"Photograph": Indie Ink Writing Challenge

I had hired him out of a mix of two things. I had hoped I was wrong, but I secretly knew I was right. I had been getting cash back when I shopped for groceries, $20 here, $40 there, until I had assembled the amount he wanted. He looked at the picture of John on our mantelpiece, taken the money, and promised results within a week. I was stunned when he called me 3 days later and asked when it would be convenient to come over. I left Ethan at my mother's for the morning, and then had him at our dining room table shortly after 10AM on a Thursday.

He was carrying a plain manila envelope, a small black laptop case, and a sad, hangdog expression. His hair was thinning, but still handsomely salt and pepper, and his face looked rugged, like he had just had his picture taken for an ad for a rugged SUV or a line of work clothes. He refused coffee, but took a powdered donut that I had placed on a dinner plate on the table. When he bit the donut, a spot of white sugar appeared on his black dress shirt. That's why I tried not to eat those- they made everything messy.

I had showered and changed, but I had to leave my hair wet, a brown sodden mess down my back, leaving a faint wet patch on the back of my sweater. I had no makeup, but my bare toes were painted, and I sat next to him, legs crossed at the knee, smiling for reasons that were unclear to me. Was I flirting? Or was it just so unusual to have a strange man in my house I defaulted into teenage mode, bashful and giggly?

I looked into his smoky blue eyes. He looked away, at the clock above the kitchen sink that had birds instead of numbers, at the gleaming German refrigerator, at the dishes I had hurriedly done, still dripping water as they air dried. He looked out through the glass door that led into the back yard, the bottom third smudged with fingerprints I hadn't cleaned. He had only murmured "no thanks," when I offered him the coffee, and "sure," when I proffered the donuts. Otherwise he hadn't spoken.

I didn't know what to say, but he appeared content to just eat the donut and stare into my back yard. Someone had to say something. I looked down at my bare foot, swinging in the air, making tiny little circles. I really should have put shoes on. Would that have seemed like I was trying to hard to impress him? I remembered reading once that a woman showing a bare foot was a form of nonverbal flirtation, so maybe that wasn't right. I wanted to seem casual, but also proper. I could see the bones and tendons of my foot as I flexed it. I always used to take pride in how thin my feet were, but now they look skeletal, insubstantial, like they can't support my weight.

He was drumming his fingers on the rough surface of the envelope. I sipped my coffee. It was lukewarm and bitter, despite the sugar I had added.

"Do you want me to just tell you," he said evenly in his low voice, "or should I show you? What I found out?"

"You can tell me," I said. "Then show me."

"He is," he said.

In my head, I had decided some time ago that he was, so hearing this stranger say the words wasn't totally surprising. But it was still an out of body experience, where you are observing your own reactions. I thought about what a character in a book or a TV show would do- hurl my coffee cup against the wall or onto the floor, cry, collapse onto the floor. But I didn't do any of those things. I stared at him like he had just told me my total at the supermarket or offered to sell me a vacuum cleaner. He was looking down at the folder. He looked sad. I wondered how many times he had to say those words.

"There's proof in here," he said slowly. "You can have it. I keep a copy in case you need them again. There's video, too. I can email that, or you can watch it on my laptop."

He took a bite of donut, chewing and swallowing it, not looking at me. He cleared his throat. I felt like I was watching a scene in a movie.

"You don't have to look at it. I would advise you not to. At least not right now. Just hire an attorney and give them to him or her. I can give you some names."

"Do you know who it is?," I said. It didn't matter. But it felt like something I should know. "The woman?," I said, uselessly.

"I don't know her name," he said. "He picked her up at Memorial Hospital, when she finished work. She was wearing scrubs, so I assume she worked there."

I looked at his hands. One still had a few white flecks of donut sugar on them. They were a man's hands, with little cuts and scars and calluses. Someone who worked for a living. Maybe he did woodworking in his spare time or something. Or maybe the scars were from punching out criminals and such, like in the movies. They looked dry, like he needed someone to massage them and rub them with moisturizer.

"I need to see," I said. I wasn't sure why I said that. I knew. I hired him because I knew, and he just told me that he had confirmed it. I watched him as he unfastened the brass catch and slid a picture out of the envelope. There were others behind it. It was printed on the same kind of fancy photo paper I had just used to print a picture of Ethan my sister in law posted on Facebook.

The picture was of a hotel room, shot from a very high angle. A large bed in the middle of the room, with a bureau, a TV, a bedside table, curtains drawn, nondecript and ordinary. The colors were off, everything in shades of orange, but there wasn't any question about what the picture showed. I thought for a minute about how he got such a picture, where they were, why he did this sort of thing for a living, then realized I probably didn't want to know. He couldn't or wouldn't tell me the answers even if I asked.

