fortune burial bridge



She didn’t know she was being watched. But if she had, she probably wouldn’t have cared. It took her three tries before she finally made the choice. Three times, she walked up to the bridge, fist clenched tight, only to turn around and walk away.

It was the fourth time that stuck, really. When she decided that she didn’t want to deal with it anymore, that she wanted to put it behind her, both figuratively and literally. She decided that she wanted to put him out of her head – that she couldn’t stand one more day thinking about what had been. It was a very special kind of torture – one that she’d been putting herself through.

And it had to end.

She needed to bury this in her past.

There had to be some peace.

And if this was the only way she could get it, then so be it.

She made her way to the middle of the bridge slowly, with measured footsteps, each one clanging loudly against the hollow metal.

Usually, you could barely hear yourself think for the traffic roaring across the bridge, but it was the middle of the night and thus, silent.

Standing in the center, she looked down at the river, the cool water nearly still. The moon gazed back at her, faceted, a round little face in every ripple made by the slight breeze.

There should be some ceremony to this, shouldn’t there?

But somehow, after all of the journaling and the crying…. And the writing tons of bad poetry, she found herself without anything left to say. So she stood in silence for a few moments, looking at the river.

It was then, in the cool stillness of the night, that she heard quick, panicked footsteps, rushing toward her from the other side of the bridge. She looked up to see some guy running at her.


He yelled at her from a distance.

What the hell did this weirdo want?

She shook her head in mild annoyance and waited, hoping that he wasn’t a serial killer.


He knew he’d have a hangover. He could almost feel the headache building behind his eyes. Some part of him wondered whether it was better to just lay down and sleep on the bench, right there. It felt like a better idea than dragging his drunk butt up and down the block to the train station to get home.

Just a few more minutes, he decided.

He’d give himself a few more minutes to sober up and then he’d haul his sorry ass back to the train station.

He watched the same girl walk up to the bridge a couple of times on the bank opposite. She would walk right up to the cusp of the bridge and stop. Then she would tuck a strand of hair behind her ear and stand there for a few minutes, before turning around and walking away.

He saw her do this a couple of times, and he saw her resolve strengthen when she stepped onto the bridge. The decision was made. She wasn’t backing down this time.




Like he was in a state to deal with this right now?

Weren’t there… like, brigades of people who watched bridges for the purpose of stopping suicides?

Well, wherever those brigades were, they’d missed this bridge and this girl on this night. Not like he had anything particularly sage or interesting to tell her, but he had to try, right?

He wobbled the first couple of steps, but the combination of the chill air and the thought of what she was about to do sobered him up pretty quickly.

What if he was too late?

She stood at the center of the bridge, gazing sadly into the water.

He had to stop her. He had to say something… do something, didn’t he?

“Wait!” he called out.

She looked at him, dark eyes annoyed, as he ran the rest of the way across the bridge, meeting her in the middle, more than a little out of breath.




“Yes?” she asked, looking down at the guy bent almost in two, huffing and puffing in front of her.

She waited until he’d caught his breath, until he managed to stand upright and form a complete sentence.

He looked at her gravely, the somberness of the look somewhat diminished by the fact that he was still breathing pretty hard.

“You can’t do this,” he said finally, laying a hand gently on her shoulder.

“I can’t?” she asked.

“No, you can’t,” he said, looking increasingly alarmed. “Look – I don’t know you, but there must be something you have left to live for – someone you love or someone who cares about you. Or… Or… a pet.”

He finished the sentence a bit lamely, but was determined to plow onward.

“I know that things seem dark right now,” he said. “But tomorrow is a brand new day and things will be better. Well, actually, I don’t know if they’ll be better tomorrow… But if not tomorrow, then the day after that, or the day after that. Life will get better. Whatever it is that seems so horrible now…. I promise, it’ll get better.”

“It will?” she asked calmly, raising an eyebrow at him. “How would you know?”

He flushed a bit, getting the distinct impression that she was humoring him, but he carried on.

“I don’t know,” he said. “No one ever really knows, do they? But whatever it is, life will keep going on. There must be something…. You’re so young. Too young to throw it all away.”

He looked about her age, so it was pretty rich of him to call her ‘young’, but she took it in stride. She sighed, looking him up and down, taking in the rumpled shirt and the booze on his breath.

Ok… so he had no idea what he was doing. But he had to make one last attempt.

“Please don’t kill yourself,” he said. “Please don’t.”

She sighed and halfway glared at him.

“I’m not here to kill myself,” she told him, matter-of-factly.

“You’re not?” he asked. “Then why are you here?”

Another sigh.

Wordlessly, she held up her hand, unclenching her fist to reveal the gold necklace pooled in her palm.

It glimmered even in the dim lighting – a gold chain with a bright ruby-and-pearl pendant. The pearls almost seemed to glow.

Still without word or comment, she closed her fist around it and hurled it as hard as she could into the darkness. It was too small to make any kind of splash, but he thought he saw a tiny trail of gold as the necklace arced into the darkness.

“It was beautiful,” he said. “Why’d you want to get rid of it?”

“It was the only really valuable thing he ever gave me,” she shrugged. “I’ve burned all of the letters. And whatever clothes he left behind, but… I just needed to let it go. I needed to let him go.”

“Why couldn’t you just pawn it or give it away like a normal girl?”

It was her turn to shrug.

“Why would you want to pass your bad luck on to someone else?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

And there, in the moonlight mingled with darkness, her reason seemed valid.

He scuffed his shoe against the planks under their feet, suddenly unsure of what to say, or at least, a great deal more unsure than he’d been a few minutes ago, when everything had seemed simple. Dire, true, but simple.

“So…” he said. “What’s there to do now?”

She nodded at the river.

“That’s my plans for the evening done.”

She shrugged.

“I suppose… go home now?” she said. “Get some sleep?”

“That’s a little mundane, don’t you think?”

She shrugged again.

“A mundane night isn’t necessarily a bad one,” she said.

Valid. He much preferred a mundane night to the one he’d thought she was having.

“Ok,” he said. “Good night, I guess.”

She started to walk away, taking it step by step back to her side of the bridge, when he called out.

“Hey,” he yelled, unnecessarily loudly across the small distance. “See you here same time tomorrow night?”

