After the Break (short story)

We sat in his junky red car drinking slushies. It was still so hot outside even though it had turned to fall and all the leaves were blazing orange. We were parked outside my apartment, the apartment that would be ours after our wedding in four months and six days. He flipped off the radio and turned his body toward me.

"I think we should see other people," he said. "It's over."

I blinked. A couple times. My body went numb.

"You had to have known this was coming," he said. "I don't love you."

"But, we have a date. A church. My dress," I said. "I'm not letting you go."

"There's someone else. You can keep the ring. I don't care. Sell it or throw it away. Just don't wear it anymore."

I spilled the slushie on my leg. Melty purple syrup and water flowed on my jeans. He reached over to catch the cup or brush off the mess.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed. "Just don't ever touch me again!"

I swatted at him, smacking sounds from my hands on his face and arms.

"I gave you everything! And now...now you can just push me away?" My voice was low and quavering.

"Just get out of the car," he said. Cold, hard, iron. "Get out."

---

"Samantha, you have to get out of bed," my mom said over the phone. "Life goes on, honey."

"But I don't want it to."

"You have to let it." Her sigh was loud enough to hear through the receiver. "It's been two weeks. It's time to start over."

"That's it, huh? Just start over?"

"Yup. That's life, Sam."

---

Tearing up his pictures gave me a strange feeling of victory. Burning them was even better.

---

I wept like crazy. Regret set in over destroying the pictures. So much of my life reduced to a cup full of ashes in my grill.

---

He called me. Asked me if I could get lunch with him.

"To talk."

"No," I said.

"What? You hate me now?"

"Yeah."

"Don't your remember anything good from us? We had some good days."

"I can't think of a single thing that was good."

"Not even one?"

"No."

I hung up. That felt good.

---

He always hated tattoos. Said they looked "trashy".

I went with a few friends and got a strawberry on my ankle. It was the only one I could afford.

It was the stupidest thing ever. But it was a mark of my freedom.

---

Danced at my friend's wedding. He was there with a pretty girl on his arm.

I hid in the bathroom for the rest of the reception.

---

 "Hey, Sam," him on my voice mail. "I'm sorry I was such a jerk to you. I kind of miss you. Man, we had some great times. Call me."

My heart ached in different ways. I never thought that could happen. I still loved him. I was starting to hate him.

---

"Do you love her?" I asked. He slumped in the booth across from me. I finally agreed to meet him.

"I don't know." He wore a hat. He never wore those when we were together. He was also wearing cologne. Another new thing for him. "Maybe I do."

"I can't believe you."

"What?"

"One minute you miss me, the next you love her. Make up your mind."

"I don't miss you."

"But on the phone..."

"Don't go making little accusations."

"I'm not."

"It's none of your business."

"You're right."

We sat. It was so quiet. Our untouched meals went cold we sat there so long.

"I got a tattoo," I said.

"That's so stupid. You know how I feel about those."

"Well, it doesn't matter anymore does it?"

Walking out of that restaurant, I felt strong. I walked away from what weighed me down.

I no longer needed him. I no longer cared what he said or how he looked at me or who he was with.

I was free.

Not the end (short story)

Misty walked among the shelves of books. She was overwhelmed. So many different books. The store was huge.

"Can I help you?" asked the cute, skinny girl behind the customer service counter. Her lips smiled, but not her eyes.

"Um. Yes. I'm looking for a book," Misty said.

"Right."

"Well, I guess I don't know which one, exactly."

"Okay. Are you looking for fiction or non-fiction?"

"I guess non-fiction. Something about...well...weight loss."

"Sure." The girl typed something into a computer. "This way."

She led her through the rows, more quickly than Misty could move. She eventually caught up, trying to catch her breath without gasping.

"Here's the weight management books," the girl said. "Do you need anything else?"

"Yeah. A cookie."

The girl laughed, put her hand gently on Misty's shoulder. "You're too funny. Have a nice day."

Misty was alone, trying to figure out which celebrity had the best diet plan. No flour. No sugar. No carbs. No meat. No coffee.

Maybe I'll just have to stop eating all together, she thought.

Her cell phone rang.

"Hello, Heather."

"Hey, Mom. What are you doing?"

"Oh, nothing." She took a book off the shelf. On the cover were the bronzed abs of a young woman. "Hey, what do you think of joining a gym with me?"

"I don't know. It's kind of expensive."

"You're right."

"So, did you and Dad get things figured out?"

"What do you mean?" The book was full of pictures. Women laying on their backs, elbows pointing at knees in a crunch, faces radiant with smiles.