There was a man in the picture, no question it was John. He was looking away from the camera lens, but I could recognize the pattern of hair on his bald spot, the way the cords in his neck stood out when he was exerting himself, even the way the muscles looked in his legs. He was having sex with a woman I didn't recognize. She was a small, lithe little blonde. Her face was angled towards the camera, and I could see the desire etched on her face as it contorted. She was small breasted, with a flat belly and well toned, strong looking legs that were up in the air. Her toes were pointed straight, like she was a gymnast or a ballet dancer. She was attractive, I had to admit that, with a small nose and a pretty mouth.

"Are you going to confront him? I can arrange to be around if you think you'll be in some danger."

Danger? From John? I almost laughed at the thought. He couldn't even beat me at arm wrestling. I kept looking at the picture. It had all the wierd perspective problems of a camera that's not supposed to be there- his head looks enormous in the picture, his feet tiny as they gripped the carpet for purchase. I wondered what she did differently. Was she louder? Quieter? More active? More passive? Or was it just the fact that she wasn't me?

"There isn't any other way to say this, but I'm going to send you a bill for the rest of my fee. I left you a list of attorneys in the envelope, along with my business card. If I may, what people usually do is give my bill to the lawyer, and they will get it out of your husband. They roll it into the fee, something like that." His voice was calm, placid, like he had said this same thing dozens of times this week. He sounded like he was explaining car insurance or the features of a washer and dryer.

"Do you want me to be here when he gets home?"

"No, no," I said. "That won't be necessary. You'll mail me a bill, then?"

"Yes. You have my card if you need anything. If you feel threatened, in any danger at all, call the cops, then call me."

"I don't know what to say," I said. My foot was still bobbing stupidly. "Thank you seems inappropriate."

"It does," he said. "But you're welcome anyway." He stood up. "You'll call me if you need me?"

"Yes," I said. He stood up. He was tall, taller than John. He looked tired. I felt rooted to my chair.

"I'll be going, then. For what it's worth, he's a fool for running around on you," he said. He paused, then added "I'll see myself out."

I sat there, watching him go out of my kitchen, down the stairs, and out the front door, shutting it firmly behind him. I heard his car start, and I heard the tires crunch as he drove away. I still sat there, my leg bobbing up and down with no one to look at it. I wondered if I had thrown myself at him, if he would have stayed. Would have felt better, getting John back with a little tit for tat? That probably happened to him all the time. And he probably turned them down, certainly rejecting the ones with the baby weight and regret that I carry.

I looked down at the table, the three donuts he didn't eat, along with the folder and the pictures I hadn't looked at yet along with the one poisonous pornographic one that I had. I looked at her face, contorted with pleasure and need, and wondered what she was thinking. Did John tell her he was married? Did she care? Or was the need so overwhelming, so immediate and huge that she couldn't help herself? The photo wasn't clear enough for me to tell if he was using a condom or not. Was he cheating with others? Was she? The thought of him bringing disease into our bed nauseated me.

I thought for a moment about leaving the picture there without comment, waiting for him to glance at it, waiting for a reaction. I didn't want to have a screaming match with Ethan in the house, but I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to make him feel the yawning, dizzying, helpless rage of knowing you had failed someone utterly, and there was no way on Earth you could ever make it right again. Then I thought about tearing it up, burning it, destroying it, as if the picture had done the damage and not my philandering husband. If I got rid of it, it would be like it didn't exist.

I sat there, staring at the picture that had rearranged everything I knew as true. I looked at the man who stood there in front of God and his mother and me and a minister and 191 others and said words like "always" and "forever", and clearly didn't mean them, and I looked at the woman who found potbellied, anxious John so fascinating that she simply had to have him. I looked at the cheap hotel room where they did it, and I looked at the positive proof that the first part of my life was over, and a new and different part had begun. It seemed cheap and out of proportion that something so small could do so much damage.

I wanted to cry, or scream, or throw something hard against the wall to feel the satisfying, sharp sound as it shattered. I wanted to destroy things, throw his golf clubs into the street or march into his office, tear stained and hysterical, and demand that he explain why, and how, and when, and who. I looked at the evidence of his crime, tucked it back into the manila folder it had come from, and sealed it shut. I got up, found a pair of ballet flats, pulled my hair into a pony tail, grabbed my keys, tucked the folder into my purse, and left, closing the door, locking it behind me with a satisfying, final thunk.








For the IndieInk Writing Challenge this week, Kurt challenged me with William S. Burrough's "...and there were plenty of cameras to freeze dry this edifying spectacle for posterity and export. It's the little touches that make a future solid enough to be destroyed," and I challenged Britania with Rush's "Nowhere is the dreamer/or the misfit so alone."

100 Word Challenge: Just Like Her

Velvet Verbosity's 100 Word Challenge is ready to step in and negotiate an end to the NBA lockout. This week's word is "writing", and my story is called "Just Like Her".





Madison has the coolest handwriting in the whole class, Jennifer thought. Madison was more popular, more athletic, taller, prettier, smarter, nicer, better in every way. She wanted her letters to look just like hers, all bubbly and even and friendly looking. She practiced at night, writing her own name over and over, wanting it to be perfect. They had a spelling test and Jennifer wanted her name to look just right on the top. She wrote it again and again, erasing and rewriting, until Miss Blake's voice snapped through her trance.

