A Lonely Number

I thought a picture was worth a thousand words. They're meant to remind you of memories and don't let you forget that you are surrounded by people who love and support you.

I walked into the sitting room of my dreadfully boring apartment on Sun Street, a pitiful name for a road. I dragged myself toward the lumpy couch standing in the middle of the room. Fresh grooves in the wood flooring mocked me as I traced with my eyes their path to the feet of the couch.

A picture was tilted against a dirty coffee cup. Taking its cold frame into my hands, I stared at the people in the picture. A big family lined up in an immaculate garden. They were glowing with happiness and the sun illuminated their skin. A familiar girl stood far to the left. She looked the same as the others at first glance, but a closer look revealed a shadow in her eyes.

It was me.

Me and my family in Aunt Beth's yard at a family get together.

Mom always told me that a picture was worth a thousand words. She gave me the picture so that I would always remember that I am surrounded by people who love and support me.

I glared at the picture again and finally dropped it on the table with a loud bang, sending the coffee cup onto the rug.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this one must be broken.

Indeed, looking at the picture didn't bring back the laughter and stories shared with the family.

It didn't remind me of my supporters and loved ones. The picture just stared back at me in silence. It reminded me that I was completely and utterly alone.

Well, there was still someone or, more accurately, something: my cat, Harper, a terrible nuisance who passed the time staring unsatisfied at me.

As if in cue, she sauntered into the room and took a seat across from me on the wing chair. She paused to look at me, her eyes questioning my presence, before resuming to cleaning her delicate paws.

A sudden suffocating feeling filled my chest and I raised myself from the couch to go on a walk.

I was taken aback by the icy wind outside, frost creeping through my thin jacket.

I strolled down the road and made my way to the bakery on the corner.

Caitlin, a bubbly intern, greeted me at the counter. She cheerfully wrapped up a croissant and handed me a steaming coffee.

I proceeded to a bench in the nearby park and settled into the fall scenery. I watched the people go by. Businessmen barking into their phones, parents struggling to tame their children, friends catching the latest gossip.

My thoughts drifted back to my life at home.

I had always longed to move away, far far away. I had counted the days I had left until I could leave everything behind and start over. I had promised myself that it would be different this time around; I would have fun and finally have friends. I would laugh a lot and finally be happy.

But here I was, sitting alone in the park until I made my way back to my empty apartment.

You see, after leaving home, I realized nothing was going to change.

I was the same girl just in another town.

After many failed attempts at turning over a new leaf, I accepted my fate. I realized that I wanted to be alone. I wasn't fooling myself anymore. The life I wanted for myself was someone Else's life for some other girl.

I quietly ate my croissant and washed down the last crumbs with a final gulp of coffee. I stood up, shaking life back into my frozen feet, and walked back to Sun Street.

The heavy door of my apartment slid open with a long squeal and the dim lights flickered on. Harper shortly acknowledged my arrival with a stare and sauntered to her empty food bowl, scratching at the rim with anticipation.

I fed her and warmed a large helping of oatmeal for myself before stretching myself across the couch under a blanket, ready to dive into a good book.

Yes, I was alone.

My loved ones and supporters had drifted away long ago.

In fact, I sometimes wondered whether they were ever there.

But I chose to be alone.

I chose to be completely and utterly and beautifully alone.

Trance

Total, utter darkness.

Blinded by the black.

Just a voice repeating itself over and over and over again.

Run

I frantically searched for a light, thrashing my arms in hopes of finding something; anything.

Run and don’t look back.

The voice continued its chant.  It was distant, but each word drilled relentlessly into my ears.

Next time it will be better.  Just like you’ve always wanted it to be.

I promise.

I know.

My lips began to quiver.  I felt my cheeks; they were wet.  Just a rough blanket was draped over my limbs.

The voice began to distance itself, faintly reciting the same verses until just a gentle hum filled the air, each syllable a soft beat pulsing through the room.

I tucked my legs together and hugged myself, letting the darkness sooth my shaking body. 

For a while, I just thought.

Thought about unanswered questions, thought about worries.  Thought about what the voice had been saying. 

The subtle sounds began to gain power again until finally, I heard the voice again.  This time, I heard questions.

Why are you running?

The voice was gentle, friendly now.  A hazy glow spread throughout the room like a grin wrapping itself around me.

Don’t run.  Stop and take a deep breath.  Rest your tired legs and wake up refreshed and anew. 

