dorm life.  Underclassmen could move into their own apartments if they fit one of only a few exceptions.  One was to join the military.  Another was to have a psychiatrist declare you unfit to live in the dorms anymore.  Another was to be married.