"OK, class. Time! Hand your papers forward, please."

Treasure Hunt (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

Samantha hated her name. The day I met her, playing with a soccer ball by myself in my yard while my Mom unpacked the stuff from the moving truck, she insisted that I call her Sammy, so that's what I did. She just walked right up and kicked the ball back to me, saying, as bright and bold as the sun, "Hi! I'm Sammy!". She was a little shorter than me, with thick dark hair that always needed brushing and almond shaped eyes. I had never heard of a girl named Sammy, but I went along with it. Sammy had a way of making you want to do what she said.

She was in my class when school started, and I soon understood that she was the center of almost everything. Teachers called on her first, she got picked for kickball before any other girl, the principal knew her name, the art teachers oohed and aahed over her work more than anyone else's. It was thrilling for me, because I gained instant credit when she introduced me as "Brit, who lives right across the STREET from me." Kids were impressed that I lived close to someone so magical.

Her mom used "Samantha" when she was mad at her. When I picked up the phone and her mom asked if "Samantha" was there, I knew she was probably in trouble again. My mom didn't care if Sammy came over while she was at work, but Sammy never asked her mom, so she wound up playing "where's Sammy" a lot. The answer was usually my house, but she called anyway.

One day, Sammy and I were watching cartoons on Veteran's Day. We had no school, but our moms were at work, so Sammy came over and we were sitting in front of the TV eating grapes from a bowl my mom had left in the fridge. Right in the middle of Jenny the Teenage Robot, Sammy sat up straight and said, "Let's go exploring!"

"Exploring? Where?," I said.

"In the woods." Behind our house, they were building more houses, knocking down trees and clearing grass. You could hear the engines and saws of the workmen if you turned the TV down low. We usually kept it loud.

"Are you crazy? We can't," I said. The only rule my mom had was a very serious one- don't ever leave the house, unless it's burning down. Don't answer the phone, don't answer the door. I could have Sammy over, but we had to stay in my house the whole time. She said it a million times, reminding me again and again until I could say the words at the same time she did. "No matter what, you stay in the house."

"I'll never tell," Sammy said. "Come on! I want to go look for treasure."

I knew treasure wasn't real. There were no angels, or pirates, or aliens. They weren't real like homework and lip gloss and soccer was real.

"No," I said firmly. "My mom says I can't."

"Come ON," Sammy said. "It will be fun. We'll just go into the woods a little bit, then come back. I KNOW there's treasure there." She was getting up, pulling her sneakers on and tying them.

I knew she was crazy. But I knew she would probably go anyway, even if I didn't. I felt like I was responsible for Sammy, like I had to keep her from doing dumb things. I sat up. My boots were at the bottom of the chair. All I had to do was slide my feet in and I could be right behind her.

"Sammy, we can't."

"Come ON, Brit. I promise we'll be right back. I PROMISE. Just come for 5 minutes."

I slid my boots on and stood up.

"Cool," she said. "Let's go!"

We grabbed our jackets and went out the back door of my house. I turned around and made sure it was unlocked so we could get back in. There are fences on the left and right, but our yard just ends where the woods start. My mom always says that she's going to put up a fence in the back, but she hasn't yet. We walked to the edge where the trees began.

Sammy found a spot where it looked like there was a path.

"This is going to be so fun!," Sammy said.

She went between two trees and we started to walk. The air was cold and smelled a little bit like smoke. The leaves, brown and yellow, crunched loudly under our feet. The path seemed to stop, and Sammy moved to the left, looking for another clear path. We were walking along the outside of the cleared out place where the new houses were being built. If we looked through the trees, we could see the yellow and red and orange trucks and equipment, digging and scraping at the ground like huge mechanical beasts. I kept walking behind Sammy.

She stopped so suddenly I almost stepped on her.

"BRIT!," she said in a harsh whisper. "Look!"

There was a box at her feet. It was made of hard blue plastic, with a snap on top, and it looked like the boxes I used to put stuffed animals in when I was little. My mouth went dry with excitement. I could taste the exhaust from the construction equipment. My heart was bounding.

"Open it," she said.

I fumbled around for a second, unable to speak. I wanted to run, could picture myself flying back through the woods, across the grass and back inside my front door. When I looked back, I could see my house's outline, so I knew exactly where to run.

Finally I found my voice. "YOU open it, Sammy."

She looked back at me. Her eyes were wide. "Let's do it together."

What could be in there? It could be nothing, or it could be something really bad, or something gross, or something dead. My legs felt trembly, like before you had to stand up in the spelling bee. I was clenching my fist and unclenching it, as hard as I could. It was cold. When you looked through the woods at the workmen, you could see tiny little dots of color where the men were working.

Is it a gun? A bomb? A dead animal? I had the overwhelming feeling something awful was about to happen. I wanted to stay there with Sammy, but I felt like I was going to throw up, and then I was running. It was like my legs were moving by themselves, and I was suddenly dashing away from Sammy, jumping over rocks, ducking under branches, digging against the loose sticks and leaves on the ground. I reached my yard, and then I was across it in a flash, up to the back door, yanking it open and slamming it behind me.