She thought about it for a moment.


She went home and she slept.

Mundane endings weren’t bad. And after all, sometimes they led to interesting beginnings.


Writing Prompt:


Prompt courtesy of:

Image Courtesy of:

Me. I took this one.



August 30th



There is a certain quality to the light in the dead of winter… Not the outdoor light. The sun, one supposes, shines just the same in the cold of February as it does in the warmth of June, even if it does not feel the same. But the quality of the light in the home somehow alters. The lamp in the living room develops a certain golden glow, shimmering off of the brindled brown coffee table until it appears lit from within.

There is a certain comfort to the light streaming from a lamp in a warm living room in the dead of winter, especially when seen from a distance, but the boy sitting with his back toward the lamp didn’t notice it. He didn’t know how soothing the lit-up living room looked, with its bright lamps and soft couches. In fact, he barely knew anything at all just then, focused as he was on the task at hand.

Dark brows furrowing until they looked like angry exclamation points stamped across his forehead, he stared at the sheets of paper placed meticulously on the stand in front of him, as though trying to force the knowledge from his eyes on through down to his fingers, where it simply did not seem to want to go.

“Again,” he said to himself, voice quiet and resolute.

And again, for what felt like the thousandth time, he picked up the violin and placed it against his shoulder just so and began to play, bow glancing over the strings as if it was light made liquid, fingers skimming the surface, and music pouring from him like honey… Until that one part. That one dratted part, where the notes came too quickly and he couldn’t get the tempo right and he messed up – the violin slurring overfast through the wrong notes, like an overly-friendly drunk.

“Again,” he said, with the same iron in his voice and not a little sadness.

Why couldn’t he get this? What was wrong with him?

It was as if his fingers were frozen, betraying him.

Again. And again. And again. He would start again even before the final wrong notes of the last attempt had died, still lingering on the air as he began again.

Again. And again. And again.

Finally, he let go, placing the violin and bow gently on his chair before beginning to pace the room. The answer was not in his fingers. Hopefully, it was to be found elsewhere in the room, although he very much doubted it.

He was on his third lap of the living room and beginning to be in some small danger of wearing a track through the carpet, when he heard it: a small yelping noise, emerging from the region just below the living room window.

He looked out the window – there was no one there. All the window showed him was all it ever showed him in February at this time of night. He saw the darkness and the snow, now dim and gray in the night. He saw the nearby forest. And he knew that if he focused, he could see the road, a small black trail winding on a path away from his home and out into the great, wide world.

But the yelping continued. Finally, he walked over to the window and slowly, cautiously, opened it. And looked down.

First, he was alarmed, seeing nothing but a pair of amber, glowing eyes staring up at him, reflecting the warm light that spilled out of the window, along with a small, black nose. Then his eyes adjusted themselves a bit to the darkness and he realized that he was looking at a small white fox. It was so very white that its clean fur blended with the snow, making it nearly invisible.

The yelping stopped as the inquisitive amber eyes looked up at him.

“What are you doing here, little fox?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

“Listening to you,” it said.

“Listening … You were listening to me play?”

“Yes.” The fox blinked up at him and gave a little purr of satisfied joy. “It was beautiful.”

“It was – it was beautiful?” the boy asked.

He wasn’t sure which he believed less – that a fox was listening to his violin practice or that anyone thought his music beautiful.

“It was,” the fox confirmed, and canted its head to the side. “Why did you stop?”

“I …. I kept messing up,” the boy admitted. “I can’t get it right.”

“Yes, you can,” the fox said. “The music was beautiful, except for that one small part.”

“Yes,” the boy said. “But I keep messing up on that part. I can’t get past it.”

“You will.”

The boy made a face, scrunching up his nose.

“You will,” said the fox, kindly. “Eventually.”

It looked up at him quietly for a moment.

“But in the meantime,” the fox said. “Why let one small mistake ruin the beauty of the whole? Simply because there’s a small patch of ugliness, does it make the whole of the song any less beautiful?”

The boy hadn’t thought of it that way.

“I suppose not,” he said.

“We cannot let the dark patches obscure the beauty of life,” the fox told the boy.

The boy absorbed the words, the winter cold stinging his cheeks as the fox looked up at him.

“Will you play for me?” the fox asked.

The boy smiled. He returned to his seat, leaving the window open with no regard for the winter chill seeping into the warm room. He picked up his violin.

And he began again.


Writing Prompt:


Writing Prompt Courtesy of:

Sympathy Gun Watch



It was not the sort of place one would wish to be walking alone. It was not, indeed, the sort of place one would wish to be walking at all, if one could help it. The shadows outweighed the light and the streetlights did nothing but accentuate the darkness.

And yet, there she was, a small figure darting in and out of the light-striped darkness, striding with purpose. Her high heeled boots clacked on the damp pavement, handily avoiding the deep, ankle-twisting cracks. Her long black trench coat swirled around her, oversized, like a dark curtain, doing nothing to conceal the slight figure beneath.

But there’s always something hiding in the shadows. Sometimes it’s an adorable squirrel or a lost puppy. Occasionally, it’s an abandoned burger wrapper, flapping in the breeze. This time, however, that something turned out to be a rather large man with a gun.

And in another moment, she found her purposeful stride broken as she was unceremoniously shoved into an alley, with what she assumed must be said gun shoved against her ribs.

“Gimme your wallet,” he said, voice hoarse but clear.

The words were unoriginal. They were straight out of a B-Movie script. No – not even that. They were probably out of a C or D movie – the kind that once-popular actors took with a sense of disappointment, trying to get back to the fame they’d enjoyed ten or twenty years ago.

Tears welled up behind her eyes, but she said nothing, reaching into a pocket of her coat and handing the wallet over.

“And the phone.”

She pulled out a beat-up old android and handed it over. This too went into his coat pocket.

“And the watch.”

He’d seen the bit of silver glimmering on her wrist as she walked. It probably wasn’t worth much, but he’d take whatever he could get when he pawned it.

The tears that had welled in her eyes now spilled out onto her cheeks.

“N-no,” she said quietly.

“No?” he asked. “Remember who’s got the gun here, lady.”

For emphasis, he gave her an extra jab in the ribs. She didn’t flinch.

