(Note: This scene doesn't follow sequence with the last two I've posted from this story. I liked the scene and it's fun, and by the looks of the 'page views' for Lost Life scenes, no one's going to notice anyway.)
Following behind Eliza a little ways, as to maintain her trust that he wouldn’t hurt her or try anything, together they made it to the fantastic yet humble house in which she and her family stayed. Grant thought it would be a one room log cabin that he had read about in elementary school. It was much larger than that, having at least 4 distinct rooms. The roof consisted of fancy red curved shingles, that had to have been imported from elsewhere. It had taken them about 10 minutes to arrive there, but all along the way, Grant had not seen one other person or structure. Thinking about it, he hadn’t seen an animal either, besides the dazzling red cardinal he had spied right before he had driven into this different world.
Coming upon a small path that lead to the house, Grant broke the silence. “So, what year is it currently, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“1851,” she answered, turning back to him for a brief moment to say it. Using what knowledge he had of history from his college days, he began to think what this might mean. If, that is, he was in the same 1851 about which his textbooks had spoken. He remembered that the president at the time was Fillmore, the last Whig to hold office. Having always idolized Abraham Lincoln, he was slightly bummed he hadn’t landed in some other dimension of 1861 when Lincoln claimed the White House. There were no cars, no TV, and not even radio yet. If he was in the 1851 he knew about, slavery was still alive and well. A shiver ran through his body. Clasping his hand over his mouth briefly, he shuddered, thinking What has happened?
Without realizing it, they were at the front door of the giant shack. “Come in,” Eliza invited, opened the door before him, and revealed what might have been considered ‘luxury’ in the mid 1800s. Beautiful, plush oriental rugs adorned the floors and a large, elegantly carved table rested on top of it. On the other side of this large room, many chairs sat in a semi-circle. They must have been for family story-telling or for Bible study. Grant was only assuming they read the Bible, but he felt safe in that assumption.
“Would you like some tea?” she inquired, as she rushed off into the kitchen. There was already a modest fire going in the fireplace near the circle of chairs.
“Yes, that would be great,” he mumbled in response, still trying to piece everything together. Becoming antsy, he asked, “When can we see this magic woman you were talking about?”
“As soon as you’d like.” She hung a tea pot above the fire and sat next to him at the large table. Smiling, she looked like a mother. “Finish your tea first.” Neatening up her braid, she went on. “She’s a mystic, but she would rather be called a sorceress. Her name is Prudence, but don’t ever say it to her face.” Laughing gleefully, she continued, “Call her Prudy, if you please.”
“What does she do exactly?” Magic and witchcraft were all considered to be hogwash where he came from; he figured here, those of the magical arts might be highly revered like a doctor or healer.
“She can foresee events and she can talk to the dead.” Her voice sounding grave, she looked away suddenly, out the window. “Sometimes she can read minds, which comes in handy when someone has committed a crime.”
“Can she answer questions about a person’s past?” This was really what Grant wanted to ask her: Where did I come from? Why am I here? Is there a purpose to my arrival in this world?
“Oh, yes, of course. She does that mostly for fun and for family history purposes.” Standing up at the sound of a high pitched whistle, she rushed over to the tea pot and lifted it from the fire. “Tea’s done!” she announced, sat the pot on the table while she kept on going to the china cabinet for two tea cups and saucers.
Pouring some tea into the cup in front of him, she spoke some more. “Prudy is really, oh, I don’t know, peculiar. I think her special powers make her just that much different from us, that she may feel like an outcast. Because of that, she lives off in the woods, at the bottom of the dell by the swampy pond.”
Grant smiled at this and thought jovially, Oh, we aren’t in the woods now? Then he thought of a saying that his mother had often said, We aren’t out of the woods yet. How appropriate that was for him in that moment.
Clearing her throat after taking a dainty sip of her tea, she looked him straight in the face. Again she asked, “May I tell you something?”
“Always.”
“I think you’re telling the truth.”
“Oh, really...?”
“Yes,” she cut in. “I’m not sure how to describe it, but you’re different. I don’t mean how your clothes are different or your accent but... it seems to me like your voice echoes, like you’re speaking in a cave.” Bringing her hand up to her face, she felt her blood rush into her cheeks. She had never spoken so openly with a man, especially a stranger. “And when you walk, it’s like you aren’t touching the ground. When I first saw you, it was like you were levitated off the ground by the smallest amount. On the dirt road where you stood, you left no foot impressions.” Swallowing hard, she concluded with, “You aren’t from this world.”
Ruminating over this for a second, he replied, “That’s an interesting thought. Who is your president?”
She looked puzzled, so he rephrased his question, “Does your country have a ruler? What is your country called?”
“Well,” she said, tilting her head slightly and looking to the ceiling in thought. “This is the Ohio Territory. All the territories put together is called the United Territories of England. We are ruled over by Queen Victoria.”
The only thought his brain could muster was Oh my God. Staring at her, he gasped and sat back in his chair, his hands falling limply to his lap. His stomach did a flip flop that made him want to gag. In what kind of place was he? He needed to get to that mystic woman, Prudy, and double quick.
Covering her heart with her hand softly, she said, “Oh dear, what have I said? What’s the matter?”
Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “You’re right. I’m from a different world. In the world I’m from, in the year 1851, none of what you said is true. Not one detail.”
“Oh, my word!” she exclaimed. “Why do you think...?”
“I don’t know,” Grant stated solemnly. “I need to see the sorceress. Now.” Gulping down the rest of his tea, it burned his tongue, but the warmth felt good. His near death experience the night before had left him with a strange perpetual chill. Setting down his cup a little too hard, it startled Eliza into spilling her tea a little bit. Keeping her composure, she set down the tea and left the room to find a rag to wipe it up with, wordless.
Annoyed with himself for the outburst, he covered his eyes with both hands and propped his elbows up on the table. Digging the heels of his hands into his eyes hard he rubbed back and forth. Once again he wished that when he took his hands away, the little house, the tea cups, the spring forest, and Eliza would all be gone. But when he did so and his vision cleared, he was still sitting in the fancy log cabin in the middle of an 1851 no one had ever heard of.
When Eliza returned, she held a white wash rag in her right hand, and dabbed at the spill. Grant could tell that she was stirred up, maybe confused, maybe fascinated, he couldn’t tell. Leaving the rag on the table, folded in quarters, she said, “Let’s go then. I can tell you are anxious to get answers.”
“Yes, I am.” After a moment he added, “I’m sorry if I startled you. I’ve had a long and terrible day.”
A half smile teased the corner of her lips. Sighing, she said, “It’s okay. I’ve been a little nervous, if you can’t tell. We don’t get many visitors, especially not any from different worlds.” Straightening up her dress, she said, “Come on, I’ll show you to Prudy’s hut.”
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Monday, June 24, 2013
What it Feels Like
A deep boom rolled across the landscape, echoing off of the hills and buildings alike. Leaning my head up, I gazed at the sky. Each moment that passed, the vast tapestry strung upon high turned a deeper and deeper shade of grey until it was black. Whispy, dancing white clouds twirled and leaped upon the wind, painting the dark backdrop with an ironically beautiful portrait. The cool wind swept over my face, chilling it despite the hot and humid air about me, sending goose pimples up and down my arms and neck. Lips curving upwards, I idly closed my eyes, face pointed ever upwards.
Beneath my closed lids, a bright flash of white bit through the thick, black clouds and lapped the ground. Huffing out a laugh, I knew the best was yet to come. Only seconds after the white light retreated into the sky, a rumble started low in the distance; more booms, like fireworks, joined into the chorus as the sound traveled fast upon the air, until it was all I could hear. Goose bumps traveled down my back, involuntarily squirming my legs below me. Pressing my lips together, a hum only I could hear tickled my chin and cheeks, as anticipation sprung sweat upon my brow.
Then, without warning, a loud and hard slap. And then another. The force with which the drops hit my face was so tremendous that each drop held the weight of a water balloon. Each drop, disintegrating upon impact, released bits of water that rolled down my forehead and nose, drug down to earth by gravity. Soon, I lost count of the drops that bombarded my face, and as I soaked, hair plastered to my face and neck, the sheet of water thrust from the sky pelted every inch of me, every inch of earth.
Clothes clasped to me, suction cupped to my skin, I opened my mouth to release a laugh that could not be contained. Not by life, not by the circumstances that drove me to this hilltop, not a thunderstorm. Losing the weight I had felt, I thrust my arms out to my sides, water cascading off of them, and slowly rose them up. Whooping out loud, I didn't care who could hear me. This was my moment. It was just me and the storm, and I loved it. Tears erupted from my eyes, but no one would have noticed, they mixed joyously with the rain and ran down my body to join again with the earth, with the stardust.
And if I'm not mistaken, the storm loved the moment, too.
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
This literary blip inspired by:
Beneath my closed lids, a bright flash of white bit through the thick, black clouds and lapped the ground. Huffing out a laugh, I knew the best was yet to come. Only seconds after the white light retreated into the sky, a rumble started low in the distance; more booms, like fireworks, joined into the chorus as the sound traveled fast upon the air, until it was all I could hear. Goose bumps traveled down my back, involuntarily squirming my legs below me. Pressing my lips together, a hum only I could hear tickled my chin and cheeks, as anticipation sprung sweat upon my brow.