My heart was pounding now, big slamming beats inside my ribs, and I could feel sweat on my back. I ripped my jacket off, and walked over to the grapes and picked up the remote, jabbing at it to turn the TV back on. I was breathing hard, feeling anxious, like I had watched something terrible. I didn't want to turn around, but I finally did, looking back at the woods, half expecting to see a monster chasing Sammy back into my yard, or a big explosion of flame and smoke coming out of the woods. I didn't see anything, and I felt my stomach starting to settle down.

I didn't know what I would do, and I started to try to imagine trying to explain that Sammy wasn't here, when she walked out of the woods, swinging her arms, looking at me through the window in the back door. I opened the door with sweaty hands.

She took the steps up to the door and moved past me into the house.

"Why'd you leave?"

"I'm sorry, Sammy. I just...I got scared and I ran."

"It's OK. I was a little scared, too."

I almost didn't want to know, but the words tumbled out before I could stop them.

"Did you open it? What was in it?"

Sammy had stepped on the back of her shoe, slipping her foot out without untying it. She slipped off the other shoe, then sat down Indian style on the far side of the bowl of grapes. She was staring at the TV, which was showing a commercial for cereal. She seemed as cool as could be, the very opposite of everything I was. If I could have traded places with her in that moment, I would have. Samantha Norris, I wish I could be you, I thought.

"Nothing," Sammy said.





























For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Kirsten Doyle challenged me with "You are walking in the forest and you trip over a wooden box. You open the box and find..." and I challenged Tara Roberts with "All I ever needed was the One".

Promotion (But not for myself, for once)

Saints on Earth Fiona Johnson and Thomas Pluck have collected 30 stories that were submitted to a flash fiction challenge for an EBook that is being sold to raise money for children's charities. It's called "The Lost Children Anthology", I am very proud that one of my stories was included, and I would be pleased if you bought a copy here.

100 Word Challenge: Costume Shopping

Velvet Verbosity won't let anything slow her, or the 100 Word Challenge, down. This week's word is "Halloween", and this story is called "Costume Shopping".







"No," I said. Her deep brown eyes flashed. She stomped off, sure of my cluelessness.

She came back holding one. Nurse. Too short.

"No," I said. She threw a full force pout, turning away again.

Another choice. Vampire. Too low.

"No," I said. "But Daaaaaayaaaaad," she said, making it three syllables.

"No," I said again. She made an angry sound, then disappeared into the maelstrom. Everything was cut high, or dipped down too low. She was too young to understand the balance that had to be struck. Or was she?

Why did I agree to buy the costume this year?

Bleak House ( Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Mary Terrani challenged me with "Sometimes you have to let go of the one you love to find out if there is really something there" and I challenged Diane with "As children, your world is yours. That day [his father's death] taught me that it's really not your world. Somebody else is in control-fate, God, whatever it is. It is not your show. And the show can be brutal. -Tim Allen".
















"Ray?," she said. She always spoke softly, as if nothing she said was worth listening to.

Emmeline was at the other end of my couch, reading "Bleak House" again. Her precise dancer's feet were pulled up against her, her toes peeking out under the hem of her skirt. The polish was chipped and uneven. She had marked her place in the worn paperback and was looking at me over the top of it. Her eyes were engaging. I never wanted to stop looking at them.

I felt a sudden unease. I was grading papers, half listening to the broadcast of a Mariners game that I had turned down in deference to her reading. She had joined me for dinner, but had only picked at her food, muttering noncommittal replies to my questions. Something was up.

"Yes?"

"I need to ask you something."

Famous last words, I thought.

"Shoot."

"Something's been bothering me." You can say that again, I thought.

"Kate?"

"No, not Kate. Well, not really Kate. Kate's part of it, but Kate's part of everything. I still haven't made my peace with it, but I'm tired of fighting it." That reminded me of the old saying, "When they say it's not about the money, it's about the money."

"OK. What is it, Em?"

"You know I love you."

"Yes. And I love you, too."

"Yes, you do. After Wendy, you didn't have anybody before me, did you?"

"No, I didn't. You know this. What are you trying to say, Em?"

She looked down, focusing on her knees under the thin fabric of the skirt. She set the paperback down and wrapped her hands around her ankles.

"I'm scared, Ray. I'm scared that you're in love with being in love, instead of being in love with me. I love Kate, you know that. But I'm scared you love her more than you love anyone, because she's your last tie to Wendy. And damn it, I'm scared that I will always be second fiddle to the memories of someone who died."

I could hear the tears on the edge of her voice.

"Ray, you're it for me. I knew it from the moment you started talking to me about pens and paper, that very first day. I have not regretted a moment of time I have spent with you. I don't have a shadow of a doubt that I want to spend the rest of my life with you in one form or another."

"Neither do-," I began.