The words appeared one by one in front of my eyes.  It felt as if they were being sewn into my mind and stitched onto my arm as an everlasting reminder.

The voice began to fall away, the sparse questions drifted through my ears and parted into the surrounding black.

*snap*

Blinding light began to flood the room, hurling itself at me. 

I helplessly masked my eyes; it felt like I had hit my head.

Suddenly, everything froze.

I lifted my quivering hands from my face, blinking confused at the change of scenery.

Now, I was lying on a blue leather board, the walls a cool shade of green.  In an attempt to sit up, my eyes met those of a middle-aged woman, wearing a crisp white coat. 

She smiled down at me and gently pushed me back, feeling my head and observing my hands.

Finally, she examined my eyes and smiled again, seemingly satisfied.

“Welcome back, Miss Morrison.  How do you feel?”

Secret Admirer

  I will comfort you when you fall,

rest your head on my broad shoulders,

I will listen when you're all

alone,

your silent follower.

I will rock you to sleep,

slowly shake your worries,

soak the shed tears,

in my warmth your face you'll bury.

I will carry your scars,

with each scratch, blemish a story.

I will be the lap you sit on,

the legs when yours are weary.

My wish is never to part,

I ask only for love and care,

an occasional stroke, a hug,

for I, am just a rocking chair.

Between a Block and a Hardback

She sat down at the table. Picked up the pen. Nothing.

She tried everything, but she couldn't find the right words to say.

No, this isn't the beginning of a short story where a girl tries to contact her long lost mother. It's what every writer sooner or later suffers from.

Writer's Block.

I was dead set on writing a poem today, but unfortunately, a drowsy Saturday doesn't result in an inspiring story line. Still set on getting my daily post in, I depended on my favorite cure for writer's block. It's what I like to call “The Three Word Wonder.”

Here's how it works:

• pick a word, the first word that comes to mind
• next, pick a second and third word that you connect with the first
  (in this case, I chose words that rhymed. You might prefer synonyms, antonyms, word groups, etc. Whatever works best for you.)

Sounds easy right?

• now, start writing. Be sure to incorporate your three words into your short story or poem.

I chose the words DREAM * GLEAM * and STREAM

Here's what I came up with:

She's a dreamer,

like no other,

a believer,

with the power,

to wrap a narrow-minded male,

in the magic her mind streams.

She's a beauty,

hard to find,

the woman

all men seek for,

no ordinary lady,

reveals the mystery her eye gleams.

But there's a secret to this skirt,

a riddle just I know,

I carry in my pocket,

an almighty note.

The key to the lock of an impossible heart,

the conclusion of a merciless hunt,

a clue placed to rest in my pocket,

that I, near my heart, forever tote.

 

Works like a charm!

HOLLOW HEARTS

 

“ Well, I don't know. I just feel like something's missing.”

“ Maybe you should see him. You know what, Jackie? Maybe you shouldn't. Honestly, I don't know what you want from me or from yourself for that matter.”

“ Everyday, every moment of every day, I rattle off the same questions and wish I had the answer that would solve it all. All I'm asking is that you help me out a little. Is that too much to ask?”

John threw his hands over his head and silently stormed out of the dining room. Moments later, the screen door slammed.

Jackie pounded her head into a faded pillow.

“ I'm going to see him.” her muffled voice reported through layers of cotton.

With shaky hands, she opened the carefully composed letters. Soon, she found what she was looking for. At the bottom of a recent note was an address. The curvy script was difficult to decipher, but Jackie had studied the letters long enough to decode it.

Without further adieu, Jackie slid onto the warm leather seat of her Jeep and began driving.

“In 800 yards, turn left.” the GPS notified.

Jackie stole a quick glance at the houses lining the streets; each sunk sadly into the abandoned lawns. She followed the GPS signals, turning left twice and finally, right, onto a crumbling side street. An equally broken down house stood alone at the end of the street, daring Jackie to come closer. The paint had faded and flaked long ago. It seemed as though the weathered siding had been peeled off by hand, revealing the deteriorating framework. A closer look at a forgotten pile of wood nearby revealed the mere shell of what at one time, might have been a tool shed.

If her hands had been shaking before, she hadn't noticed. But now, her limbs were chattering, her heart punching the steering wheel she had attached her palms to.

She dismounted from her seat and parted from the safety of the car. Approaching what was left of the front door, Jackie frantically combed her fingers through her hair, searching for the right words that would soon be needed.

The steps shook under her weight. She stretched her arm forward. And knocked.

Silence.

Knocked again.