“No,” she said. “It – it was a gift from my Grandmother. It was the last thing she gave me, before she passed away last year. You can have my wallet, but you can’t have that.”


Why did people always have to make this shit difficult?

Whatever happened to a nice, easy robbery like they had in the old days? You asked, they gave, that’s it. A simple transaction. Now he had to deal with this chick’s stupid sob story.

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed her wrist, not bothering to be gentle, and looked at the thing. Not worth much. Silver-plated something-or-other. He wouldn’t get ten bucks for it at the pawn shop.

“Fine,” he said, dropping her hand and stepping away. “Keep it.”

“Thank you,” she said, tears spilling down her cheeks.

Jesus. Why did their eyes always seem to get bigger when they cried? Like cartoon puppy-dogs or some shit.

He’d had enough of this crap. He was just about to duck out of the alley, as gracelessly as he had entered it, when he found himself hugged tightly around the middle, her small arms vicelike around his stomach.

“Thank you,” she said, her tears soaking into the none-too-clean fabric of his discolored brown jacket. “You don’t know how much it means to me.”

“Great…” he looked awkward down at her dark-brown hair, wondering how the hell to get her off. Finally, he settled for some undignified shoving, as if trying to remove a stubborn peel from a banana. And without another word, he darted out into the drizzly darkness, hoping to avoid any further contact with this person.

She leaned back against the wall, not minding the dampness she could feel through the fabric, and felt the grin spread across her face.

Quickly, she checked her haul – a few more wallets, including a shabby fake-leather one that she assumed had been his. Two more watches – one possibly gold. The Android she’d handed him. And an iPhone, several generations old.

Not great, but certainly better than nothing.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers. Thieves could be, even if the choosing wasn’t all that great.

Oh, well, she thought, as she shrugged her shoulders and resettled herself inside of her oversized coat.

It was a living.


Writing Prompt:

Sympathy Gun Watch

Writing Prompt Courtesy of:


Calm Moth Coffee


For such a bright, sunny day, the buffeting winds were extreme. And the blinding sunlight was making it even harder to navigate.

He tried his best to steer, wings fluttering wildly in an attempt to regain some control.

No. No luck. He couldn’t fly under these conditions. He knew he was in hostile territory, so any kind of landing was risky, but he didn’t have a choice.

Dammit. He was careening out of control even faster than he’d thought, losing altitude quickly. This was going to be a water landing, and a difficult one at that. If he missed, he’d slam into the cliffs on the other side of the liquid and sustain irreparable damage. He knew if that happened, he was as good as dead.

He had to land in the liquid. It was a narrow field, but it was his only shot.

Gathering his fading focus on the task at hand, he steered to the best of his ability, fighting to see through the blinding sunlight and blasting wind to execute a water landing.

But it wasn’t water.

Whatever this sticky, viscous substance was, it was nothing even resembling water. The surface he’d landed on clung to his feet and wings, trapping him, dragging him down.

It was dark, this nightmare substance, and glassy. He caught one glance at his distorted image, reflected at him out of the rippling blackness, before the screaming started.


It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the kind where life seems peaceful and perfect and Monday feels a million miles away. The windows were open to accept the morning breeze and bright sunlight was streaming through.

The breeze was lifting her hair off of the back of her neck, ruffling her bangs and rippling the giant mug of coffee sitting on the table in front of her.

It was an almost perfect morning, cam and serene and…. She looked down at the coffee and sighed. No milk. No sugar. Just black. But, she reminded herself, she didn’t need that stuff. That stuff, she knew, was the muck at the bottom of the river.

Or was it the rocks? Or maybe seaweed? Nah, it couldn’t be seaweed. Rivers didn’t have seaweed, did they? The river metaphor was one her yoga instructor employed regularly… to be honest, she got it a little confused sometimes. But anyhow, she was avoiding the river rocks, or whatever they were, and drinking the coffee black.

She took in the calm beauty of the morning, the bright blue sky outside of the window and the vivid green trees, the new blossoms of spring flowers peeking out like diamond earrings through long, dark hair. She tried the deep breathing thing her instructor had advised.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

She shut her eyes, pushing the breath out of her body. Breathe like the wind, her instructor had said, telling her to imagine her breath as a cleansing breeze, sweeping all the negativity out of her body. That was a metaphor he used a lot too, but at least that one made sense to her.

She had a lot of negativity. The breath coming out of her felt more like a gale-force wind than a breeze, but hey, better out than in, right?

She took in the peaceful morning. She was at peace with all the world. Or she tried to be, anyhow. She even ignored the little moth fluttering around the dining room.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Sigh. She reached for the cup of mildly repugnant black coffee… And let out a shriek.

“Ew. Ew. Ew. Eeeewwwww.”

Her voice grew higher in pitch, becoming an unpleasant squeak.

She held the cup delicately, as far away from her as possible, trying her best not to look at the gross little moth floundering in the liquid.

Annoyed, and annoyed at herself for being annoyed, she dumped the cup of coffee into the sink. It had been such a beautiful morning… And she couldn’t even manage to enjoy her coffee in peace. Dammit. She sat down and took another deep breath. It didn’t help. So she took another.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.



Writing Prompt:

Calm Moth Coffee

Writing Prompt Courtesy of:






Down in the dumps

It had begun, as so many unpleasant things do, with a great rumbling. That, had been while she was flopped on the couch, watching Project Runway. This unsavory sound was followed by a deep, internal burbling sensation – ominous, at best – and what felt, oddly, like a small person playing the maracas inside of her stomach.

“I’ll go lay down,” she thought.

This line of thinking was defeated, of course, by the fact that she was already lying down. Lying down, surprisingly, rarely solves anything. And indigestion, it turns out, is one of the many problems for which lying down does nothing. She pictured herself posed elegantly across a fainting couch, like a lady – and not dressed in sweats and an old t-shirt on her regular couch, which she presently was.

Perhaps, she reasoned, fainting couches had some sort of special curative properties – magical healing fabric, maybe? But she doubted it. Her own couch did nothing for her.

In short order, she’d gone from sprawled across the couch to the cold comfort of the toilet bowl, in that pose that so familiarly evoked prayer, heaving up everything she’d eaten that day… and what felt like a month beforehand.