"Shut up," she said quickly. "Just shut up. You do. You do have doubts, and you know it. You can't commit to me. You can't. Not because you don't care about me, and not because you're a bad person. You can't commit because you already committed, in your heart, and she's gone, and I can't compete with a ghost."

She stood up, tears making tracks down the red blooms on her cheeks. She slid her bare feet into black flats that were waiting obediently on the floor.

"You've got to think about this, Ray. You have to think about whether you're ready to give yourself, all of yourself, to me. You have to think about what I mean to you. You have to decide what it is you want."

She picked up her book and started towards the door. I stood up.

"I won't be second place, Raymond. I won't. I'm ready to give myself to you. But I have to get something in return: all of you. I want you to take a break from me. I want you to really think about things. If we're ready, if this is real, we'll be stronger afterwards. If you think about it and you're not ready, I will accept that. But you need to make up your mind, because if I'm going to have a future with you, I need to know that I'm the only one."

She was at my door. I couldn't talk, but it didn't matter because I didn't know what to say.

"When I'm ready to talk about this again, I'll call you."

She opened the door and left. The breeze from the hallway ruffled her skirt softly, and then the door shut. I was alone. I turned back to the spot where she was sitting, the cushions still faintly indented with her shape. I knew if I leaned down close, I could probably smell her sweat on the fabric. I didn't.

The Wait (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Courtney challenged me with "He has brought me this far, he won't leave me hanging" and I challenged Kevin Wilkes with "I know they say let it be, but it just don't work out that way."












He said he would be here.

He wasn't the only one. My father is in Schenectady, so I don't blame him for not being here. My mother said she'd be here, and I think she will be. She told me she would come right over. I'm sure there's traffic or something.

The room was high enough to be over the highway. The curtains had separated a bit, giving me a thin view of the bright highway. Cars were no longer flashing by, instead crawling slowly now as rush hour asserted itself.

Above my head, a pretty blonde in a smart looking suit was gesturing silently at maps with flashing red marks where the traffic was slow. I could turn up the sound, but I'd have to move to do that, so I quickly discarded that notion.

I looked around the room, with all the strange looking tubes and wires. Numbers flashed, raising slightly, then dipping again. I thought about asking what they meant. They would tell me, but I realized it would just be something else to worry about. I'd probably be better off not knowing.

He had been there from the start. (The mild pun made me smile slightly- the statement was literally true. He was there at the moment it happened, but neither of us knew that then.) I told him, and he was nothing but gracious about it. I had heard and read horror stories about denials and even violence, but he was calm. Slightly dazed, he sat and talked with me as long as I wanted, letting me cry. We talked, and talked, and talked- I told him what I wanted, and he agreed without hesitation. I would never stop appreciating that, how easily he allowed my wishes to reign supreme.

We knew we weren't in love. Certainly fond of one another, (fond enough to have done what was necessary, certainly) we quickly agreed that it would be best to remain friendly without forcing a romantic entanglement neither of us wanted. He called, and he texted, and he bought me lunch now and then. He listened when I talked, and drove me around sometimes when it was too uncomfortable and awkward to drive myself. He was supportive in every way I could have asked for. He had been a perfect, understanding, lovely friend all the way through it, and I knew he wasn't going to leave me now. He said he would be here when it was time, and I'm sure he will.

I looked around the room again. There were a few chairs, covered in a thick, plastic looking cushions. I imagined they probably got splashed with all sorts of fluids, so they probably wanted them easy to clean. Nothing absorbent. But the chairs made me a little sad, emphasizing, in my mind, that people were supposed to be here with me.

I wasn't really alone. Every once in a while, someone would hurry in dressed in blue or orange or bright, cheerful pink. They'd ask me how I was, if I needed a drink or a pillow. Some of them would write something down, or make an entry on a laptop they were carrying. I didn't ask for much, partially because there wasn't too much they could do, and partially because I knew they had other people just like me they were watching over.

It was hard, doing this like this. I knew people cared for me, and I knew they would be here soon enough to hold my hand and do what they could to help me through this. But they weren't here now, and a tiny, childish part of me demanded they get here now, and I was frustrated and almost teary because they weren't.

And it hurt.

I knew it was going to hurt. All the books said that, other women told you with knowing smiles that, and simple common sense told you that. And it did- a constant, sharp ache with intervals of unbelievable, searing agony that made me clench my teeth and breathe hard and shallow breaths. This pain was different in its intensity and scope from any pain I had ever known. It blazed, and roared, and felt like it would never end, until it finally did, fading into merely agonizing.

When you had regular pain from exertion or other miseries, it was more contained. You knew what hurt, you knew what you could do, if anything, to relieve it, and you knew, intellectually, that there was an endpoint. This pain was different. It was deeper, and wider, and seemed to involve every nerve cell, every fiber of your being. You would do anything to stop it, make any promise. But it stopped when it was good and ready.