Then, without warning, a loud and hard slap. And then another. The force with which the drops hit my face was so tremendous that each drop held the weight of a water balloon. Each drop, disintegrating upon impact, released bits of water that rolled down my forehead and nose, drug down to earth by gravity. Soon, I lost count of the drops that bombarded my face, and as I soaked, hair plastered to my face and neck, the sheet of water thrust from the sky pelted every inch of me, every inch of earth.
Clothes clasped to me, suction cupped to my skin, I opened my mouth to release a laugh that could not be contained. Not by life, not by the circumstances that drove me to this hilltop, not a thunderstorm. Losing the weight I had felt, I thrust my arms out to my sides, water cascading off of them, and slowly rose them up. Whooping out loud, I didn't care who could hear me. This was my moment. It was just me and the storm, and I loved it. Tears erupted from my eyes, but no one would have noticed, they mixed joyously with the rain and ran down my body to join again with the earth, with the stardust.
And if I'm not mistaken, the storm loved the moment, too.
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
This literary blip inspired by:
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
The Ring, a short story
It was a day like any other. I had gone to work, had a couple beers with my buddies, and drove home, expecting to see my sweet fiancée sitting on the couch, cuddling with our cute pekingese puppy Argus in her grey sweatpants, and raising her arms to me for a hug as I entered the apartment we shared. I had no reason not to expect this, as it had happened almost exactly that way everyday for three years.
On top of not expecting anything strange, the day started out and then stayed gorgeous! For the first time all winter, the warm sun blasted me right in the face through the blinds, tickling my eyes open, as well as coaxing a smile to my lips. Now, if you knew me, you would know that am not a morning person, and thus a smile NEVER finds itself on my lips in the morning. But that particular spring day, and that particular sunrise did it to me, and I got up immediately, although it was only 6am, and I usually didn’t get up until 7am. Sunlight brought color to my cheeks and a warmth to my heart I didn’t know could occur so early in the morning. It made me feel happy to be alive. I rolled over and kissed Jennifer on the cheek.
She stirred slightly, leaning into my kiss, but her eyes remained closed. A tiny smile touched her lips, and it only made mine grow. Studying her face briefly, a memory of when I first met her ran through my head. It was a fond memory we reminisced about often. She was a friend of a friend, and by some fluke I was introduced to her at a new year’s party. When I shook her hand and looked into her striking brown eyes, I knew something was special about her. As the night went on, I found myself drawn to her. She tells me that she felt the same, like there were hands pushing against her back, shoving her in my direction.
We ended up talking the whole night, deep conversations about things I hadn’t even told my best friend. It was weird, because I usually keep my life to myself, especially to a complete stranger, but her eyes begged me to open up to her, and like an obedient slave I couldn’t say no. At the end of the night, I walked her out to her car, parked in front of my friend’s house on the curb, right in front of mine.
“Matt,” she said to me, her voice lifting off into space on the freezing January air. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I can’t believe Steve had never mentioned you before!”
“Me, either,” I said with a smile. Jokingly, I blurted out, “He’s a jerk.”
We both laughed. An awkward silence followed, during which I most desperately wanted to kiss Jennifer’s beautiful, and slightly chattering, lips. I decided not to, sparing us both from potentially freezing our lips together, and it turns out, that’s what sealed the deal for me. Later, she said that she thought I was ‘gentlemanly’ for not trying to kiss her after that first meeting, that I had respect for her. The gesture I thought was an epic failure on my part (as I drove home I yelled at myself and pounded my fists on the steering wheel for being so stupid) turned out to be my saving grace.
I thought she was my saving grace.
Deciding to follow the guy code and not call her for three days (as to keep her on her toes and to make myself not seem desperate), I called her on the night of day three to see if she wanted to go out on a date with me. I felt very formal, as if I was asking her dad for her hand in marriage. It wasn’t really that serious, but to me it felt that way. I was a nervous wreck, but obviously I kept my cool. I scored a date with her.
And the rest is history. That was five years ago. We had gone through a couple small rough patches, like every couple does, but overall, we had a solid, happy relationship. We went out with friends almost every weekend, we attended out of state weddings for various family members, we played video games together, we even shared a checking account. Two years into our relationship we decided to live together. Living together takes guts, and that’s exactly what we both had.
I remember the day I asked her to marry me. Jennifer is the biggest baseball fan I know. I mean, bigger and more die-hard than most of my male buddies. A whole section of her closet was devoted to her jerseys and baseball caps. After a year of living together (to give you an idea of time frame), I asked her to attend a night game with me. At first she didn’t want to, but I told her I won the tickets at work, and we just had to go. How could we waste two perfectly good baseball tickets?
Biting onto the lure, she agreed.
Of course, I had bought the tickets months ago, I was only putting on a ploy to throw her off my scent. We got all decked out in our game gear, rode the light rail down to the baseball stadium, got our hotdogs and beers, and took our seats. What a grand view of the megatron we had. After the 7th inning stretch, a camera was pointed at us, I got down on one knee, and proposed to her in front of the entire stadium.
Jennifer was happier than I had seen her in the entire time I had known her. It goes without saying that she said yes, and I slipped that beautiful diamond ring onto the finger of my soulmate.
Well, I thought that, innocently enough, until the evening of that perfect spring day in April.
Jingling my keys around at the front door, I entered as per usual, yelling out playfully, “Hey Lucyyyyy, I’m hoooooome!”
No response came to me then, no sound from the TV. Argus came running up to me, his tiny legs whipping to and fro, carrying him across the tiled kitchen floor with the clicking of his toe nails. Panting, crying softly, he whined, the look in his eyes was reaching to me, worried. I cocked my head to one side, curious.
“Jennifer?”
Dropping my bag to the floor, I knelt down to rub Argus’s little head, and looked into his eyes. “What’s the matter, Argie? Is something wrong?”
I wish he could have answered me, as it would have saved me from some inevitable shock. He only whined some more and ran down the hallway and back to me. Back and forth, frantically, like the world was coming to an end. Rubbing my face apprehensively, my mind began to twirl and blur. Confusion took me over, and I did not know what to think. Should I be going to the closet to get my gun to arm myself against an intruder? Should I be calling the police? Did something happen to Jennifer?
Jennifer.
I was about to run further into the house, when something on the counter caught my eye. Never in life will I forget the moment I noticed the item on the counter, strangely propped up against the banana hanger, holding two browning bananas by a thread.
A daintily folded note.
Picking up the note, my heart pounded in my chest so hard I actually clutched my chest with my other hand. A thought shot through my brain: What are you worrying about? I bet it’s just a nice little ‘I love you’ note, or a grocery list, or a cute poem she wrote for you. What are you afraid of?
This.
Taking in a deep breath, and letting it out in shakes and spasms, I unfolded the note with my forefinger and thumb, snapping it open like a hinge. Before I could read it, another thing caught my eye, the most devastating, life altering, heart wrenching thing I would have never expected.
Jennifer’s engagement ring.
I’m not too sure what happened once I saw her ring lying there not on her finger, but when my memory starts again, I found myself slumped on the floor, my face hot and wet, my teeth grinding and my breath short and quick. The note was still in my hand, but the ring sat on the kitchen floor in front of me. Once a symbol of love, loyalty, and dedication, it now loomed large in my vision, like a hounded, obnoxious reminder of some sort of cruelty or barbarous betrayal. It seemed to rise upwards with strength and rage, and grow in size as to shove me in the corner like the petty bastard I am.
Muscles tightening up, it took all the strength I had to lift the note up to my face again and read it. Though my words were nothing more than a mumbling, snotty mess, I read it aloud.
“My dearest Matt,” it read, in Jennifer’s round and perfect script. “I don’t know where to start, so I’ll start here. I love you.”
I stopped reading there and banged my head on the kitchen counter, up against which my back rested, wincing in pain. Argus ran back and forth still, even more distraught by my apparent internal malfunction.
“I’ve always loved you, from the day, no, the very instant we met. You know that. As much as I love you, and as much as it pains me to say this, I have to let you go.” Pausing to rub my burning eyes with the heels of my hands, the note dropped to my lap. The last sentence struck me as funny, and through my tears, I began to chuckle. Soon the chuckle escalated into a full out laugh, and after that, it kept escalating until I sounded like I had lost my mind. Probably because I had, although not permanently.
Lifting it back up near my eyes, I continued reading through my crazed smile. “It’s time to be honest. You know I’ve always tried to be as open and honest with you as I could. You also know that I have a problem effectively communicating things that are hard for me to say. This is why I wrote it down, because I just can’t face it. I’m in love with another man, Matthew.”
Tears burst forth from my eyes unexpectedly. My eyes suddenly full of tears and blurry, I closed them, since I couldn’t read the words through a waterfall. She knew I’d have a reaction like this, and that’s why she left a note, instead of telling me face to face. And she said she fell in love with me because I respected her. Little did I know she neither respected me, or herself.
My insides felt like they had been pulled out through my belly button and ground up in a blender. Liquified, jelly-fied, like something that should slither down the drain and mix into the abyss, forgotten yet a part of a larger system. In the same way that we are all made of stardust, I felt my heart exploding, the particles spreading about the universe to be made into other lifeforms a billion years from now.
I started to question not only her, since she was pretty much telling me our whole relationship was a lie, but also myself, and my motives. Why had I loved her in the first place? Wasn’t it obvious she was a scumbag from the beginning?