"You guys were fighting all night."

"Oh, honey, it was nothing. You know."

Heather was so quiet on the phone that Misty thought it cut out. "Heather? You still there?"

"Yes." She sniffled. "I'm here."

"Are you crying?"

"Maybe."

"Hon, we'll get it all worked out. I promise."

"I heard him talking about that woman."

"Oh."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know."

The women in the book were perfect. Perfect legs, abs, boobs, smiles. Misty was not. Legs striped by purple veins. Stomach slack and full from three pregnancies and years of secret eating. Boobs...well...they needed a whole lot more support than they used to. Her smile. What smile?

"Is he going to lose his job?"

"Yes. I think so."

"Good. I hope he does."

"Heather."

"What?"

"This is going to be harder on him than on me."

"Whatever, Mom."

"Listen, I have to go. I'll bring home some burgers and we'll talk some more."

"Okay."

"I love you, Heather."

"I know."

Misty hung up the phone.

She realized that she'd lost her husband. To another woman. A woman who was 20 years younger. Who was thinner and prettier and sweeter. That woman dressed and put on make up and did her hair so much better than Misty.

"You've really let yourself go," he'd said the night before. "I just can't be attracted to you anymore. Lord knows I've tried, Misty."

"Just tell me what I have to do," she said to him. "I'll do whatever you want."

"Become just like her."

The memory of his words stabbed her heart all over again.

"You know you can't be a pastor anymore if you leave me."

"Don't threaten me. You're always doing that."

"No, I'm not."

He raged at her. Screamed about her flaws, her mistakes in life, her occasional selfish moments. She hadn't cried. She just sat there, in shock.

Then he left.

"Have you found what you needed?" the customer service girl asked. "I could recommend one if you'd like."

"No. But thanks. I think I'm okay."

"Okay." The girl lingered. "Hey, I hope this isn't weird or anything. But, you have the prettiest eyes."

"Oh, thank you." Misty lowered her glance.

"I'm serious. You really do. They're kind eyes."

Misty smiled. Her heart warmed a small bit.

"You have no idea how I needed to hear that."

"Well, I hope you have a nice day."

I won't, Misty thought. But it's not the end of the world.

Letting Go (a short, short story)

It's this time of year I'm always surprised by the bundles of lilacs that seem to have bloomed overnight. The lavender aroma shocks me with beauty.

They were my sister's favorite flower.

"This is what heaven will smell like," she would say, sitting on the porch of our childhood home. "Close your eyes, Ginny. Just smell the air."

"How do you know?" I'd ask. "You been to heaven?"

"Oh, shut up, you sassafrassy."

"They are pretty, though, Betty. Let's cut some for mama."

We would fill old jelly jars with water and snip lilacs, setting them on the window panes all around the farmhouse. We knew that the bushes would only hold the blooms for a few weeks before they would wilt. Betty couldn't stand to see them wasted.

Years later, after marriages and kids and divorces, Betty moved into the old house with me. Mama and daddy were gone for a long time by then. My kids were all making families of their own. I was glad to have my sister with me.

"Ginny, I'm sick," she told me. "I can't live alone anymore. I need help."

I set up a room just for her, on the main floor and with plenty of sunlight through the windows. I papered the walls with a lilac print, had lavender carpeting put in. It looked just the way I thought she'd like it. I even transplanted a lilac bush right outside so she could look out at it whenever she desired.

She only lived in that room for three months. After she died I kept the room exactly as she'd left it. I didn't even have the heart to move her slippers from the foot of the bed.

Every once in awhile I still go and sit in her room. The bed remains unmade from when the mortician came for her body. I try to pull the sheets off the mattress, so I can wash them. But something prevents me. That rumbled bedding and crushed pillow are all I have left of her.

It's all I have of anyone.

In-home nurses lived with us, around the clock, for the last two months that Betty was here. They fed her, bathed her, looked after her. All I could do was stand and watch. And that last day, it took so long for her to pass.

"It would help her if  you told her it was okay," the nurse told me in the kitchen. "I think she's holding on for you."

"Oh, she wouldn't do that," I answered. "She isn't even sure of what's happening."

"Well, I don't know about that. They say that the hearing's the last thing to go."

"What do I say, then? Go on and die?" The force in my voice startled me. "I can't do that. No. I won't."

And I didn't. I just sat and watched her dying. It took hours, longer than I ever imagined. Then finally, it was over. My body was paralyzed in the chair by the window in her room.