I felt it starting. There were tremors, little movements, twinges and spasms on top of the constant aching pain that was constantly underneath. After that warning, I didn't have a chance to move, or cry out, or do anything before it started. It was a grabbing, squeezing band of pain that started up high with a depth and intensity that made me suck in a breath. It squeezed, and the hurt blossomed and spread and made me arch my back slightly, peering up at the harsh florescent lighting above the bed. I prayed, something I hadn't done since I was 7. Of course, it didn't stop.

It was an ocean of pain, and I felt like I was struggling for air, drowning in the sensation. There wasn't any end to it. I knew it had to eventually stop, but while you're in it, it feels like hurting is all you will ever know. Nothing is comfortable, no position relieves it. It gets to a point where I can barely remember what good is. It seems like I was born in pain, and I honestly wished, for a moment, I would die if that meant it would stop.

I registered someone coming in the room, and saw a lime green top under a kind, pleasant smile. "Contraction, honey?"

I couldn't speak.

"I know it's bad, sweetheart."

Her cool hand found mine, which was slick with sweat. I writhed, hearing nonsense sounds coming out of my own mouth.

"Just breathe. It will be over soon enough."

It felt like it was going to last forever, until suddenly it wasn't. The bands were releasing, the waves of agony receding slowly. I opened my eyes wide, the woman in green, her hair pulled back away from her face, holding my hand.

"The first time is hard. It gets easier."

Finally able to speak, I muttered, " You did this more than once? "

She chuckled. "Yes, dear. Four times."

My mother came around the corner, already talking a mile a minute. "Traffic was a nightmare, but I'm here now, and I...oh!" She saw the woman in green, my hand still in hers. "I'm Evalyn's mother," she said, straightening up.

"Well, we just had a bad one, but things are progressing. I'll go get Dr. Paultz," she said, moving towards the door.

"Jimmy said he'll be along," my mother told me.

I knew that. I knew that this could be endured, that my mother had done it, that woman in green had, my friend Kerry had. Lots of people had, billions of them. It didn't make it hurt less, but it reminded me, again, that I would survive it.

"I know," I said.

Terrible Minds Challenge: Nobody Understands Anybody

If life is a highway, Chuck Wendig runs a disreputable dive bar right off of the exit ramp. This week's flash fiction challenge involves three of the following five words (cockroach, bottle, box, tax, fountain) plus a vampire in some way, shape, or form. My story is called "Nobody Understands Anybody".





It was a pleasantly warm fall day, the sort of day that makes you think nature is trying to pull a fast one. I came out of the lobby, emerging from the fake reflected warmth into the honest sunshine, wanting to eat my yogurt and fruit sitting on the gorgeous stone fountain that made the front of our building, an ordinary insurance company in Nowhere, New Jersey, look a little bit like a location in a James Bond movie.

It was a popular destination for those of us who couldn't afford to dash to Chipotle every day- spend 20 minutes or so eating, then walk or just sit, absorbing some rays and looking at people before returning to the fluorescent world of spreadsheets and budgets and phone calls. I saw lanky Tom, who worked in my department, talking on his phone in a hissed whisper. I sat down near him, but not too near, opening my yogurt and decidedly not listening.

"Look, I have to go," he said. "Yes. I know. I'm sorry. Yes. OK. We can talk about it when I get home. Yes. OK. Fine."

He looked puzzled for a moment, then lowered the phone from his ear, shaking his head slowly. His dark hair was mussed, like he had been running his hands through it.

"Hey, Tom," I said.

"Hey, Jules," he said. "I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"We all have those moments," I said, trying to sound cheery. "I guess I don't have to ask how you are."

He barked out a laugh. "No, no you don't."

I looked at him, in stained Dockers and a dress shirt that was starting to come untucked. I wanted to take care of him, like you would a lost dog.

"Is it Caroline?"

He took a long sip from a bottle of Orangina.

"It's Caroline, it's the baby, it's this place, it's everything. I really don't know how to deal with it." He looked pained. He was staring down at the ground. I watched the sunlight hit the little fake gem on top of my shoe.

"I'm sorry, Tom. I wish there was something I could do to help."

He looked up at me, his face full of hope.

"Me too, Jules."

He finished his drink and got up to put it in the trash. His walk was slow and unsteady. He seemed unable to look anyone in the eye.

I waited for him to sit back down. "Being a Dad really sucks the life out of you, huh?"

He laughed again, harshly, indicating the opposite of laughter. "Yeah."

He paused, then continued.

"It's so taxing- there are a hundred problems that you don't know the answers to, and she doesn't know either, and the kid, the kid is just constantly unhappy, and you don't know why. I love them, I love them to death, but it's like they are these vampires, just draining you of your essence. You feel like a total failure, all the time, and I'm not sleeping well, and then she calls me today and starts yelling about how I bought the wrong wipes, and now she's out of them, and she's too tired to go to the store, and..."

He stopped again. It sounded like he was swallowing back a sob.

"I just had this thought, this image, of just taking the whole box of wipes and just throwing them at her. And you know I'm not like that. I'm not that kind of person. It really feels like I'm losing it, Jules."

I didn't know what to say. I had met his wife at the Christmas party, a short, dark woman who looked me over with suspicion. It was off putting, because I hadn't done anything yet.