Calming down slightly, I knew I had been thoroughly duped. Because, no, there hadn’t even been an inkling of her infidelity, of her scheming, of her low backstabbing ways. She had been perfect. The front she put up was of the perfect girl, lovely, charming, witty, accepting, willing to make sacrifices, but it had all been for naught. It had all been so she could desert me and be with another man.
“And I went to be with him. I’ve left you the engagement ring. You can sell it so you can afford my part of the rent now that I’m gone. Please don’t try to contact me. I will love you forever, but I have to do this, for me. Give Argus a kiss for me. All my love, Jenny.”
All my love, Jenny. All my love, Jenny All my love Jenny AllmyloveJennyAllmyloveJenny...
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
On top of not expecting anything strange, the day started out and then stayed gorgeous! For the first time all winter, the warm sun blasted me right in the face through the blinds, tickling my eyes open, as well as coaxing a smile to my lips. Now, if you knew me, you would know that am not a morning person, and thus a smile NEVER finds itself on my lips in the morning. But that particular spring day, and that particular sunrise did it to me, and I got up immediately, although it was only 6am, and I usually didn’t get up until 7am. Sunlight brought color to my cheeks and a warmth to my heart I didn’t know could occur so early in the morning. It made me feel happy to be alive. I rolled over and kissed Jennifer on the cheek.
She stirred slightly, leaning into my kiss, but her eyes remained closed. A tiny smile touched her lips, and it only made mine grow. Studying her face briefly, a memory of when I first met her ran through my head. It was a fond memory we reminisced about often. She was a friend of a friend, and by some fluke I was introduced to her at a new year’s party. When I shook her hand and looked into her striking brown eyes, I knew something was special about her. As the night went on, I found myself drawn to her. She tells me that she felt the same, like there were hands pushing against her back, shoving her in my direction.
We ended up talking the whole night, deep conversations about things I hadn’t even told my best friend. It was weird, because I usually keep my life to myself, especially to a complete stranger, but her eyes begged me to open up to her, and like an obedient slave I couldn’t say no. At the end of the night, I walked her out to her car, parked in front of my friend’s house on the curb, right in front of mine.
“Matt,” she said to me, her voice lifting off into space on the freezing January air. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I can’t believe Steve had never mentioned you before!”
“Me, either,” I said with a smile. Jokingly, I blurted out, “He’s a jerk.”
We both laughed. An awkward silence followed, during which I most desperately wanted to kiss Jennifer’s beautiful, and slightly chattering, lips. I decided not to, sparing us both from potentially freezing our lips together, and it turns out, that’s what sealed the deal for me. Later, she said that she thought I was ‘gentlemanly’ for not trying to kiss her after that first meeting, that I had respect for her. The gesture I thought was an epic failure on my part (as I drove home I yelled at myself and pounded my fists on the steering wheel for being so stupid) turned out to be my saving grace.
I thought she was my saving grace.
Deciding to follow the guy code and not call her for three days (as to keep her on her toes and to make myself not seem desperate), I called her on the night of day three to see if she wanted to go out on a date with me. I felt very formal, as if I was asking her dad for her hand in marriage. It wasn’t really that serious, but to me it felt that way. I was a nervous wreck, but obviously I kept my cool. I scored a date with her.
And the rest is history. That was five years ago. We had gone through a couple small rough patches, like every couple does, but overall, we had a solid, happy relationship. We went out with friends almost every weekend, we attended out of state weddings for various family members, we played video games together, we even shared a checking account. Two years into our relationship we decided to live together. Living together takes guts, and that’s exactly what we both had.
I remember the day I asked her to marry me. Jennifer is the biggest baseball fan I know. I mean, bigger and more die-hard than most of my male buddies. A whole section of her closet was devoted to her jerseys and baseball caps. After a year of living together (to give you an idea of time frame), I asked her to attend a night game with me. At first she didn’t want to, but I told her I won the tickets at work, and we just had to go. How could we waste two perfectly good baseball tickets?
Biting onto the lure, she agreed.
Of course, I had bought the tickets months ago, I was only putting on a ploy to throw her off my scent. We got all decked out in our game gear, rode the light rail down to the baseball stadium, got our hotdogs and beers, and took our seats. What a grand view of the megatron we had. After the 7th inning stretch, a camera was pointed at us, I got down on one knee, and proposed to her in front of the entire stadium.
Jennifer was happier than I had seen her in the entire time I had known her. It goes without saying that she said yes, and I slipped that beautiful diamond ring onto the finger of my soulmate.
Well, I thought that, innocently enough, until the evening of that perfect spring day in April.
Jingling my keys around at the front door, I entered as per usual, yelling out playfully, “Hey Lucyyyyy, I’m hoooooome!”
No response came to me then, no sound from the TV. Argus came running up to me, his tiny legs whipping to and fro, carrying him across the tiled kitchen floor with the clicking of his toe nails. Panting, crying softly, he whined, the look in his eyes was reaching to me, worried. I cocked my head to one side, curious.
“Jennifer?”
Dropping my bag to the floor, I knelt down to rub Argus’s little head, and looked into his eyes. “What’s the matter, Argie? Is something wrong?”
I wish he could have answered me, as it would have saved me from some inevitable shock. He only whined some more and ran down the hallway and back to me. Back and forth, frantically, like the world was coming to an end. Rubbing my face apprehensively, my mind began to twirl and blur. Confusion took me over, and I did not know what to think. Should I be going to the closet to get my gun to arm myself against an intruder? Should I be calling the police? Did something happen to Jennifer?
Jennifer.
I was about to run further into the house, when something on the counter caught my eye. Never in life will I forget the moment I noticed the item on the counter, strangely propped up against the banana hanger, holding two browning bananas by a thread.
A daintily folded note.
Picking up the note, my heart pounded in my chest so hard I actually clutched my chest with my other hand. A thought shot through my brain: What are you worrying about? I bet it’s just a nice little ‘I love you’ note, or a grocery list, or a cute poem she wrote for you. What are you afraid of?
This.
Taking in a deep breath, and letting it out in shakes and spasms, I unfolded the note with my forefinger and thumb, snapping it open like a hinge. Before I could read it, another thing caught my eye, the most devastating, life altering, heart wrenching thing I would have never expected.
Jennifer’s engagement ring.
I’m not too sure what happened once I saw her ring lying there not on her finger, but when my memory starts again, I found myself slumped on the floor, my face hot and wet, my teeth grinding and my breath short and quick. The note was still in my hand, but the ring sat on the kitchen floor in front of me. Once a symbol of love, loyalty, and dedication, it now loomed large in my vision, like a hounded, obnoxious reminder of some sort of cruelty or barbarous betrayal. It seemed to rise upwards with strength and rage, and grow in size as to shove me in the corner like the petty bastard I am.
Muscles tightening up, it took all the strength I had to lift the note up to my face again and read it. Though my words were nothing more than a mumbling, snotty mess, I read it aloud.
“My dearest Matt,” it read, in Jennifer’s round and perfect script. “I don’t know where to start, so I’ll start here. I love you.”
I stopped reading there and banged my head on the kitchen counter, up against which my back rested, wincing in pain. Argus ran back and forth still, even more distraught by my apparent internal malfunction.
“I’ve always loved you, from the day, no, the very instant we met. You know that. As much as I love you, and as much as it pains me to say this, I have to let you go.” Pausing to rub my burning eyes with the heels of my hands, the note dropped to my lap. The last sentence struck me as funny, and through my tears, I began to chuckle. Soon the chuckle escalated into a full out laugh, and after that, it kept escalating until I sounded like I had lost my mind. Probably because I had, although not permanently.
Lifting it back up near my eyes, I continued reading through my crazed smile. “It’s time to be honest. You know I’ve always tried to be as open and honest with you as I could. You also know that I have a problem effectively communicating things that are hard for me to say. This is why I wrote it down, because I just can’t face it. I’m in love with another man, Matthew.”
Tears burst forth from my eyes unexpectedly. My eyes suddenly full of tears and blurry, I closed them, since I couldn’t read the words through a waterfall. She knew I’d have a reaction like this, and that’s why she left a note, instead of telling me face to face. And she said she fell in love with me because I respected her. Little did I know she neither respected me, or herself.
My insides felt like they had been pulled out through my belly button and ground up in a blender. Liquified, jelly-fied, like something that should slither down the drain and mix into the abyss, forgotten yet a part of a larger system. In the same way that we are all made of stardust, I felt my heart exploding, the particles spreading about the universe to be made into other lifeforms a billion years from now.
I started to question not only her, since she was pretty much telling me our whole relationship was a lie, but also myself, and my motives. Why had I loved her in the first place? Wasn’t it obvious she was a scumbag from the beginning?
Calming down slightly, I knew I had been thoroughly duped. Because, no, there hadn’t even been an inkling of her infidelity, of her scheming, of her low backstabbing ways. She had been perfect. The front she put up was of the perfect girl, lovely, charming, witty, accepting, willing to make sacrifices, but it had all been for naught. It had all been so she could desert me and be with another man.
“And I went to be with him. I’ve left you the engagement ring. You can sell it so you can afford my part of the rent now that I’m gone. Please don’t try to contact me. I will love you forever, but I have to do this, for me. Give Argus a kiss for me. All my love, Jenny.”