She could swear she saw a penny she’d swallowed when she was six.

Good food can be hauntingly beautiful – ask someone about their favorite meal and what ask they grow misty-eyed, reminiscing about flavors and crunch and creaminess. But bad meals, too, can leave their mark.

A single piece of unremarkable-looking chicken, for example, can lead you to the cold embrace of lady toilet, causing you to remember said chicken for days and weeks after the unfortunate fowl.

Eventually, the heaving stopped. She swallowed some antique Pepto-Bismol, went to sleep and hoped for the best.

Stay hydrated, her coworkers told her.

Undoubtedly good advice. Fluids came up much easier when she hurled again. And again when she came home, because very few people can concentrate on work when someone is half-puking next to them.

Cautiously, she drank more water and lay back down on the couch.

“Stay in there, please?”

She gingerly poked at her belly, hoping for stasis, if not peace.

‘God,’ she thought. ‘When did my stomach become the conflict in the middle east?’



She lay on the couch for another fifteen minutes, until the rage within could not be contained, and then hauled herself back to the bathroom, to puke up… Well… water, right? Because there wasn’t anything else that could possibly be in there, was there?

Because nothing else could possibly be in there, could it?

Bleary-eyed, she gazed at the swirling contents of the toilet bowl. You’re not supposed to look at your own vomit. The same way you’re not really supposed to look at your own poop…. But … well, at the moment, it didn’t seem as though any other view was forthcoming.

Except…. What the hell was that?

A small black thing, floating in all the liquid that looked like… not possible, right? … But it looked like… Well, it looked like a tiny flashlight.

Carefully, she stuck two fingertips into the bowl and, pincer like, fished it out.

It was tiny. It was about the size of the first joint of her pinky finger… but it was undoubtedly a flashlight. She damn near blinded herself as she accidentally pressed the itty-bitty button and sent a spike of light right into her eye.

How the hell had she gotten a flashlight in her stomach?

She’d only just had time to set the tiny flashlight on the edge of the sink before that same, swirling feeling overtook her again and she leaned over the toilet once more.

Finally, the heaving stopped. She caught her breath and opened her eyes – to see a tiny, little man floating in the toilet. He was wearing bright blue flippers and Hawaiian-patterned swim trunks. His long, white beard hung soggily across his white t-shirt covered belly. The shiny black goggles over his eyes gave him a vaguely bug-like appearance as he looked up at her.

And he was very annoyed.

“What’d you do that for?” he cried, splashing around in the toilet bowl. “I was having a right luau.”

She leaned back to avoid being splashed by vomity toilet water as he kicked around.

For a few moments, she found she couldn’t speak. When she did, her voice was rough.

“What the hell are you?” she asked.

“I am an aqua-groot,” he said, planting his hands on his hips. Well, he planted his hands on his hips for a second – after flailing in the water for a moment, he had to keep swimming. “And I was having a perfectly good vacation, until you spat me out.”

“Spat you out?”

“Well… what would you call it?”

“I… You….You were having a vacation inside my stomach?”

“Yes,” he said. “And it was a nice one, too, until yooou decided to interrupt it. Nice warm pool water. All-you-can-eat buffet… You should consider dieting, by the way. All that pizza can’t be good for you.”

“All the … pizza? What about the hydrochloric acid?”

“Pfft,” the little man answered. “Not a problem. I wear SPF 8000 and I reapply regularly. Acid’s nothing but a pleasant tingle at this point.”

“You….” She turned bright red. “HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY STOMACH?”

“Calm down, love,” he said. “Not like I was doing any harm.”

“You were making me sick!”

“Well… yes,” he said. “There’s that. But it’s a small price to pay, I think.”

“HOW DID YOU GET INTO MY STOMACH?” she yelled again.

“You really do need to learn to control your temper,” the little man scolded. “Maybe it’s all that spicy food you eat. Not good for the disposition.”

She glared at him.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “I got in the same way all those spiders do. I just walked in while you were sleeping. The peristalsis was actually quite nice. Like a massage.”

“You crawled in through my mouth?”

“Well… yes,” he said. “It’s much nicer than the other end. Trust me.”

“You … you went in my stomach, for a vacation?”

“Wow,” he said. “You’re really slow today. Yes. Vacation. D’you want me to spell it?”

“No… I…. If that was a vacation, how bad is the place you normally live?” she asked.

“Oooh, it’s horrible,” he said. “I wouldn’t wish it on anybody. I’m never going back.”

“Where did you live?”

“In Donald Trump’s brain.” He shuddered. “It was awful.”

“Was it?”

“Yes. Terrifying.”

He looked up at her and pulled the goggles off of his eyes, pale circles against his reddened face.

“It was toxic,” he said. “It messes with you, you know? Eventually, that poison – it starts to seep into your veins.”

He shook his head, haunted eyes gazing up at her.

“I’m never going back,” he said.

Poor little guy. He must’ve jumped ship when she was covering the rally the other day. She couldn’t imagine the nightmare he’d lived through.

She looked at the sad-eyed little man floating in the toilet in front of her.

“Well, then,” she said. “Good luck.”

“Good luck with what?”

“Finding a new home.”

The little man looked at her quizzically.

She smiled at him.

And then she flushed.


I know it’s a weird one … And that it makes practically no sense. Honestly, I just had a bad case of food poisoning this week. And I really just wanted there to be some reason for it, other than some bad chicken.  So I thought of one.

So… strange and possibly a little crazy, but there you go.



Happy Halloween, y’all!

“It’s very rude, you know, to try to evict someone without notice.”

She can’t hear me. I know she can’t. She’s never really heard me. And I know that the flaw is mine.

I lean back into the couch, resting my old bones. The couch is large and red and soft. It is the kind of couch you sink into and then end up needing to have someone help you up, holding your hands and pulling hard, until you rocket up into them, knocking into them like a poorly-thought out Three Stooges bit.

There is no one to help me up. She certainly won’t help me, fussing around the dining room table as she is. I know that she would not help me even if she could and, I have to admit, that hurts me a little bit. Kids these days have no respect for their elders.

Not that I’m her elder, exactly. But I’m somebody’s. And that should count for something, shouldn’t it?