"You're not like that, Tom. It's just a thought. It's like that comedian says, if you haven't contemplated murder, you haven't really been in love. I'm sure you're just going through the same thing every new parent does. You'll be OK."

"I hope you're right," he said, his voice tight. I could picture holding him, letting his tears fall onto the shoulders of my jacket. I felt this compelling need to comfort him, to tell him that I would listen, that I wouldn't yell. I had never thought about him romantically, but suddenly, there on the edge of the fountain in the sun, I pictured him telling me about it over a drink, and then following me home to my tiny, sad apartment. I wasn't going to do it. I wasn't that sort of person. But I could see it.

He cleared his throat and stood up. "I'm going to take a walk," he said. "I need to clear my head."

"OK, Tom. I'll see you back inside."

"OK, Jules."

I watched him walk away. He seemed broken. It was so sad that his wife didn't understand him. Or maybe it was Tom who didn't understand her? I scraped the last bit of yogurt from the bottom of the container. Maybe nobody understands anybody.

"I Like Ponies" (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Diane challenged me with "I'm the lie living for you so you can hide" and I challenged Kurt with "If you love someone, set them free".






The house was too warm- the combination of the oven and the bodily warmth making the house a steamy mess. The kids, fueled by appetizers and sugared drinks, still buzzed around with boundless energy, occasionally checked on by half drunk parents and uncles and grandparents. The meal had been prepared and dishes washed, and we were in the uncertain part of the afternoon where those with long drives thought about sucking down some coffee and finding their coats.

My niece Emily appeared at my knee, tugging at my pant leg. She looked at me, eyes wide. Her voice had the edge of a whine in it- all the younger kids were whipping past the point of no return, where every thwarted wish and denied treat results in tears and recriminations. .

"Auntie Lauren? Color with me?"

How could I say no?

"Of course, sweetheart."

She had a box of fat Crayolas and a store brand sketchpad in her tiny fists. We found adjoining seats at the table opposite her mother, who was pecking away on an IPhone.

"Mommy, Auntie Lauren gonna draw with me."

"That's great, honey," my sister said, in a distracted tone that told me she wasn't listening.

Emily unfolded the book, a great expanse of blank, off white paper.

"Draw a horse," she commanded, and I did. It was one thing I really could do well.

"That's a really good horse," she said, and began intensely coloring one of the legs in blue. "Now draw a yellow one." I did as she said.

"Mommy never draws with me," she said, face scrunched in concentration as she intensely worked on the horse's leg..

"Your mommy used to draw all the time," I said, distractedly. "When she was younger."

"Now a purple one," Emily commanded. I complied.

"But Mommy had to grow up," my sister said under her breath. I caught the dig. Years of training meant I didn't miss the flash of a switchblade when it was meant for me.

"Auntie Lauren's a grownup," Emily protested.

"Yes, she is," her mother said, and then stood up, putting the phone to her ear. She was overdressed, like she always was, slacks that probably cost more than my car payment over her long legs. She always had to be the best dressed, best equipped, best everything.

"Yes, Carl, I know it's Thanksgiving, but listen," she said, stepping through the sliding door onto the porch and closing it behind her, giving us a rush of chilly air.

"Mommy's always working," Emily said sadly.

"I know honey," I said, trying to sound cheerful. "Mommy works hard so you can have nice things."

"Color in the yellow one," Emily ordered. I picked up the yellow crayon and began to fill it in. I thought about my big sister, ordering me sternly to never compromise, never give in as I watched her leave for college. She went as an artsy rebel and returned a buttoned up, Ann Taylor clad zombie, talking about gross profit margins and ROI. I was stunned by the change, but all she would say for explanation is that "someone has to be the adult around here."

"Why did Mommy stop drawing?," Emily asked as her mother reentered the dining room, the blast of wind ruffling her silk blouse.

"Mommy had to get a real job," my sister said. "Someone has to watch out for Grandma. You can't spend your whole life drawing ponies."

I let that go, picturing a softball skidding into the dirt, low and outside.

"Your Mom made different choices," I said to Emily, trying to paper over the crack. "People do different things, that's all."

"I like ponies," Emily said.

Once more, from the top...

"Yesterday it was my birthday-
I hung one more year on the line-
I should be depressed-
My life's a mess-
But I'm having a good time."

-Paul Simon, "Have A Good Time"

100 Word Challenge: 2:35AM

The Velvet Verbosity 100 Word Challenge is willing to hit the ball to the right side to move the runner over. This week's word is "Satisfied", and though my faulty brain came up with it too late to make the list, here's my entry, "2:35 AM". It is based on one of the many Steve Jobs stories making the rounds these days.








I clawed my way out of deep sleep. I looked at my phone with one eye. Calls at 2:35 AM aren't good news. I stabbed at the answer button.

"Yeah?," I said. Manners end at around 11 PM.

"It's John," the voice said. My never satisfied, omnipresent boss. He sounded wired.

"What's up, chief?"