All my love, Jenny. All my love, Jenny All my love Jenny AllmyloveJennyAllmyloveJenny...
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Introduction: "The Dauntless One"
Automatic gunfire rang out across the empty, dark streets of Chicago. No one dared come to the window to see what was happening because no one wanted to get sucked into the underbelly of the city. When bullets whizzed and slashed through the air, the lights that shone out of the apartment building windows turned off one by one, as if to say no one’s home, there’s no one here to witness your war, and crouch down behind the rim of the window’s sill.
It was raining that summer night, and through the damp darkness and fog a silhouette came running. With bullets chasing after him, and gaining at the rate of 3000 feet per second, one would almost find this gentleman’s running escape leisurely, comically slow, when it should have been frantic. Rounding a corner on his right slowly, his face cloaked in shadow, he pulled his fedora down over his eyebrows a touch. In this hectic scene, a smile traced one corner of his mouth, teasing at a dimple on that side. Although the surrounding residents pretended like nothing was happening, like they were sleeping, in order to avoid this blustery scene of impending death, he thrived on it. He sought it out. He had made this his career. But he did it successfully because he kept himself invisible, and those that he investigated never saw his face, only a wisp of his echoing presence dashing away, taunting his pursuers. You’ll never catch me his receding blur teased. There’s a reason I call myself a spy.
Hearing the big, bumbling, riotous men stumbling and crashing down the sidewalk, tracing his steps, he knew there was no way they’d catch him. He had ducked down damp and dripping alley; before the three arguing and bickering galoots could even come near where he currently was, he’d be long gone. They were disorganized, flustered, and not one of them could decide who the leader should be in this man hunt. Shouting, bullets flying with no intended targets, Jay smiled coyly to himself.
Of course he had slipped away, unnoticed. His entire life he’d spent going along unnoticed, and as he grew older, he transformed this quirky skill into a business: thievery. Jay was so good, he could pickpocket a man he was speaking to directly. As he’d shake a man’s hand, his other hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pluck out his watch.
Letting his simper become larger now, as the gunfire and shouting became more faint, he took a left and quickened his pace. Noticing some pedestrians approaching from the opposite direction, he glanced at his wristwatch, projecting the illusion that he was late to something important. Which, in a way, he was. Now that he had successfully procured evidence of Big Bernie’s chain of speakeasies all across the south side of town by way of a hearty, and lengthy, receipt book, for the police chief, he now had another order of business, for an entirely different client.
Swinging the door of his beloved Superior Touring Coach, waxed a brilliant aquamarine that glowed like a star until the street lights, he fell into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Opening one side of his double-breasted, grey jacket, he took out the receipt book, neatly held shut with a leather strap, and threw it into the seat next to him. Shaking his head because he could still hear, barely audible now, the three burley men coming after him, he laughed silently as his automobile roared to life and stiffly flew down the cobblestone road, cutting through the thick droplets of fog.
Jay was in his element. Dark, dreary, dangerous. He loved it and deep down, he wished the suspense, adrenaline, and adventure would never end. Gripping the steering wheel, he set his inner compass to bring him to the front door of the The Rose, the cover business for an underground bar.
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
It was raining that summer night, and through the damp darkness and fog a silhouette came running. With bullets chasing after him, and gaining at the rate of 3000 feet per second, one would almost find this gentleman’s running escape leisurely, comically slow, when it should have been frantic. Rounding a corner on his right slowly, his face cloaked in shadow, he pulled his fedora down over his eyebrows a touch. In this hectic scene, a smile traced one corner of his mouth, teasing at a dimple on that side. Although the surrounding residents pretended like nothing was happening, like they were sleeping, in order to avoid this blustery scene of impending death, he thrived on it. He sought it out. He had made this his career. But he did it successfully because he kept himself invisible, and those that he investigated never saw his face, only a wisp of his echoing presence dashing away, taunting his pursuers. You’ll never catch me his receding blur teased. There’s a reason I call myself a spy.
Hearing the big, bumbling, riotous men stumbling and crashing down the sidewalk, tracing his steps, he knew there was no way they’d catch him. He had ducked down damp and dripping alley; before the three arguing and bickering galoots could even come near where he currently was, he’d be long gone. They were disorganized, flustered, and not one of them could decide who the leader should be in this man hunt. Shouting, bullets flying with no intended targets, Jay smiled coyly to himself.
Of course he had slipped away, unnoticed. His entire life he’d spent going along unnoticed, and as he grew older, he transformed this quirky skill into a business: thievery. Jay was so good, he could pickpocket a man he was speaking to directly. As he’d shake a man’s hand, his other hand would reach into his jacket pocket and pluck out his watch.
Letting his simper become larger now, as the gunfire and shouting became more faint, he took a left and quickened his pace. Noticing some pedestrians approaching from the opposite direction, he glanced at his wristwatch, projecting the illusion that he was late to something important. Which, in a way, he was. Now that he had successfully procured evidence of Big Bernie’s chain of speakeasies all across the south side of town by way of a hearty, and lengthy, receipt book, for the police chief, he now had another order of business, for an entirely different client.
Swinging the door of his beloved Superior Touring Coach, waxed a brilliant aquamarine that glowed like a star until the street lights, he fell into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. Opening one side of his double-breasted, grey jacket, he took out the receipt book, neatly held shut with a leather strap, and threw it into the seat next to him. Shaking his head because he could still hear, barely audible now, the three burley men coming after him, he laughed silently as his automobile roared to life and stiffly flew down the cobblestone road, cutting through the thick droplets of fog.
Jay was in his element. Dark, dreary, dangerous. He loved it and deep down, he wished the suspense, adrenaline, and adventure would never end. Gripping the steering wheel, he set his inner compass to bring him to the front door of the The Rose, the cover business for an underground bar.
Copyright © 2013 by Erin M. Truesdale
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Scene Two: "Lost Life"
The story continues...
The wind whipped across the snow covered landscape, leading Grant to wish he had grabbed a larger jacket, and perhaps a scarf, as he angrily left his mother’s house. He was so hot with anger at the time that it hadn’t occurred to him that it was below freezing outside. Leaning over the old wooden fence, he looked down at the stream, now frozen in time, dirt and leaves suspended in a forest stew until the spring thaw, a smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. Despite his anger, an image of childhood emerged; a pleasant memory that he couldn’t help recalling, even as he grasped at the edges of his uncomfortable wool sweater for warmth.
He was 10, and his little sister, Ashley, was 7. When they were children, they were the best of friends. The two were still close now, in adulthood, but nothing like the relationship they shared back then. He was Ashley’s only brother, and she was Grant’s only sister. They were inseparable, especially when the kids at school made fun of them for having no daddy. Sure, they had no daddy, but they had each other.
Running and giggling, they bounded towards the river, the high grass tickling their bare legs and toes through their sandal clad feet. In truth, it wasn’t really a river, but more of a creek, but it was deep enough to do some rudimentary fishing and to root around in the mud for snails. This particular sunny afternoon, the two siblings were going to fish, but there was a new added bonus that Ashley was particularly excited about: Her big brother was going to teach her to skip rocks. She had always seen it done in the movies, and she witnessed her brother do it on occasion like a magician pulling a bouquet of flowers from his shirt sleeve, so she timidly asked if she could learn.
Of course Grant had agreed to bestow his little sister with his worldly knowledge of rock skipping, and after they grabbed a pole and some bait, they ran off with barely a waive goodbye to their mother, who just shook her head with a smile and continued to prepare dinner.
“Wait for me!” Ashley cried through her laughter as she struggled to keep up with her big brother. “Wait up!”
Still running, Grant turned back momentarily and barked back, “Gotta keep up with the big guns, Ash-hole!”
Finally, they came upon the stream, babbling softly despite the breezy day. Grant got his fishing pole ready, but Ashley knocked it to the ground impatiently, sporting a mischievous grin. “No! You must teach me first.”
Grant raised an eyebrow in faux incomprehension. “Teach? Teach you what, grasshopper?”
She hit his shoulder and giggled. “You know! Skipping rocks!”
“Oh!” He hit his head and crossed his eyes, making Ashley roar with laughter once again. “That! Duh, sorry.” He put his forefinger up to his lips and Ashley’s laughter stopped abruptly. “First,” he said in a whisper. “You must find some flat, smooth rocks.” He looked around and quickly found an example. He held it up in front of her face. “Like this. Go!”
She ran off, grinning ear to ear, trying with all of her might not to burst from excitement. Grant crossed his arms in front of his chest, feeling proud of himself, but he felt even more proud of his little sister. He was glad to help her, even if he did give her a hard time in the process. What did she expect, that was his job as big brother. He turned and faced the water, no more than 15 feet deep in the middle, and perhaps 50 feet wide. Weeping willows lined both the north and south banks, which provided a nice shade and a perfect overhang which acted as his own personal retreat. He was perfectly content in thinking that no other kids had called this place their own, and thus he dubbed it in his mind Camp Grant. He liked the ring that had...
“Grant!” A tiny voice called from about 10 feet to his left and closing, interrupting his daydream. “Grant, I found nine! Is nine enough?”
“Yes it is, little partner, now come back over here!” She ran with all of her might through the thick sand coated with river rocks and sticks. Ashley’s dishwater blonde hair was now slightly stuck to the sides of her face from sweat and river water. Her grin was still as big as ever.