She brought the couch with her when she moved in, and it must be said that for all its largeness and its obtrusive redness, the thing is certainly comfortable. It’s the kind of thing you’d want to lay around on for hours watching movies.

Not at all like the stiff brown plaid one I used to have. That thing was hideous. You’d sit on it just so you could avoid having to look at it for a little while, until one of the broken springs started poking at your tush. Maybe that’s why this generation watches so much television – you couldn’t have a Netflix marathon with springs and wires poking at your hiney, that’s for sure.

Uncomfortable furniture. That’s why my generation got things done, I suppose.

I glare at her as she fusses with the matches. It would be funny, if it weren’t so utterly rude.

Now she wants me out.


Of course she does.

I suppose, in her situation, I’d want me out too.

That’s one thing I do understand about this generation. Some people say they’re selfish. That might be true, but I understand. It’s a basic need, you know. The need to feel that something you own is truly yours. Possessive, maybe. But that doesn’t make it wrong, does it?

This place used to be mine. I would like to think that it still is. You can still smell my perfume, drifting around corners, mingled with the scent of the ointment I used to use when my joints ached.

Now it’s hers, mostly, anyway. She fills the rooms with silly pop music. The radio blasts at all hours. The scent of baking muffins and the acrid odor of nail polish override the stale scents of perfume and ointment, enough that you wouldn’t even notice it, if you didn’t know it was there.

I don’t see why we can’t share this place. She didn’t even know I was here until yesterday. Until someone was foolish enough to tell her.

I can imagine how the conversation went. The not-so-subtle coaxing to the grand realization.

“Have you ever felt like you were being watched?” they might’ve asked.

“Do parts of the space feel colder than others, without any particular reason?”

That’d be the kitchen, dear. I’ve always been partial to the kitchen.

“Do you sometimes hear dishes clinking at night?”

I just like my dishes in a certain order – it’s certainly not my fault that she’s so disorganized.

I can imagine understanding blossoming across her face, eyes wide, mouth open, struck slightly stupid-looking as she realizes.

And since, then, of course, she’s been taking action.

I smile at her as she shuffles her bundle of sage and her matches with shaking fingers.

She’s scared. I can see it.

Scared of what? Me?

Where’s the justice in that?

I mean, this place is mine as much as it is hers. I may not pay the mortgage or wash the windows or scrub the toilets. But I am here. I have been here for longer that it is possible for her to recall.

I am in the bones of this place.

I was standing in the bedroom the very first time she walked into it. I have listened to her sing off-key as she washes dishes. I have watched her dwindle away hours of her time in front of that idiot-box.

I have been here.

I was here before she came.

And I intend to stay.

We’ve been sharing the space quite peaceably, her and I. Or so I thought. She’d never voiced any complaints, certainly.

Although she’d never actually known I was here.

What you don’t know can’t hurt you, can it?

She fumbles with the matches. Can’t seem to strike them right. These silly young people with their modern conveniences. Can’t even light a simple match.

I laugh to myself, watching her.

Not that she can hear me.

Finally, with an exasperated sigh, she drops the matches, giving up the ghost, so to speak. She walks into the kitchen and I hear her digging around in the drawers. Somewhere at the bottom of the junk drawer, she finds the old candle lighter she bought ages ago.

She dips the long neck of the lighter into the bowl where she placed the little packet of dried leaves.

I know what she means to do. No doubt she’s seen it in one of those silly movies she loves so much. She’ll walk around casting the smoke in front of her, trying to cast me out.

I watch with a gleeful grin as the sage leaves catch fire, the orange light blooming against her pale face. She tries to blow them out, huffing and puffing like a desperate impression of the big bad wolf.

The flames almost leap out of the bowl, growing higher as she leans in, desperately trying to control them, ashes leap out, scalding the dining room table.

I can’t help an unladylike giggle as the flames singe her bangs.

All that time with the flat iron wasted, I suppose.

With a loud yelp, she darts into the kitchen, trailing ash, and I hear the rush of water and the hiss of doused flame.

Silly girl.

It is with a freckling of burn marks on her forehead, singed bangs and a bowl of wet sage that she walks around the apartment.

I feel a tug as she calls my name, beckoning me, summoning me, telling me to leave this place. Telling me to go home.

The pull is not a strong one. It’s a bit like a child tugging insistently at your hand, begging for your attention.

She has my attention, if not my sympathy.

Because what she doesn’t realize is that I am home.

This is my place.

This was my place before she was born.

This is the place where I raised my children, where I lived my life. Where I grew old.

She stands in the room where I lay in bed, so many years ago and breathed my last breath.

This place is mine.

It was long before she came along. And it will be long after she is gone.

This is my home.

And I will fight for it.

I cuddle deeper into the couch, listening to the echoes of her voice from the bedroom.

Oh, yes.

This is my place.

And she has no idea what she’s started.

July 9, 2015

Continued from previous post. If you haven’t read the last one and wish to catch up, it is located here:


She was prepared to walk further down the beach, leaving this strange stranger to her own solitude, when the girl turned and smiled at her.

“Hey you,” she called. “Come here!”

Who could resist an invitation like that?

Hell, it was friendlier than most people had been to her on this trip so far. She made her way down to the water, stepping a few feet in, just next to the blonde stranger, so that the tide lapped at her calves.

“Ummm… hi.”

The girl smirked up at her.

“Hi? That’s the best you got?” she asked. “And they say tourists are friendly.”

“Sorry,” she shrugged and plopped down into the water. “Didn’t mean to besmirch the good name of tourists everywhere.”

She glanced over at the girl, still sitting placidly in the water.

“How’d you know I’m a tourist, anyway?”

The girl gave her a critical look, lifting one blonde eyebrow.

“Well, you’re not 75, so….”

“Ah, gotcha.”

The silence was peaceable for a few moments, with the crashing of the waves between them, before she decided to speak again.

“So, what are you doing out here?” she asked.

Another critical look, like you’d give to a two-year-old trying to climb into the dishwasher.

“I live here.”

“Ohh. You mean…. You’re homeless?”

The girl gave a snort of laughter, fluffing bangs across her forehead.

“No…. I have a home. I live here.”

“You….. you’re a ….. oh shit.”

Her voice petered out as her gaze drifted downward and saw a long pair of fins rippling under the water, scales bright in the moonlight.