"I had an idea. There are three screws under the battery on the prototype."

There were. He was never wrong. "Yeah, there are. Why?"

"Let's make it two."

"But John, nobody takes the battery out. Nobody will know!"

"I'll know."

"Buckets of Rain" (Indie Ink Writing Challenge)

For the Indie Ink Writing Challenge this week, Tobie challenged me with "No, this can't be happening. It's too early!" and I challenged Caroline with "Overdrawn".






I had to keep him away from Caroline. I always did. It had been a long time for me, and this one seemed like a catch. I just had to somehow keep him from seeing her too soon, and keep him from making the obvious choice. .

When Alyssa's cousin moved in two towns away from me, I couldn't say no. He passed all the standard tests- attractive enough, not visibly crazy, dresses nice, smells okay. We had a coffee, then a dinner the next weekend, then another, and we seemed to have a rapport. Tonight, he got some theater tickets, with the end of the evening left deliberately left vague.

I had planned it all out, home from work at 6, then upstairs to change and dress, then downstairs at 7:30 so I could meet him in the driveway before he got to the front door at 8. The only thing I absolutely did not want was to bring him inside to be introduced around. He knew I still lived at home until I finished school- I had been clear about that part. And my parents were my parents- embarrassing and awkward, but nothing we couldn't laugh about in our seats before the play. It was Caroline I had to keep away from.

Caroline was my 19 year old sister, and she was gorgeous. That's not the fake praise of a person who loves her sister, but instead it's an honest to God observation. Sure, we looked alike, and when pressed, I might admit I'm not terrible looking. But I was the rough draft- Caroline was the paper you handed in. Men rode their bicycles into utility poles when she walked by, and I lost more boyfriends than I could count, either mentally or physically, when they got a look at her. She was otherworldly, a goddess carved from stone and made of silk, and everyone knew it.

I was walking back and forth in front of my mirror, tiny little mincing steps to make sure I could walk in my ensemble and that I hadn't left anything uneven or off kilter, when I heard my mother's voice, intentionally loud, probably for my benefit, "Why, David! We didn't expect you until 8 or so!"

I froze, and my heart stopped.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I left early to make sure I could find your house, and it turns out it was much easier than I thought."

My mother laughed, a high, fake sound. "That's fine. Come on in! Kelly will be right down."

I heard him step inside. I prayed Caroline was in the kitchen, or in the back yard, or on the phone. I looked myself over one final time, figuring this will have to do. I grabbed my purse and headed for the stairs.

"So what do you do, David?"

"I'm an insurance adjuster," he said. "Not the most popular industry right now."

"But someone has to do it."

"Very true," he said. "I'm glad you see it that way."

They took a couple of steps inside. "This is my other daughter, Caroline," she said.

"Hi," Caroline said.

It's all over, I thought. She never meant to, but something happened when they saw her. She may never touch them, but I lose them just the same.

"Hello," he said.

"So how did you meet our Kelly?," my mother interjected.

I gritted my teeth. God, Mom, stop it. I could picture his eyes roaming over Caroline, her long legs, her carelessly tossed hair, her pouty lips.

"She's my cousin's friend."

"Aha. How about that? Kelly's father worked with my brother Jack! Good things often happen that way."

"Indeed," he said. Jesus, I thought. I was making my way down the stairs, treading as carefully as I could.

"Have you known each other long?"

"A month or so," he said. "I've only been in town 6 weeks. I was transferred from Fresno."

"How nice for you! I'm so happy you two met!" So you can get this one out of my hair, she probably wanted to add.

My shoes emerged into view. "There she is!" my mother said, relieved. "Have fun, you two!" I took a long look at Caroline, who was back to watching Jeopardy and checking her phone. I looked at David, who was looking at me. I let a deep breath out.

We said our pleasantries, and we left. My shoes crunched on the gravel walkway.

"So that's them," I said.

"They're sweet," he said.

"What did you think of Caroline?," I said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, she has...a way of becoming the center of attention, let's say."

David opened the passenger door of his car, holding it open for me. His belt buckle gleamed faintly where a streetlight hit it. It was starting to rain a little bit. "She is a pretty girl," he mused slowly. "But I'm not holding the door for her."

I got in the car.

RIP Steve Jobs

My email to remembersteve@apple.com:

I don't think it overstates one bit to say that the passing of Steve Jobs is the loss of our Picasso, our Rembrandt, our daVinci. I can't say that Apple or Jobs did everything right- I could take issue with their DRM or the treatment of workers in China. But I can say that my life would be worse without Apple products, and people almost everywhere can say the same. Steve Jobs changed the world, and not a lot of people get to say that. Rest In Peace.

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Self Promotion Is Exhausting Work, But Someone Has To Do It. I Guess.

Matt Potter has again showed his kindness and generosity in accepting a brief piece of mine, "Right", in his Museum Of Awesome, the indisputably "Pure Slush", located here.

Self Promotion Is A Thankless Job

Showing here is a story of mine, "The Secret", which was chosen as one of the best stories of 52/250's fourth quarter.


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