As she looked up at him with intense interest, he began his lesson. “Okay, so you know how to toss a frisbee, right?”
She nodded, piling all but one of the rocks she had found at her feet. The one she kept she flipped over and over in her fingers absently.
“Good. So, get a good grip on the rock, putting your index finger here and your thumb here...” he placed her fingers carefully on the rock as he spoke “...now lean back and bring your arm back like you’re gonna toss a soft ball, but throw it with the flick of your wrist like a frisbee.” He demonstrated the stance and the throw for her, and the rock skipped clear to the other side of the river.
“Oooh,” Ashley mumbled in awe.
“Now you try it, little girl. Let’s see what you got in that arm of yours.”
She looked up at him, uncertainty strewn across her face, but all it took was one wink from him, and she knew she could do it. Ashley lined up her shot, standing sideways towards the creek, her left hip closest to the water, while her right hand was held behind her, the rock poised in her hand just as Grant had placed it. She swung her arm, and yes! (Grant pumped his fist at her form) flicked her wrist, and by God, the rock skipped. Not as far as Grant’s had, but it skipped three full times. Ashley screamed with joy and jumped up into Grant’s arms. “I did it!! I did it! Can I try it again, please? I won’t take too long, I promise.”
“Of course you can, little partner,” he said, hugging her back. “Skip rocks all day long, I’ll be here.”
Grant now looked over this same body of water, cloaked in snow and sheathed in ice, shivering slightly in the winter air, his breath turning to a fine mist with every breath he let out, and he let himself smile. And why not? What fun they had, and it had all happened in the absence of his father. In the absence of Robert, the low life cab driver from Las Vegas. He had lived this long without him, why was it so important to have him in his life now? Everyone has an invisible pull towards family, but now, his anger subsiding, yet his eyes still burning, he wished he could take out some hedge trimmers and cut the line that held him to Robert.
Deciding to let his mind wander, he leaned up against the fence for awhile longer. Every so often, he could hear the engine of his nearby car popping and creaking as the cold air sucked the life out of the hot metal beneath the hood. As he just existed, he felt like something was changing around him. Like the air was getting heavier, denser, older. Older? Did it smell different? Yes, but how? Like dust? Like... farmland and cattle? Didn’t it always sorta smell like farms and cattle?
Grant shrugged it off and stretched his arms high in the air. The sun was making its slow journey towards the western edge of the sky. He decided he better get going. Perhaps he should go back to make sure his mom was okay. He slowly turned to make his way back to his parked car, the windshield starting to frost over as the evening slowly crept over the landscape, when Grant heard a soft pop. Then a crunch. All at once, a soft pressure squeezed around his ankle.
Tripping, he fell forward, panic drawn across his face. In a reflex reaction to catch himself, he stepped a pace and slipped violently on a patch of ice, cleverly disguised by a thin layer of snow. The pressure around his ankle became as tight as a vice grip, and he was flung backwards, and hit the wooden fence with a whack. A sharp pain shot up his side and down his right arm, as he reached back for something on which to stop his fall. Yet there was nothing there but cold air and a couple snow flakes gently dancing and swaying out of the sky for his fingers to touch. The ancient wood broke with a bitter snap. Arms flailing, a scream escaped his lips, his mind finally realizing what was happening.
Time almost stood still as he fell back, his stomach turning somersaults, a dull ache forming at the front of his skull, his limbs just about hyper-extending themselves in order to find some leverage. A big root, a piece of fence jutting out, a tree branch, anything. Yet, his grasp found nothing, and his arms and legs moved in space. A thought zoomed through his head, wishing a hand would thrust itself at him from the ledge above, like in the movies. Alas, this was no movie, this was real life. And he was plummeting faster than he would have ever recalled towards the dark grey and dull river.
A low thud resonated through the ice as Grant’s body came into contact with the river’s frozen surface. At first, his eyes darted around, realizing he was still alive, he was above the water, breathing, thinking. Beginning to move slowly, he pressed his arms to the ice in order to sit up. That’s when he noticed the water pooling around him, his arms now soaked. His gaze snapped to the ice around him, saw the cracks, heard the cracks. Each crack widened and ran along the length of his body on both sides as fast as lightning bolts. Moaning, the ice shifted, then a lethal crash and before he could take a last gulp of air, he was underwater.
Now, all of his other thoughts were utterly null. Robert was gone. His anger was gone. The memory of he and Ashley playing in this very river was gone. All he could comprehend was how cold it was and that he couldn’t breath. Couldn’t breath. This wasn’t the normal 'you’re tickling me so much I can’t breath' or 'I’m going to plug my nose and jump in the pool'. No. This was 'if I don’t get out of here soon, I will die'. Feet thrashing in an attempt to find the river bed below, and never finding it, he realized quickly he was draining all of his energy in a idiot’s panic. He looked up to see where the had fallen through the ice, but with the oncoming night, he saw nothing but a uniform dark blue and gray curtain of ice. His heart sank and suspended in water he momentarily lost hope. But his spirit wouldn’t let him give up. He remembered the words his mother had said to him not two hours ago: Always such a strong soul. Always such a strong soul. He couldn’t let her down. He was strong, and he would live.
Swimming in the direction he thought was up, his wool sweater now as heavy as lead in the water, he decided to slide his hands along the underside of the ice until he found the hole. It was the only thing he could do to save himself. His hands were numb, but as he floated upwards in this surreal state, they hit resistance. There it is! his mind cheered. He ran his fingers frantically across the slippery underbelly of the beast that might kill him. Solid, perfect, never ending ice. Grant’s head was tilted as far back as it could go so he could look up, the light above fading fast, the color of his world turning to a navy blue. He hoped his world wouldn’t turn to black.
Closing his eyes, his lungs pounding, he resigned himself to death. I didn’t think I’d die like this his mind lamented. But just as he believed he was as good as dead, his searching hand came up through the ice. The hole in the ice. He’d found it, by good god and baby Jesus! Rabidly he clutched at the edges of the hole, slipping easily, but he got his head above water, and tasted sweet air like he had never before with a deep and greedy gasp.
Spitting water and coughing up what had gotten into his lungs in jagged and sharp bursts, he tried as hard as he could to keep a hold on the slippery edge. It was getting dark, and he did not want to go under the surface once more. Crossing his arms and laying his head on them with a sick splat, he began to cry. His life was now in a different perspective. He regretted with all of his heart wasting his life wishing for a dad. He should have been grateful for his life, his wonderful mother, his loving sister, his education, and most of all, his life.
Freezing, he began to wonder how he might drag his heavy, soaked, and rapidly numbing body out of the water. Lifting his head slowly, he looked around the ever dimming world that was even dimmer down in a ravine lined by weeping willows which was this river. Eyes widening, his heart leapt into his throat. Nearby, taunting him, was a large protruding root, like the one he was wishing for during his backwards fall down. Trying not to be too cynical, he rolled his eyes, hoping God wouldn’t notice.
Carefully moving his arms out, and having a time of it, as his arms were numbing and shaking, he slowly got his hand close enough to grab the root. He gave it a small tug, and it seemed stable. That was good news. He wasn’t so sure about his hand. He could still close his fingers around the root, but how tightly he had yet to find out. The cold seeping into his very bones, he began to struggle with his own mind. It told him Oh, what’s the use in trying? Just give up and die with dignity.
“No,” he said to himself, his voice a ghostly whisper, wavering slightly to the rhythm of his shivering. He thrust his other arm out with every ounce of energy he could muster, and got a hold of the root. Contracting his biceps, he began to pull. At first, it did nothing, and he was afraid hypothermia had taken over his body. Yet, a moment later, as he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, his body began to move. He could hear the quiet swishing of the water as he passed through it, and as he pulled his gentle grunts turned into ear piercing screams. Pull damn you, PULL! his brain urged and with that, he propped a knee up on the ice and pushed the rest of his body to the surface.
His wet clothes made a squishing noise as he let his muscles relax a bit. The temperature was dropping by the minute as night fell, and the crunching noise of his clothes beginning to freeze got his attention. If he could make it to the car, he’d be alright. He could turn on the car, crank the heat, and all would be well. The shore was nearby, and he cautiously, slowly crawled towards it. Once his hand hit the mishmash of rocks and sand, he made a twisting and awkward jump towards it, landing on his knees. Feet completely numb, he began to crawl. Grant’s brain was beginning to slow, the cold working its way into the gears and gumming it up. Nevertheless, he could think of one thing: Must get to car. Must get to car.
Like a nearly drowned muskrat, he dragged his limp body up the the riverbank. He grabbed at the snow and muddy leaves with a fervor only a dying man can muster. Eyes drooping, his heart beating shallowly in his chest, he came to the spot in the fence where he fell through. Once he was safely on the parking lot side of the fence, he gave it a dirty look and mumbled, “You bastard.”
He dug around in his pockets for his keys was like sifting through molasses. Grant’s finger had lost much of their dexterity, but he found the fob. Pressing the button that unlocked the doors, his car uttered a hollow thunk and a high pitched beep! to indicate the doors were now ready for entry. Isn’t technology wonderful? Still crawling, he reached up, his arm shaking, grabbed onto the handle and pulled towards himself. With what was left of his strength, he hoisted himself up into the driver’s seat, thrust the key into the ignition, and turned it. The engine roared to life, and if his numb face would have let him smile, he would have. Letting the door close on its own, he rolled over to his side and turned the knob all the way to the right. Full heat. His body tingling, a black veil covered his vision.