“Not exactly the response I was hoping for.”

“You’re a MERMAID!”

“Could you not shout it?”

Her voice was disinterested and flat.


She managed to whisper-shout it this time – not quite as bad.

“Yes. That fact has been established. Can you not dwell?”

“But you’re a mermaid.”

“Pssh.” This was accompanied by an eye roll. “You say that like you didn’t know we were real.”

“I didn’t.”

“Ah. Well… good for you then.”

The mermaid looked over her shoulder behind them, at the empty beach.

“Also, if you could not tell anybody,” she said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

“Not tell anybody? Why wouldn’t I tell someone? You’re a freakin’ mermaid. I’m talking to a freakin’ mermaid.”

The mermaid glared at her.

“So much for tourists being nice,” she muttered. “It’s no skin off my nose, anyway.”

“No skin off your nose? What would you do if I took a picture of you on my cell phone?”

The mermaid looked her up and down and shrugged.

“I’d probably chuck your phone in the water,” she answered. “But even if you got a photo, no one would believe you. They’ve been snapping pictures of Nessie for years.”

“Nessie is REAL?”

“Are we going to have to go through the whole shouting thing again?”

She took a deep breath and calmed herself down.

“No… no more yelling,” she said. “I promise.”

They sat peaceably for a few minutes, with nothing between them but the rush of the water.

“So…. Are you nocturnal?”

This earned her another scathing look. And nobody gives scathing looks like teenage mermaids do – believe me. She narrowed her eyes and her lips somehow managed to flatten into one annoyed pink line.

“Are you nocturnal?”

“N-no… I’m human.”

“Dumbest answer ever.” She rolled her eyes. “Of course I’m not nocturnal.”

She casually flipped her long tail in the water, making small splashes and, of course, showing off the brilliant scales to perfect effect, all in shimmering shades, ranging from pure emerald, to teal, to bright cerulean.

“Then why are you out here in the middle of the night?”

This received another eye-roll.

“Hello?” she said. “Have you heard of sunburn? Or skin cancer? No thank you. Plus, it’s quieter at night. Fewer annoying humans to deal with.”

“Mermaids can get skin cancer?”

“Honey, we can get whatever you can get,” she said, with some small attempt to look jaded. “Don’t even ask about the syphilis.”

The mermaid shrugged dismissively.

“Arthritis isn’t so bad underwater, though,” she admitted.

“I see.”

Preparing for ridicule, she took a long look at her neighbor. Fins and bikini top aside, she looked like she could be one of those old-fashioned porcelain dolls – all pale skin and big blue eyes. Or she might’ve looked like a doll, had it not been for the attitude pouring off of her.

This girl, she thought, if she were human, would be one of the girls who smoke cigarettes behind the gym during lunch, just because she can. She didn’t suppose you could smoke underwater. This girl would have thick stripes of eyeliner ringing her bright blue eyes at all times – and it would always look fantastic, even if she’d slept on it. Anyone else would look like a drunken raccoon. On her, it would still look cool. She would be the kind of girl who never got lipstick on her teeth, if she even wore lipstick.

In short, she was the kind of girl who would never talk to her in real life.

Except this was real life. And it was pretty frickin’ awesome.

The apartment building behind them had been completely dark. Now a light from an open window struck the sand behind them… And she would’ve been lying to herself if she didn’t know which window it was coming from.


She let out the air in one big rush. Moments later, she heard her mother’s voice drifting through the open window, calling her name. The increasing panic was painfully evident as the voice rose in pitch.

It was only a matter of seconds before her mother figured out she wasn’t in the apartment. And then only a minute longer before she ran down the hallways of the apartment building, screaming her name like her hair was on fire.

“Jeez,” the mermaid said. “Overprotective much?”

“Yeah,” she answered. “I guess I have to go.”

“Yeah,” the mermaid answered, looking at her coolly. “I guess you do.”

“It’s been nice talking to you,” she offered.

“Yeah…. Whatever.”

She made her way slowly up the stand, climbed the few steps to the sidewalk and slipped her flip-flops back on. No one had stolen them.

She looked back at the mermaid, still sitting in the waves. She resisted the urge to pull out her cell phone and take a picture – things were better as they were.

Releasing a heavy sigh, she made her way back into the building, heading back towards uncomfortable air mattresses, stuffy apartments and cranky old people.

She smiled at her reflection in the elevator on the way up.

“Best. Vacation. Ever.”

Writing Prompt:

It was just for one night

Writing Prompt Courtesy of:

Image Courtesy of:

July 7, 2015

It was just for one night. This torture was temporary.

She reminded herself of that, over and over, trying to lull herself to sleep.

It wasn’t working.

Who the hell could sleep comfortably on an air mattress anyway?

“Like sleeping on a cloud” the box had boasted.

More like sleeping on a deflated balloon.

She tried to roll over, and instead ended up doing an ungraceful flop onto the center of the thing.

Some vacation, right?

There are dangers to optimism.

There are dangers inherent in the word ‘yes.’

And when her mother had suggested it a few weeks ago, the words “It’ll be so relaxing” should’ve been a warning. Things that sound good on the surface, reader, are rarely what they seem. And ‘fun’ weekends in Florida with your Mom are rarely as advertised.

‘Fun’ weekends in Florida translate to being stuck in a tiny apartment with a pair of cranky old people who go to bed at nine o’clock, leaving you to bobble around on an air mattress like a cork in a puddle.

Fun. Right.

She grabbed her cell phone off the rocking chair by her makeshift bed. It was just after midnight, the bright white glow of the phone informed her. She’d been tossing around for damn near two hours.

What’s that they say about insanity? Trying the same thing over and over again, hoping for the same result?

With some significant effort, she hauled herself off of the quicksand pit of an air mattress, managing somehow not to fall on her face.

She glanced over at the big screen tv. Tempting, but not an option. She could hear the snores coming through the wall, sounding like the worst opera ever, but she wasn’t about to risk anything.

In a sudden moment of courage, she grabbed the keys off of the counter, slipped her cell phone into the liner of her bra and stepped into her flip-flops. Her mother, brave advocate of ‘fun’ though she was, wasn’t crazy about leaving the house at night, and would’ve been even less crazy about her doing it alone, but the loud snores attested to her lack of objection.