Nothing.

She turned on her heel, ready to retreat, as a gruff man presented himself in the doorway. He squinted into the sun as if he hadn't separated himself from the dim light indoors for weeks. His face was as worn as the house.

For a long while nothing was said.

At last, the silence was broken by a hesitant whisper.

“I'm Jacqueline.”

Best Strangers

“Smile, Honey” mom cheered, demonstrating a toothy grin. I halfheartedly parted my lips, revealing a row of pearly whites.

* click *

Ignorant as always, she snapped photo after staged photo in an attempt to prove that we were the happy family she wished we were.

* click * * click *

“That should be good.” she stated, dismissing us with a wave of her manicured fingers. We sighed, relieved, and headed for the nearest exit.

“Can't we just send out the Christmas pictures from last year?” Chris suggested, “You know, the ones where Julie is beating up Jake.” He looked at me, smiling, this time genuinely.

I swung my arm high, squishing my face together but finally forces my balled up hand to my side.

I don't need this. I dashed for the stairs. Soon enough, I'll be gone. I reassured myself.

California. That was the dream.

Sun, Sand, a place of my own.

Now, sitting in my bland dorm room, crunching equations and pounding the keyboard in hopes of catching the countless deadlines, I wished I would've stopped to enjoy “the good ol' days”. Stopped to smile with the family. Stopped to really meet them. Really get to know them.

I glanced at the housewarming gift mom sent me. A carefully framed family picture, pushed passed textbooks and lone sheets of paper, waiting to be discarded.

Who are those people? I interrogated myself. The woman with glowing eyes, the man towering beside her, his face divided by deep grooves. The two boys, tugging on each others shirts, their impatient stares masked by floppy chestnut hair.

The were strangers.

Strangers who called to ask how I was doing. Strangers who called to see when I would be visiting.

I placed the picture face-down, avoiding their stares. And discovered a message. Carved in the frame was a message from mom.

A quote.

“These strangers stand on the side and cheer you.” - Linda Miller

I look forward to meeting you some day.

Love,

Mom

P.S. I understand

Innocent Lies

 He stormed towards the door, raced for the pavement. She tore open the window, launching his shirts onto the lawn.

He paused, glanced back. Timeless memories drifted past his face.

Memories and dreams.

The front porch, the rocking chairs. He wanted to grow old in those rocking chairs.

The garden. It looked just like his grandmother's garden, just the way he had always wanted it.

His eyes began to sting. His cheeks were wet.

It never should have gone this far.

Twenty years of his life lost in seconds. Forgotten.

He was a husband, a father, a friend. And what did he have to show for it?

He reached into the pockets of his worn jeans, pulled out his remaining belongings. It was the proof that he did exist all those years. And it fit in a single hand.

A faded picture. Torn business cards. Some change, accompanied by a single crumpled dollar bill.

So this is it.

He continued down the road, slower now, calmer now.

Turned the corner. Left, then right. Followed the road, he knew when he was there.

He sighed, smiled.

Through the window, past the delicate curtains, he saw a woman and child, laughing, cooking.

His second family. The family he hid for years. The years he lied to his wife, claimed he was working; claimed he was on the edge of a breakthrough.

He walked through the door, announcing his arrival.

“Where were you all this time?”asked the women. He kissed her cheek.

“We've been waiting!” giggled the child, attaching itself to his leg.

“Work”, he answered, “I'm on the edge of a breakthrough.

She's Different

I'm falling.

Slipping, stumbling, tripping, tumbling,

I am falling.

the shine, the glare, the sparkle and flare,

I'm falling.

the longing to reach, to touch, to feel,

dip, dive, slip, kneel,

I am falling.

the radiance and poise, the charm, the grace,

I'm falling.

collapsed, crumbled, I rose, I raced,

stepped, climbed, soared, chased,

fought to hold on the moment I knew

I had fallen, fallen for you.

Seven Stones

“Nothing is more sacred than the bond between a horse and a rider. No other creature can ever become so emotionally close to a human as a horse. When a horse dies, the memory lives on, because an enormous part of it's owner's heart, soul, and the very existence dies also.”

-Stephanie M. Thorn

       A manicured iron gate. Tucked behind a lush hedge. In a neat row, seven slick gray stones. A rose placed in front of each stone. Great-grandfather William, Great-grandmother Elizabeth, Grandpa John and Mike, Uncle Nathan, Great-aunt Jane. Just one distanced itself from the others. Beneath the seventh rose gleamed a silver horseshoe.