Copyright © by Erin M. Truesdale, 2013
The wind whipped across the snow covered landscape, leading Grant to wish he had grabbed a larger jacket, and perhaps a scarf, as he angrily left his mother’s house. He was so hot with anger at the time that it hadn’t occurred to him that it was below freezing outside. Leaning over the old wooden fence, he looked down at the stream, now frozen in time, dirt and leaves suspended in a forest stew until the spring thaw, a smile flirted with the corners of his mouth. Despite his anger, an image of childhood emerged; a pleasant memory that he couldn’t help recalling, even as he grasped at the edges of his uncomfortable wool sweater for warmth.
He was 10, and his little sister, Ashley, was 7. When they were children, they were the best of friends. The two were still close now, in adulthood, but nothing like the relationship they shared back then. He was Ashley’s only brother, and she was Grant’s only sister. They were inseparable, especially when the kids at school made fun of them for having no daddy. Sure, they had no daddy, but they had each other.
Running and giggling, they bounded towards the river, the high grass tickling their bare legs and toes through their sandal clad feet. In truth, it wasn’t really a river, but more of a creek, but it was deep enough to do some rudimentary fishing and to root around in the mud for snails. This particular sunny afternoon, the two siblings were going to fish, but there was a new added bonus that Ashley was particularly excited about: Her big brother was going to teach her to skip rocks. She had always seen it done in the movies, and she witnessed her brother do it on occasion like a magician pulling a bouquet of flowers from his shirt sleeve, so she timidly asked if she could learn.
Of course Grant had agreed to bestow his little sister with his worldly knowledge of rock skipping, and after they grabbed a pole and some bait, they ran off with barely a waive goodbye to their mother, who just shook her head with a smile and continued to prepare dinner.
“Wait for me!” Ashley cried through her laughter as she struggled to keep up with her big brother. “Wait up!”
Still running, Grant turned back momentarily and barked back, “Gotta keep up with the big guns, Ash-hole!”
Finally, they came upon the stream, babbling softly despite the breezy day. Grant got his fishing pole ready, but Ashley knocked it to the ground impatiently, sporting a mischievous grin. “No! You must teach me first.”
Grant raised an eyebrow in faux incomprehension. “Teach? Teach you what, grasshopper?”
She hit his shoulder and giggled. “You know! Skipping rocks!”
“Oh!” He hit his head and crossed his eyes, making Ashley roar with laughter once again. “That! Duh, sorry.” He put his forefinger up to his lips and Ashley’s laughter stopped abruptly. “First,” he said in a whisper. “You must find some flat, smooth rocks.” He looked around and quickly found an example. He held it up in front of her face. “Like this. Go!”
She ran off, grinning ear to ear, trying with all of her might not to burst from excitement. Grant crossed his arms in front of his chest, feeling proud of himself, but he felt even more proud of his little sister. He was glad to help her, even if he did give her a hard time in the process. What did she expect, that was his job as big brother. He turned and faced the water, no more than 15 feet deep in the middle, and perhaps 50 feet wide. Weeping willows lined both the north and south banks, which provided a nice shade and a perfect overhang which acted as his own personal retreat. He was perfectly content in thinking that no other kids had called this place their own, and thus he dubbed it in his mind Camp Grant. He liked the ring that had...
“Grant!” A tiny voice called from about 10 feet to his left and closing, interrupting his daydream. “Grant, I found nine! Is nine enough?”
“Yes it is, little partner, now come back over here!” She ran with all of her might through the thick sand coated with river rocks and sticks. Ashley’s dishwater blonde hair was now slightly stuck to the sides of her face from sweat and river water. Her grin was still as big as ever.
As she looked up at him with intense interest, he began his lesson. “Okay, so you know how to toss a frisbee, right?”
She nodded, piling all but one of the rocks she had found at her feet. The one she kept she flipped over and over in her fingers absently.
“Good. So, get a good grip on the rock, putting your index finger here and your thumb here...” he placed her fingers carefully on the rock as he spoke “...now lean back and bring your arm back like you’re gonna toss a soft ball, but throw it with the flick of your wrist like a frisbee.” He demonstrated the stance and the throw for her, and the rock skipped clear to the other side of the river.
“Oooh,” Ashley mumbled in awe.
“Now you try it, little girl. Let’s see what you got in that arm of yours.”
She looked up at him, uncertainty strewn across her face, but all it took was one wink from him, and she knew she could do it. Ashley lined up her shot, standing sideways towards the creek, her left hip closest to the water, while her right hand was held behind her, the rock poised in her hand just as Grant had placed it. She swung her arm, and yes! (Grant pumped his fist at her form) flicked her wrist, and by God, the rock skipped. Not as far as Grant’s had, but it skipped three full times. Ashley screamed with joy and jumped up into Grant’s arms. “I did it!! I did it! Can I try it again, please? I won’t take too long, I promise.”
“Of course you can, little partner,” he said, hugging her back. “Skip rocks all day long, I’ll be here.”
Grant now looked over this same body of water, cloaked in snow and sheathed in ice, shivering slightly in the winter air, his breath turning to a fine mist with every breath he let out, and he let himself smile. And why not? What fun they had, and it had all happened in the absence of his father. In the absence of Robert, the low life cab driver from Las Vegas. He had lived this long without him, why was it so important to have him in his life now? Everyone has an invisible pull towards family, but now, his anger subsiding, yet his eyes still burning, he wished he could take out some hedge trimmers and cut the line that held him to Robert.
Deciding to let his mind wander, he leaned up against the fence for awhile longer. Every so often, he could hear the engine of his nearby car popping and creaking as the cold air sucked the life out of the hot metal beneath the hood. As he just existed, he felt like something was changing around him. Like the air was getting heavier, denser, older. Older? Did it smell different? Yes, but how? Like dust? Like... farmland and cattle? Didn’t it always sorta smell like farms and cattle?
Grant shrugged it off and stretched his arms high in the air. The sun was making its slow journey towards the western edge of the sky. He decided he better get going. Perhaps he should go back to make sure his mom was okay. He slowly turned to make his way back to his parked car, the windshield starting to frost over as the evening slowly crept over the landscape, when Grant heard a soft pop. Then a crunch. All at once, a soft pressure squeezed around his ankle.
Tripping, he fell forward, panic drawn across his face. In a reflex reaction to catch himself, he stepped a pace and slipped violently on a patch of ice, cleverly disguised by a thin layer of snow. The pressure around his ankle became as tight as a vice grip, and he was flung backwards, and hit the wooden fence with a whack. A sharp pain shot up his side and down his right arm, as he reached back for something on which to stop his fall. Yet there was nothing there but cold air and a couple snow flakes gently dancing and swaying out of the sky for his fingers to touch. The ancient wood broke with a bitter snap. Arms flailing, a scream escaped his lips, his mind finally realizing what was happening.
Time almost stood still as he fell back, his stomach turning somersaults, a dull ache forming at the front of his skull, his limbs just about hyper-extending themselves in order to find some leverage. A big root, a piece of fence jutting out, a tree branch, anything. Yet, his grasp found nothing, and his arms and legs moved in space. A thought zoomed through his head, wishing a hand would thrust itself at him from the ledge above, like in the movies. Alas, this was no movie, this was real life. And he was plummeting faster than he would have ever recalled towards the dark grey and dull river.
A low thud resonated through the ice as Grant’s body came into contact with the river’s frozen surface. At first, his eyes darted around, realizing he was still alive, he was above the water, breathing, thinking. Beginning to move slowly, he pressed his arms to the ice in order to sit up. That’s when he noticed the water pooling around him, his arms now soaked. His gaze snapped to the ice around him, saw the cracks, heard the cracks. Each crack widened and ran along the length of his body on both sides as fast as lightning bolts. Moaning, the ice shifted, then a lethal crash and before he could take a last gulp of air, he was underwater.
Now, all of his other thoughts were utterly null. Robert was gone. His anger was gone. The memory of he and Ashley playing in this very river was gone. All he could comprehend was how cold it was and that he couldn’t breath. Couldn’t breath. This wasn’t the normal 'you’re tickling me so much I can’t breath' or 'I’m going to plug my nose and jump in the pool'. No. This was 'if I don’t get out of here soon, I will die'. Feet thrashing in an attempt to find the river bed below, and never finding it, he realized quickly he was draining all of his energy in a idiot’s panic. He looked up to see where the had fallen through the ice, but with the oncoming night, he saw nothing but a uniform dark blue and gray curtain of ice. His heart sank and suspended in water he momentarily lost hope. But his spirit wouldn’t let him give up. He remembered the words his mother had said to him not two hours ago: Always such a strong soul. Always such a strong soul. He couldn’t let her down. He was strong, and he would live.
Swimming in the direction he thought was up, his wool sweater now as heavy as lead in the water, he decided to slide his hands along the underside of the ice until he found the hole. It was the only thing he could do to save himself. His hands were numb, but as he floated upwards in this surreal state, they hit resistance. There it is! his mind cheered. He ran his fingers frantically across the slippery underbelly of the beast that might kill him. Solid, perfect, never ending ice. Grant’s head was tilted as far back as it could go so he could look up, the light above fading fast, the color of his world turning to a navy blue. He hoped his world wouldn’t turn to black.