Down the elevator, out the metal gates and onto the beach. Slipping her feet out of the flip-flops, she abandoned them on the concrete lip of the stairs that led down to the sand. Her mother was always on the lookout for thieves, but as far as she was concerned, if anyone wanted her two-dollar old navy flip flops, they were welcome to them.

It would be nice to be alone for a while, actually, she thought, wriggling her toes in the cool sand.

The cousin they were staying with kept finding different ways to phrase the question ‘why don’t you have a boyfriend yet?’ – as though if it were spoken a different way, she might startle an answer out of her. It wasn’t working. And it was getting pretty grating.

Except she wasn’t alone, she realized. Some small distance off, a girl about her own age sat in the water. The waves concealed her from the waist down, but her unusual blonde hair was un-missable. So light it was almost white and long enough to trail all the way down her back and into the water, it gleamed silvery in the moonlight, the ends drifting on the waves behind her.

She was prepared to walk further down the beach, leaving this strange stranger to her own solitude, when the girl turned and smiled at her.

“Hey you,” she called. “Come here!”

Who could resist an invitation like that?

Hell, it was friendlier than most people had been to her on this trip so far. She made her way down to the water, stepping a few feet in, just next to the blonde stranger, so that the tide lapped at her calves.

Will provide the rest tomorrow….

Writing Prompt:

It was just for one night

Writing Prompt Courtesy of:

Image Courtesy of:


June 24, 2015

Sorry guys… took me a couple of days to finish this one….


No response. He tried again.

“Get back here, Jolene!”

Nothing. Just the quiet of the clearing and the passive bleating of the other sheep. Jolene was always trouble. He should’ve known better.


He couldn’t say he hadn’t been warned. Jolene did have a tendency to wander off. So-named for her rather unusual affection towards bucks, Jolene was a troublemaker. In a field full of docile, fluffy white things, Jolene was nowhere to be found.

He’d already rounded up and counted all of the others and they were ready to go home for the night. The sun was still high, but not for long. And, independent of spirit though she may be, Jolene needed to be penned with the rest of the fluffballs for the night.

The herd, most of them fairly well-behaved, would stay together.

In a gesture of determination, he hiked up his jeans a little farther and set off to find her. How far could she have gotten, after all? The pasture wasn’t that big. The way back to the farm lay one way and a small copse of woods hedged the other. The sheep usually had enough sense to stay away from the trees, but he didn’t trust Jolene to have the common sense God gave a flea… so to the woods he went.

Carefully picking his way through the undergrowth, he listened.

There. There it was. Soft bleating. Not very far away, but strangely echoey.

At least she hadn’t gotten too far… although, he thought, he should be able to see her by now.


There it was again.

He could hear her… why couldn’t he see her?

Jolene was trouble, but she didn’t have the ability to turn invisible. As far as he knew, it wasn’t a feature sheep generally came with. Maybe, he thought, with a grim smile, it’s something they throw in at extra cost, like a sunroof on a car. New sheep, now with the annoying ability to disappear right when you’re looking for them.


“Dammit, Jolene,” he muttered under his breath, clambering further into the woods.

Was he imagining it? He hadn’t been working on the farm for very long… Was the bleating only in his head?

Maybe he’d come back only to find that Jolene had found her way back to the rest of the flock?

He doubted it.

And he doubted it even more when bleating got louder.

“Dammit, Jolene.”

He wasn’t sure how she’d managed to fit in there, let alone how he would.

The bleating was coming from a hole in the ground. Not a hole, exactly. More like a hollowed-out dip in the earth, tucked under the gnarled roots of one of the old trees. The small gap was completely black, with the kind of terrifying absence of light he imagined you’d only find in the bowels of the earth.

Ok, so it wasn’t the bowels of the earth. It was just a cave. He repeated the words to himself. It’s just a cave. It’s just a cave.

It didn’t help.

The hole was big enough for a sheep to get through… and unfortunately it looked just big enough for him to get through.

“Stay calm, Josh,” he told himself. “You can do this.”

You know things are bad, reader, when you begin calling yourself by name.

Gulping down air, he sat himself in front of the gap and began to scoot in, legs first. He figured if something bit him, he could always pull himself back out. Only…. If something bites your legs off, that makes it pretty hard to run away. He tried not to think about that scenario. He tried not to imagine something large and hungry waiting for him in the darkness, with sharp, blood-smeared teeth. He told himself that he was being ridiculous.

Luckily, nothing bit him.

And after a few more moments of scrabbling across dirt, he found himself on his hands and knees inside the entrance of a small cave. To his overwhelming joy, he discovered it also wasn’t completely dark – on this side of the cave entrance some light filtered through. It was grayish and dull, like light filtering through water, but he was grateful for whatever light he could get.

And he was even more grateful when the space broadened out a few feet ahead of him, allowing him to stand full height.

On further examination, this place was huge. The narrow path he was on emptied out into a large cavern. He could swear he heard running water ahead, along the with Jolene’s familiar bleating.

The rushing of water got louder and he swiftly came to realize that it wasn’t just some tiny underground creek. The noise swept up around him as the water began to soak through his sneakers. He’d stepped up the edge of some vast, underground river. In the dim light, he looked out over the water… and realized he couldn’t see the other side. Nor, he realized, could he find the edges of the cavern. The space seemed to fade into a blurry, yellow-gray at the edges of his vision.


Back to the reason he was down here. The sound drew his eyes up… and up… and up. Some short way into the river, incongruous in this muddy place, was a yacht. He supposed anywhere else it would be a ‘small’ yacht, but in the cavern it loomed large above him, cheerfully striped in royal blue and white.

And Jolene sat placidly on deck, happily baa-ing her little heart out, under the firm grasp of what looked to be a very old man.

Josh said the first thing he could think of, which was, admittedly, not altogether polite.

“What are you doing here?”

The old man grinned at him, a rictus grin in a hollow-looking face. Deep-set eyes watched him. The old man ran fingers through his long, matted, gray beard. His nails, Josh noted, were long and dirty, almost like claws, and he fought back a shiver.

Incongruously, he wore electric blue-and-green board shorts, revealing skinny white legs and a pair of shovel-sized feet stuffed into a pair of black converse. A black t-shirt featured a bright green tongue emerging from cherry-red lips, emblazoned with the name of a band he’d never heard of.