Now I sit in the chair again. Sometimes I'll talk to her. I don't know if she can hear me. I really wish she could.

"Betty, I'm sorry. I should have let you go," I say it out loud. "It was selfish of me. I was just scared."

I look out the window. The lilacs have just started to bloom. I saw the buds a few days ago. The aroma, rich and familiar, follows me through the yard.

"Is it true, Betty?" I ask the empty room. "Does it really smell like that? Because if it does, then you're in a good place. And if that's the smell then I can only imagine how great everything else is."

I stand up, walk across the soft floor. Without meaning to, I kick a slipper with my foot. Something inside me tells me that it's okay.

"When you came here, I thought we'd have more time. I guess I just wasn't ready to be alone again. It wasn't right for me to lose you so early."

Bending over, I pick up both slippers. A stabbing feeling moves through my stomach. It passes and I've survived it.

"But if you're okay, then I need to be happy for you. And I believe that you're better now."

The wind is tossing the lilac blooms ever so slightly on the other side of the window pane. The window moves stubbornly as I push it up and open. I breathe in the fresh air.

"Good-bye, Betty. I'll always miss you. But I'll see you again real soon."

The case slips off the pillow with a smooth movement. It falls in a heap on the floor.

Robert Frost's Bloom (short story about unity)

My Granddad planted a tree when my mom was born. He transplanted the sapling from his childhood home across the state. It was just a normal, average oak tree. But he loved that tree. 

"One of these days I'm going to die," Granddad would say. "And I want you to make my coffin out of Robert Frost."

The tree was named Robert Frost. 

Well, Granddad died five years ago. And that old tree is still rooted in the front yard. Apparently people don't just have their own coffins made anymore. We buried him in a silver casket. Far from his wishes. But what could we do?

After the funeral the family started fighting. Right there at the lunch. Soil hadn't even filled in the hole of his grave yet. They fought for five years without stopping. It was all over money and things. Stupid if you ask me. Every holiday it would start all over again. One uncle was suing an aunt over the family china. A cousin no longer spoke to his mother because of $1,000. Harsh words spoken from mouths full of mashed potatoes. Angry gestures from hands holding a forkful of beans. 

When I got weighed down by all of the fighting I would go outside, sit under Robert Frost's branches. In the summer they were heavy with leaves and acorns. In the fall they held orange and red flags that waved in the wind. In the winter the bare limbs twisted and curled their way up toward the sky. 

The family gathered for dinner on Easter. It was the fifth Easter after his death.

"I'm not trying to fight you on this, Edwin," Aunt Leigh steamed. "But you must understand. Daddy wanted us to sell the estate."

"Leigh, you're sounding awfully money grubbing." Uncle Edwin.

"But if you read the will, it clearly states what we're to do with the house."

"Exactly. He wanted us to make money off it. Do you know how much we could make by turning it into a Bed and Breakfast?"

"Now who sounds money grubbing?"

"Well," my mother. "I think it would be nice to let Elle live on the property. You know, keep it up and all that."

"Mom," I said. "I don't know that I'd like that."

"Besides," Edwin. "It wouldn't be fair. Elle getting it and us...well...I'd feel a little cheated."

"Oh, no." My mother sipped her coffee. "We'd expect Elle to pay rent."

"Well," Leigh. "I just think that you're all reading the will wrong."

"Is it an interpretation issue?" I asked. "Why is it such a problem?"

"Oh, honey. You really don't understand. You're too young."

"But, mom, I'm 35."

"Uh huh. Just leave this to us to figure out."

"You don't seem to be doing that so well now, are you?" I walked out. I wanted to sit under Robert Frost.

It felt like nothing would ever make my family get things together. They would fight over the house until that was settled. Then they would find something else to argue over. And none of it really mattered at all.

How could I tell them that I carried the next generation in my womb? It might cause more problems. They didn't approve of my husband and his family. The lima bean sized offspring didn't need to enter this family. She or he didn't deserve to watch aunts and uncles and grandparents clawing each other apart with hateful words and spite.

I walked outside. The air was sharp, just cold enough for a sweater. But the sun was shining. I tipped my face up to catch the warm glow.

The sun was behind Robert Frost's branches. I had to squint as I walked toward my sitting spot. I lowered myself, letting my back rub against the course bark. I rested my body against the solid trunk. The smell of the tree and the earth triggered my mind to memories of childhood. Climbing into the limbs, reading books under the shade of leaves, running rings around the base, leaping over roots. I closed my eyes and absorbed the silence and calm.