      It had been a year since Grandma Susan passed away. She was 92. No one had such an impact of my life like she did. She boiled over with wisdom and grace which I, unfortunately, discovered just months before her death. But I never regret the years I avoided her and gathered false impressions ; she taught me not to.

      Before she died, four months before to be exact, she gifted me her horse, Athena. She told me that every hardship she had ever faced had been eased by her horse. Athena was the goddess of wisdom, courage, and strength, you know. In my eyes, her horse was a nuisance and a waste of time. False hope for a girl who had given up years ago.

      You see, my mother was injured in a horseback riding incident when I was five. The horse slipped on a tight turn and clenched her underneath his shoulder, injuring her spinal cord and writing her off to life in a wheelchair. My dad left home shortly after, never to return. Grandma Susan continued to ride Athena and encouraged me to join her, but mother did everything in her power to keep me away from the “horrid beasts” who ruined her life. She told me Grandma Susan needed to grow up. She was irresponsible; testing how long it would take until she too was in a wheelchair, filled with regret. Mother drilled those words into my head until I thought of Grandma Susan just like she did.

      I avoided Athena for a month after Grandma Susan reported she was mine. But on a stunning fall day, a strange feeling overcame me. Something I had never felt before.

      I wanted to ride Athena.

      I swallowed the feeling and hid myself in my room but I couldn't ignore the growing urge to enter the stable. I didn't just want to ride Athena. I wanted to travel through the forest, splash through the nearby stream, tower over the others while my hair blew in the wind. I wanted to gallop down a dusty lane, catch bugs in my teeth from smiling so wide, scream so loud that the birds shook themselves from the trees.

      So I did.

      And I did something else that day that I swore my mother I would never do. I visited Grandma Susan.

      The moment she opened the massive wood door and saw my glowing face, she knew. I sat down on an overstuffed ottoman positioned near the open fireplace and rubbed my hands together. She accompanied me and offered me sugar cookies. They were still warm. We sat in silence for a while, studying the flames until Grandma Susan broke the silence.

      “How is Athena?” she asked.

I slowly turned toward her and diverted my glance back to the fire. 

 “I don't know what your talking about” I whispered.

“Well there has to be a reason why you're sitting in my living room, dear.”

“I just thought I would visit you”, I reasoned, “and, and tell you that I'm giving Athena back to you. I don't want her.”

      “You remind me of a young girl I once knew, Anne” she began, ignoring my confession. “She was quiet, a people pleaser. And she had one dream: to ride a beautiful horse into the sunset and forget about her problems for one evening. Her mother forbid her dream, though. But that little girl wasn't willing to let anything stop her. So, one night, she snuck out of her room, climbed the fence to the neighbors stable, and took their prettiest horse on a trail ride. Now, it wasn't exactly what she had dreamed of, but it was the start of an ongoing passion that couldn't be ceased. Not even as she grew older.” She paused. “Not even when her daughter was paralyzed in a riding accident. You see, Anne, sometimes you can't make everyone else happy. Sometimes it doesn't all work out. And those times when you feel like everything is falling apart around you, are the times when you need to forget about everyone else and do what makes you happy. Athena makes you happy, Anne. You know that just as well as I do. She's special that way.”

      “Was the horse that you rode that night, grandma- Was that Athena?” I questioned, thrilled by her story.

She smiled.

       “It was Athena's mother, Lady May. She was just as magical as Athena and when I caught word of her pregnancy, I was the first one in line for her foal.”

      “So what should I do?” I asked, worry overcoming my voice. “I can't hide from mother forever.”

      “Keep Athena. Keep her and love her. Cry in her mane when you're sad, laugh with her when you're happy. Tell her your secrets and she will guide you in the right direction.”

The next day, and for many weeks and months to come, I visited Grandma Susan and Athena everyday. She told me stories of her childhood and fantastic adventures that I later told Athena. Mother came to accept my growing love for horses, the gleam finding its way back into her eyes.

      The day Grandma Susan died of a heart attack was the day I had planned to attend my first horse show. I rushed to the hospital in full show attire but the doctors notified me that I was too late as I arrived.

      Grandma Susan took her place next to the other lost relatives. Only three sorrow filled women attended the ceremony. Me, Mother, and Athena. We each left a story by her grave. Mother, a baby sock, Me, a sugar cookie, and Athena, a horse shoe. The sock disappeared, the cookie was devoured, but one memory, the memory that will always live, remained:

Athena's horseshoe.