Closing his eyes, his lungs pounding, he resigned himself to death. I didn’t think I’d die like this his mind lamented. But just as he believed he was as good as dead, his searching hand came up through the ice. The hole in the ice. He’d found it, by good god and baby Jesus! Rabidly he clutched at the edges of the hole, slipping easily, but he got his head above water, and tasted sweet air like he had never before with a deep and greedy gasp.
Spitting water and coughing up what had gotten into his lungs in jagged and sharp bursts, he tried as hard as he could to keep a hold on the slippery edge. It was getting dark, and he did not want to go under the surface once more. Crossing his arms and laying his head on them with a sick splat, he began to cry. His life was now in a different perspective. He regretted with all of his heart wasting his life wishing for a dad. He should have been grateful for his life, his wonderful mother, his loving sister, his education, and most of all, his life.
Freezing, he began to wonder how he might drag his heavy, soaked, and rapidly numbing body out of the water. Lifting his head slowly, he looked around the ever dimming world that was even dimmer down in a ravine lined by weeping willows which was this river. Eyes widening, his heart leapt into his throat. Nearby, taunting him, was a large protruding root, like the one he was wishing for during his backwards fall down. Trying not to be too cynical, he rolled his eyes, hoping God wouldn’t notice.
Carefully moving his arms out, and having a time of it, as his arms were numbing and shaking, he slowly got his hand close enough to grab the root. He gave it a small tug, and it seemed stable. That was good news. He wasn’t so sure about his hand. He could still close his fingers around the root, but how tightly he had yet to find out. The cold seeping into his very bones, he began to struggle with his own mind. It told him Oh, what’s the use in trying? Just give up and die with dignity.
“No,” he said to himself, his voice a ghostly whisper, wavering slightly to the rhythm of his shivering. He thrust his other arm out with every ounce of energy he could muster, and got a hold of the root. Contracting his biceps, he began to pull. At first, it did nothing, and he was afraid hypothermia had taken over his body. Yet, a moment later, as he squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, his body began to move. He could hear the quiet swishing of the water as he passed through it, and as he pulled his gentle grunts turned into ear piercing screams. Pull damn you, PULL! his brain urged and with that, he propped a knee up on the ice and pushed the rest of his body to the surface.
His wet clothes made a squishing noise as he let his muscles relax a bit. The temperature was dropping by the minute as night fell, and the crunching noise of his clothes beginning to freeze got his attention. If he could make it to the car, he’d be alright. He could turn on the car, crank the heat, and all would be well. The shore was nearby, and he cautiously, slowly crawled towards it. Once his hand hit the mishmash of rocks and sand, he made a twisting and awkward jump towards it, landing on his knees. Feet completely numb, he began to crawl. Grant’s brain was beginning to slow, the cold working its way into the gears and gumming it up. Nevertheless, he could think of one thing: Must get to car. Must get to car.
Like a nearly drowned muskrat, he dragged his limp body up the the riverbank. He grabbed at the snow and muddy leaves with a fervor only a dying man can muster. Eyes drooping, his heart beating shallowly in his chest, he came to the spot in the fence where he fell through. Once he was safely on the parking lot side of the fence, he gave it a dirty look and mumbled, “You bastard.”
He dug around in his pockets for his keys was like sifting through molasses. Grant’s finger had lost much of their dexterity, but he found the fob. Pressing the button that unlocked the doors, his car uttered a hollow thunk and a high pitched beep! to indicate the doors were now ready for entry. Isn’t technology wonderful? Still crawling, he reached up, his arm shaking, grabbed onto the handle and pulled towards himself. With what was left of his strength, he hoisted himself up into the driver’s seat, thrust the key into the ignition, and turned it. The engine roared to life, and if his numb face would have let him smile, he would have. Letting the door close on its own, he rolled over to his side and turned the knob all the way to the right. Full heat. His body tingling, a black veil covered his vision.
Copyright © by Erin M. Truesdale, 2013
Saturday, June 8, 2013
The Phoenix Emerges
What does sadness feel like? We all must have some idea of what sadness feels like... but it's rather subjective, isn't it? It might feel like an elephant sitting on your chest, forcing all the air out of your lungs and confining you to one position, unable to move. Or it might feel like you're sinking deeper and deeper in quicksand until you're completely submerged, slowly and quickly realizing your own death is inevitable. On the other hand, it might feel a tad bit like anger, tempting your hands to fly twisted up into fists, powered by the hot steam gathering under your collar. But then again, it could all be summed up by a position, a simple way you arrange your body, elbows sat hard upon a table and your hands covering your eyes from something you don't want to deal with, acting as a prop for your lead filled cranium so it doesn't fall to the surface and burst into shards of glass.
What does sadness look like? All sorts of things, but several are rather universal. Red, puffy eyes. Flushed cheeks. An anger, confusion, frustration, and vexation all boiling beneath the surface. Downcast eyes, the look of utter defeat. Sadness really is the emotion felt when you feel defeated, isn't it? Defeated in love, in life, in your passionate pursuits of art, or even defeated at being human. Being human, it sounds so simple, yet it can be so complicated.
What does sadness smell like? A little like embarrassment, a bit like dirt (because that is where you felt you were flung, into the dirt, on the curb, into the garbage dump like something worthless), and whole lot like shame. It smells like the pillow you buried your face in, or the kleenex you blew your nose into. It smells like skin against skin as your hand wipes the tears from your own eyes, and quite a bit like chocolate (if you're a girl, like I am).
But from the wreckage of sadness, a terrible, flaming, wretched phoenix can emerge. Wings aflame, face twisted in fury, wishing to spew its hot wrath upon a world that never appreciated it. This terrible thing can really light a fire upon the tinder, it can wipe away the tears and replace it with fervor, an intense urge to change something. What was it that tried to push you down and bury you under its holier than thou attitude? With its snide remarks, with its verbal abuse, with its condescending, unfeeling, stinging insults. This phoenix assists you in gathering up all those awful stones that have been hurled, package them up neatly, and design a plan to plop them in the lap of those that have wronged you. Why is this good? Empathy. That person, persons, organization, group of assholes, or thing that crushed you down with all their weight, will in turn feel that heavy burden in their own lap, crushing and bruising. They will then feel what you felt, and in turn, they may change their ways.
Either way, you have won. You took the defeated feeling and turned it into energy, you avenged yourself and your feelings because you are important. Don't let anyone tell you different. You're important, you're words are worth hearing, and even if what you add to society is small, you work on the side of good. Of positivity.
Keep striving towards your goals. Always become the phoenix, so your fire flanked wings can swing up and knock down anything looking to keep you under its heel. Burn away the fear, watch it fall down as ash to your feet. Rip down the self-doubt, rip it to smithereens and throw it to the wind. Most importantly of all, always remember that with each round of sadness dealt, you become that much stronger than the offending party. Don't be afraid of sadness. In the end, it makes you who you are, and adds that much more realism to your art.
-Erin M. Truesdale, June 7, 2013
What does sadness look like? All sorts of things, but several are rather universal. Red, puffy eyes. Flushed cheeks. An anger, confusion, frustration, and vexation all boiling beneath the surface. Downcast eyes, the look of utter defeat. Sadness really is the emotion felt when you feel defeated, isn't it? Defeated in love, in life, in your passionate pursuits of art, or even defeated at being human. Being human, it sounds so simple, yet it can be so complicated.
What does sadness smell like? A little like embarrassment, a bit like dirt (because that is where you felt you were flung, into the dirt, on the curb, into the garbage dump like something worthless), and whole lot like shame. It smells like the pillow you buried your face in, or the kleenex you blew your nose into. It smells like skin against skin as your hand wipes the tears from your own eyes, and quite a bit like chocolate (if you're a girl, like I am).
But from the wreckage of sadness, a terrible, flaming, wretched phoenix can emerge. Wings aflame, face twisted in fury, wishing to spew its hot wrath upon a world that never appreciated it. This terrible thing can really light a fire upon the tinder, it can wipe away the tears and replace it with fervor, an intense urge to change something. What was it that tried to push you down and bury you under its holier than thou attitude? With its snide remarks, with its verbal abuse, with its condescending, unfeeling, stinging insults. This phoenix assists you in gathering up all those awful stones that have been hurled, package them up neatly, and design a plan to plop them in the lap of those that have wronged you. Why is this good? Empathy. That person, persons, organization, group of assholes, or thing that crushed you down with all their weight, will in turn feel that heavy burden in their own lap, crushing and bruising. They will then feel what you felt, and in turn, they may change their ways.
Either way, you have won. You took the defeated feeling and turned it into energy, you avenged yourself and your feelings because you are important. Don't let anyone tell you different. You're important, you're words are worth hearing, and even if what you add to society is small, you work on the side of good. Of positivity.
Keep striving towards your goals. Always become the phoenix, so your fire flanked wings can swing up and knock down anything looking to keep you under its heel. Burn away the fear, watch it fall down as ash to your feet. Rip down the self-doubt, rip it to smithereens and throw it to the wind. Most importantly of all, always remember that with each round of sadness dealt, you become that much stronger than the offending party. Don't be afraid of sadness. In the end, it makes you who you are, and adds that much more realism to your art.