After a few moments my heart stopped thudding, my anxious jitters subsided. I realized that I no longer cared what happened with the money or the house or the china. All that was worthless. I just wanted to sit with my family and share memories of my Granddad. To tell stories and recite his wise words. To let the next generation in on how great a man he was. All the rest was just a vapor. It was nothing.

I looked up and saw the gold dots of bloom on the tips of Robert Frost's fingers. The hope of spring nestled in my heart.

Something new was coming.

Winnebago Man (a repost...because I really like this story)

The man in the Winnebago is staring wildly.  A Cadillac is wedge precariously under the nose of his monstrous vehicle.  Smoke is pouring out of both hoods, fluid leaking from underneath.  The woman in the Caddy is sobbing, her nose streaming blood onto her cashmere sweater.  A siren howls closer and closer. 

I walk by this mess, no time to stop.  I was due at work two hours ago, more or less.  I suppose if I stop I'd at least have an excuse for my boss.  If I just got a little blood on my jacket that would be enough to convince him. But it's leather and I really don't care if I get fired.

Two more blocks and I'll be there, at the office.  I'm almost taken aback by the enormity of steel and brick towering over me.  The street is lined by these ancient buildings.  Here no trees offer shade, no glass a soft path, only hard, cold materials.  I hate this city.

I slap the button to make the handicapped accessible door slowly easy its way open. 

"Hey, Chief."  The security guard says, "You got your badge?"

"It's at home."  I tell him.

"What's your name?"

"Uh, not Chief."

"What's your name?"  With more force.

I tell him my name.  He checks his list.

We do this everyday.  It's some sick kind of ritual.  I have my badge in my pocket.  I just like messing with the guy.  Might as well work for his paycheck.

"Go on through the metal detector." 

"Really?"  I whine.  "We gotta do this today.  I'm a little late."

He cusses me out.  I walk through the gateway of detection.  It beeps frantically.  This too is a ritual.  I remove my keys, my lighter, my badge and place them in a basket.  I walk through again.  No beep.

The guard hands me my belongs and notices my pass.  He lets out a grunt and tells me to do something that my mother warned me would make me blind.  I laugh.

He goes back to reading his dirty magazine.

"Elevator's busted, Chief."  He turns the page.

My feet slowly climb the stairs. 

"No reason to rush."  I think aloud.

The woman five steps ahead of me turns to me, "Excuse me?"

"You're excused."  I answer.

She takes the steps a little faster. 

I walk through my office, past the receptionist and into my cubical.  My square of doom.  A note is taped to my computer screen.

"Could we please met when you get in?"  Black Sharpie letters on pale yellow Post It. 

I remove it and toss it in the trash.  My computer is already on and Facebook is up.  I "poke" a few friends.  Check up on what happened in the last 15 minutes. 

Leeza is eating cookies.

Brian is glad that the sun is shining.

Ramona is angry.  (as always)

The phone on my desk buzzes. 

"Jello?"  I say into the receiver.

"Hi!"  My boss.

"I'm sorry.  Who is this?"

"Um, Thomas.  Your boss."  His voice lowers to a whimper.  "Could you please come to my office?"

"Yeah.  Just let me update my status.  Cool?"

"Sure."

Everything about my boss' office is small.  Small door, small windows, small boss.  He hates it.  Complains about it everyday.  I sit in one of the under-sized chairs in front of his tiny, doll house desk.

"Hey."  He's trying to be reassuring.  "What's going on?"

"Well...Leeza's eating cookies."

"Right."  He didn't listen to my answer.  "So, I'm getting this strange idea that you aren't loving your job."

"Should I love my job?"

"Yes.  I think you should."

"Oh.  Well, this is awkward."

"I know." 

Sarcasm meant nothing to this wee man. 

"Listen,"  He climbed up on his desk, not without a great deal of umph. His eyes look directly into mine.  He was concerned.   "You might be surprised to know that you're several hours late."

"Nope.  That doesn't surprise me at all."  My voice was as bland as a rice cake. 

"So, why is it that you're so late?"

"Oh.  That.  Well I guess I just got busy with stuff at home."

"Are things at home bad?"  He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows in worry.  "Are you going through relationship troubles?"

"I guess you could call it that."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Sure."  I answered, inserting enthusiasm. 

"Go ahead."

"I think I changed my mind."  I scratched my head.  "I think you should just fire me."

"No.  Please."  He begged, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

"You see kids like me coming in here all the time.  You had to have known this would never work out."

"I know."  He weeps.  "I just had such big dreams."

"You know I'm not going to amount to anything in the business world with my lack of respect for authority."