“I could ask you the same thing,” the man said. “Not many use this entrance anymore. It’s hardly worth my time to patrol it.”

“I… uh…. Well… I…”

Really articulate. Good job, there, Josh. Just ask for your damn sheep back and go home. Unfortunately, he seemed to have a bit of trouble making words come out of his mouth.

“I came down here to find Jolene,” he finally managed.

“This little lady?” the old man stroked her back affectionately. “I see. Well, that’s all right then.”

“It is?”

He didn’t know why he sounded surprised.

“I had been going to ask about her,” the man said casually. “Whether you intended to use her to pay for your passage.”

The man cleared his throat before continuing.

“It’s a relatively recent policy change, you see,” he said. “We no longer accept livestock as payment. Things get messy when transportation of live animals is involved. Particularly in this industry. I think you’d understand the … umm… inconvenience. But we now accept Visa and Discover. And, if you’re approved based on your credit score, we have a variety of amenities to make your journey easier.”

“My – my journey?” he asked. “Journey where? Is this some kind of cruise?”

“Your journey to the other side, of course.”

The man’s expression returned to seriousness as he went into what appeared to be a pre-written corporate spiel.

“We here at Charon Cruises take your afterlife experience very seriously,” he explained. “We understand that this is a difficult journey and provide comfortable, all-encompassing service in your transition from this life to the next one.”

For a price, thought Josh, although he didn’t say it.

“Wait a minute….”




A fleeting vision of his eighth grade classroom bloomed before his eyes, including what little he remembered from Greek mythology.

“Wait…. Charon?”

The rictus smile bloomed across the old man’s face.

“One and the very same,” he said. “Owner and proprietor.”

“The…. The ferryman from Greek mythology?” he asked, vaguely disbelieving the words coming out of his own mouth.

“Glad to be of some renown,” the old man said. “Although I would like you to know, young man, that we here are Charon Cruises do not discriminate based on ethnicity, race or religion. All are welcome aboard our luxurious river-cruise. No longer a service provided exclusively to Greeks, we now provide global access.”

“I see,” he said, the wheels in his head cranking overtime to adjust to this bizarre reality. “But what happened to the whole…. Ferry thing? The cloak and the coins and all that?”

“Eh,” the old man responded with a shrug of his shoulders. “Coins. They get so clanky and loud, you know? And it’s hard to keep organized. Credit is much easier to handle.”

“And the rest?”

The old man looked down at his tropical-getaway outfit and shrugged again.

“We decided to rebrand,” he said. “The whole wooden-ferry and black cloak thing really wasn’t working. Nobody wants to get into a boat with a creepy old man, you know? Especially not kids. Apparently, I was ‘scary.’”

The man lifted his hands in the ‘quotes’ gesture.

“Profit margins were falling and the customer surveys reflected an overall poor consumer experience, so I decided to change everything,” he explained. “You know, get hip with the younger generation. Provide the luxury experience that the modern world demands. For a reasonable fee.”

“I see,” he said. “Good job?”

He hadn’t meant it as a question. But apparently it was enough for the old man to keep going.

“Between you and me,” he said. “The rebranding has made my life a whole lot better. I mean, rowing people in a boat all day isn’t exactly fun, you know? It was murder on my back. And I’m not exactly young anymore.”

“Ah, well. Good for you.”

“It’s more than good,” the old man said. “It’s awesome. Rowing people in a boat all day is boring. Now? I have cable. And Netflix. Have you heard of Netflix? It’s a Godsend. I mean, I just started watching Orange is the New Black. I don’t know how I’ve lived without it all these years. Well, not lived, exactly, but you know.”

“Ah. Good for you.”

He wasn’t sure. That sounded like a reasonable thing to say. What were you supposed to say when talking to the ferryman of the dead?

“So how about it, kid?” the old man asked. “You in? I can have the paperwork filled out in a jiffy.”

“I… umm…. Here’s the thing,” he said. “Is that I really only came down here to get my sheep… And I’m not dead. At least I don’t think I’m dead?”

He really hadn’t meant that one as a question either.

The old man gave him a hard look up and down, frowning slightly. He gave a small sigh and a shrug of the shoulders.

“You’re right,” the old man agreed. “You’re not dead. But that’s really just a formality. I mean, I’m totally willing to looking the other way on that, if you’d like to see what the land of the dead looks like. And, for a nominal fee, I’ll even look the other way on the sheep.”

Silence hung between them for a moment.

“How you get back, of course…. Is your concern.”

This last was stated quietly, almost a whisper.

“Thanks for the offer,” he said. “But really…. I gotta go. I just came down here to get my sheep and I … it’s really time I should be leaving.”

He made a show of looking down at his wrist, which was pretty unnecessary, he realized, as he wasn’t actually wearing a watch.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure,” he answered. “Now… if you could just….”

He nodded meaningfully at Jolene, still sitting patiently on deck, ready to go on the trip of no return.

“Fine,” the old man said, giving her one last stroke.

Lazily, he lowered a gangplank and guided the sheep onto it.

“It’s really your loss, you know,” he added, watching the fluffball scoot slowly back towards Josh. “We have HBO and Showtime. And when they were installing the cable, they made a mistake, so we get the pay-per-view stuff for free.”

The old man shook his head, slightly disappointed.

“You’re totally missing out,” he finished.

“Thanks,” Josh said. “But no thanks.”

He began shoving Jolene back up the way she came, hurrying her up to the entrance of the cave, as much as a sheep can be hurried, which is, after all, not very much. Which is why he heard the ferryman’s last words loud and clear.

“Thanks for stopping by,” he said. “See you soon.”

Josh turned around to glare at him, only to find nothing there… Just black water lapping at a dirty brown shore in the gray gloom. A shiver crawled down his spine, in spite of the warmth of the day. He shook his head, fighting off the dull grayness of the space, trying to shake off the gloom and the fog filling his mind.

Finally, he pushed the stupid sheep out of the cave and into the woods, following her out into the real world.

Writing Prompt:

Hell Yacht Sheep

Writing Prompt Courtesy of:

Image Courtesy of:

Me. I took this one.