-Erin M. Truesdale, June 7, 2013
Sunday, June 2, 2013
Excerpt from my short story "Train Station"
After my two week trip through Scotland, England, and Ireland, the new Michaelmas term started at Lancaster University. The beginning of this term was a stark difference from the trip I had immediately returned from. During my trip, I back-packed, slept at bed and breakfasts, and took close to 500 photographs. My fiancé and I had a great time; I especially had a good time because my ancestors hale from York, a beautiful town on the east coast of England. When I first beheld the city walls, with the red rose of York from the War of the Roses, I had felt more at home than I had my entire life in America. I could almost feel my ancestors spirits gather around and embrace me in unison; tears ran down my face in joy. Beholding York Minster and Clifford’s Tower, I could literally feel the ancient and magnificent history of the place flow through me like a gale.
The relationship between my fiancé and I had never been better. We held hands along the pathways overlooking the bay in Tobermory, on the Isle of Mull in Scotland; exploring the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, eating haggis and drinking local beer; running around London in dress clothes we had picked up at a local thrift store so we could watch Nathan’s favorite choral group at Royal Albert Hall; traveling across the Irish countryside on a rickety train plucked directly out of the 1800s; and gazing across the Atlantic ocean towards America from Dingle, Ireland, talking about our future together.
Settling back into my life at a university where I knew no one was difficult to say the least. It was hard to leave Nathan... I rode the train to see him off at the Manchester airport the day before Michaelmas term started. The vibe between him and I was peculiar and I couldn’t put my finger on why.
We arrived early, so we sat at a café inside the airport and shared a French pain au chocolat. Sitting in silence, we just gazed into each others eyes. For whatever reason, I felt that as soon as he boarded his plane, things would never be the same between us. And I told him as much.
“Why do you say that?” Nathan inquired, his eyebrows shoved down, shadowing his eyes. He wiped his mouth quickly and set his jaw. “Is something wrong?”
“I just feel like... once you leave, a new chapter will start for both of us.” Tears began to pound at my lids then, demanding I set them free, but I barred the gate for now.
Cocking his head to the side, he rested his chin in his hand gently and leaned forward, shrinking our vicinity. “Cara, don’t think that way. We’re getting married.” He grabbed my hand then, and caressed the knuckles of my left hand, twitched up slightly as it ran over the new engagement ring he had purchased for me as a surprise in Ireland. The old one had a plain gemstone, but this new one was unique... silver engraved with celtic knots and tiny green emeralds. As his thumb rubbed over it again and again, his eyes again raised to meet mine. They were throbbing and dark with tears. “I know we are. You’re my soulmate. We had a great time on this trip, didn’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” Smiling quickly, I concentrated harder on holding back my tears. I had never seen Nathan cry in the ten years I had known him.
“Then don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We’ll talk everyday, I promise. The six months you’re at Lancaster will fly by, and you’ll be home before you know it to celebrate Christmas with my family, and to show off your new ring.” Fingers tightening around mine, I squeezed back, afraid. I loved him with all my heart; I will probably never love anyone as deeply or as thoroughly as I loved him. During the course of our trip, he had found out about Jack, though I dared not mention his name now. Nathan knew as well as I did that things would never be the same between us, even if I cupped Jack in the palm of my hand and blew him aloft into the wind like a dandelion floret, to dance off on the current of fate, to plant itself into an unknown plot of soil.
“Okay, babe. I’m just worrying over nothing, aren’t I?” Forcing a laugh, a swallowed the hard lump in my throat, but as soon as I did it jumped back and even higher up, threatening to gag me. My foot under the table, balancing on the toes, bounced and jumped about nervously.
Not expecting me to say that, Nathan laughed unexpectedly, genuinely and flashed me his handsome smile. Though nothing was resolved by this conversation, that laugh and that smile told me something even deeper than I could have perceived at that time. I just thought he was enjoying our last moments together. A revelation had hit him then, one I wouldn’t find out until my return from the UK.
An announcement was broadcast over the loudspeaker. Nathan’s flight was having its last call to board. Getting up, we strode as idly and silently as ghosts, as if our feet didn’t touch the ground and we levitated in the direction of his gate. Before either of us knew what was happening, we were in each other’s arms, and he was crying. Sobbing, his lungs spasming, his arms grasping around me harder than someone clinging to life itself, I tightened my embrace around his shoulders like a vice grip. Tears streaked and littered my face, splotched and reddened by the fervor of emotion that had swept us up.
Kissing me hard, his wet cheeks pressed against mine, his hot breath penetrating my every pore, he backed away and stared into the deepest part of my soul. “I love you more than life itself. Do not forget that, Cara. Things will be fine. I promise. Do well at Lancaster.”
He pulled away from me and grabbed his back pack and heaved it up onto his shoulders. I didn’t know what to say, so I flashed him the sign for ‘I love you’ with my fingers. Still crying, he held up the same sign in return.
Choking out, “I love you, Nathan!” he smiled at me and within that same second he disappeared down the jet bridge. My solo journey back to Lancaster on the train was the loneliest ride I’ve ever experienced.
Copyright © by Erin M. Truesdale, 2013
The relationship between my fiancé and I had never been better. We held hands along the pathways overlooking the bay in Tobermory, on the Isle of Mull in Scotland; exploring the Royal Mile in Edinburgh, eating haggis and drinking local beer; running around London in dress clothes we had picked up at a local thrift store so we could watch Nathan’s favorite choral group at Royal Albert Hall; traveling across the Irish countryside on a rickety train plucked directly out of the 1800s; and gazing across the Atlantic ocean towards America from Dingle, Ireland, talking about our future together.
Settling back into my life at a university where I knew no one was difficult to say the least. It was hard to leave Nathan... I rode the train to see him off at the Manchester airport the day before Michaelmas term started. The vibe between him and I was peculiar and I couldn’t put my finger on why.
We arrived early, so we sat at a café inside the airport and shared a French pain au chocolat. Sitting in silence, we just gazed into each others eyes. For whatever reason, I felt that as soon as he boarded his plane, things would never be the same between us. And I told him as much.
“Why do you say that?” Nathan inquired, his eyebrows shoved down, shadowing his eyes. He wiped his mouth quickly and set his jaw. “Is something wrong?”
“I just feel like... once you leave, a new chapter will start for both of us.” Tears began to pound at my lids then, demanding I set them free, but I barred the gate for now.
Cocking his head to the side, he rested his chin in his hand gently and leaned forward, shrinking our vicinity. “Cara, don’t think that way. We’re getting married.” He grabbed my hand then, and caressed the knuckles of my left hand, twitched up slightly as it ran over the new engagement ring he had purchased for me as a surprise in Ireland. The old one had a plain gemstone, but this new one was unique... silver engraved with celtic knots and tiny green emeralds. As his thumb rubbed over it again and again, his eyes again raised to meet mine. They were throbbing and dark with tears. “I know we are. You’re my soulmate. We had a great time on this trip, didn’t we?”
“Yes, of course.” Smiling quickly, I concentrated harder on holding back my tears. I had never seen Nathan cry in the ten years I had known him.
“Then don’t worry. We’ll be fine. We’ll talk everyday, I promise. The six months you’re at Lancaster will fly by, and you’ll be home before you know it to celebrate Christmas with my family, and to show off your new ring.” Fingers tightening around mine, I squeezed back, afraid. I loved him with all my heart; I will probably never love anyone as deeply or as thoroughly as I loved him. During the course of our trip, he had found out about Jack, though I dared not mention his name now. Nathan knew as well as I did that things would never be the same between us, even if I cupped Jack in the palm of my hand and blew him aloft into the wind like a dandelion floret, to dance off on the current of fate, to plant itself into an unknown plot of soil.
“Okay, babe. I’m just worrying over nothing, aren’t I?” Forcing a laugh, a swallowed the hard lump in my throat, but as soon as I did it jumped back and even higher up, threatening to gag me. My foot under the table, balancing on the toes, bounced and jumped about nervously.
Not expecting me to say that, Nathan laughed unexpectedly, genuinely and flashed me his handsome smile. Though nothing was resolved by this conversation, that laugh and that smile told me something even deeper than I could have perceived at that time. I just thought he was enjoying our last moments together. A revelation had hit him then, one I wouldn’t find out until my return from the UK.
An announcement was broadcast over the loudspeaker. Nathan’s flight was having its last call to board. Getting up, we strode as idly and silently as ghosts, as if our feet didn’t touch the ground and we levitated in the direction of his gate. Before either of us knew what was happening, we were in each other’s arms, and he was crying. Sobbing, his lungs spasming, his arms grasping around me harder than someone clinging to life itself, I tightened my embrace around his shoulders like a vice grip. Tears streaked and littered my face, splotched and reddened by the fervor of emotion that had swept us up.
Kissing me hard, his wet cheeks pressed against mine, his hot breath penetrating my every pore, he backed away and stared into the deepest part of my soul. “I love you more than life itself. Do not forget that, Cara. Things will be fine. I promise. Do well at Lancaster.”
He pulled away from me and grabbed his back pack and heaved it up onto his shoulders. I didn’t know what to say, so I flashed him the sign for ‘I love you’ with my fingers. Still crying, he held up the same sign in return.
Choking out, “I love you, Nathan!” he smiled at me and within that same second he disappeared down the jet bridge. My solo journey back to Lancaster on the train was the loneliest ride I’ve ever experienced.
Copyright © by Erin M. Truesdale, 2013
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