"It's true." 

"I'll just pack up my things and leave.  I'll turn in my badge to the security guard.  Perhaps you should have someone escort me out of the building."

The receptionist met me outside the boss' office with a box.  She's about as old as my grandma and about as mean as a shark.

"You really messed up, you know."  She barks at me and walks away.

If she had been my boss I would have worked harder, been on time.

I place the box on the desk.  I have nothing personal here; no pictures of friends or pets to take home.  I place my badge on the rolling chair and walk myself down the stairs.

The guard has his nose in that magazine still. 

"You get canned?"  He asks without looking up.

"No.  The company's paying an all expense trip to New Zealand to romp with the Hobits."

"Punk."  He puts the magazine face down on his desk.  "I gotta get your badge."

"It's at home.  I'll mail it to you."

He calls me a few unsavory names.

"I'm going to miss your ever sweet disposition."  I say, walking backwards, slapping the handicapped button again.

The air outside is fresh.  The sun is, indeed, making me glad.  My walk feels like a glide across the pavement.

The Winnebago is jacked onto a tow truck.  The Cadillac is already gone.  The man is getting into a taxi, the wild look still in his eyes.

Pawn Shop (short, short story)

    

 I already drove around this block about 10 times. Past the abandoned gas station, the grungy park, the weeping willow. I know what that old tree feels, hanging low like that and looking just sad. Sucking up all the water it can, storing it up for the dry times.

            I wish I’d been so wise. Cause I’m stuck in the middle of nothing and it sure is a dry season for me. And I don’t have no clue how to fix it at all.

            I got my resolve. Somehow on this tenth lap around the block I knew I need to do it. Just park the car, get out and do what I have to. The velvety box makes a huge lump in my jeans pocket.

            The heavy door makes a creaking sound as I swing it open.  My feet cause the floor to creak a little. It’s dusty in here. Always been that way. Probably always will. People’s junk line the walls. I know who must this stuff goes with. The box of records is Stubby John’s. The old rocking chair with no seat is from the old Kagger house. That set of aluminum pots belong to my gramma.

            All this jumble is only here on account of everything shutting down; the mill, the factory, the old family stores. Ain’t a soul here getting a paycheck. Most too proud to get help from Uncle Sam. So they sell what they got. They can’t do nothing else. So they bring it here. And they get cash to pay for their pills or buy a bag of groceries. Maybe they gotta pay a bill or two. But in two weeks they have to come right on back and sell something else.

            “Hey there, Libby Lou!” hollers Jack. He sits watching Mrs. Baxter’s old T.V. behind the cash register. “You come to buy something?”

            “Naw,” I answer. “I gotta sell something.”

            “Oh. You need some money for that big wedding of yours?”

            “Not really.”

            I go over and touch the leather saddle resting on a sawhorse. It’s filthy, never got cleaned since Jack get it. But some rich guy’ll come and think it’s a deal. He’ll jew it down to a better price on account of it being so dirty. And Jack’ll be glad to make a few bucks off it.

            “What you come here for?” Jack turns the volume down. “What you got for me to buy?”

            “Oh, I don’t know.”

            “Come on, Libby. You can trust old Jack.”

            I reach into my pocket and pull out the box. It thuds on the counter after I toss it over to him.

            “I gotta sell that.”

            “Naw, Libby.” He reaches over and turns off the T.V. “You gonna need this for the wedding. Ain’t no bride get married without a ring. It ain’t right.”

            “Well, who says I’m getting married?”

            “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Jack puts his hand on the box. “Ain’t Greg treating you right?”

            “He’s gone.”

            “Gone? What you mean, girl?”

            “Gone. He ain’t here no more. What else could I mean by that.”

            Jack is quiet. I can tell he wants to look at that ring, see how big the diamond is. He wants to inspect the gold.

            “I don’t want to talk about it. Just tell me how much you’ll give me for that.”

            “Alright.”

            Jack opens the box and has to squint to see anything. It’s just a cheap piece of junk from the super market. But it’s real gold. And that chip of white is a real diamond. He moves it around, seeing how it shines in the light.

            “How much you think you can give me?”

            “Why you need to sell this? Don’t you wanna keep it around just in case?”

            “In case what?”

            “He comes back?”

            “He ain’t coming back.” I’m getting mad. I just want to know how much cash I can get. “How much, Jack?”

            “I hate to tell you, but it ain’t worth much. What you need money for, Libby? You got troubles?”

            “Don’t everybody? Now, how much you gonna give me?”

            “Gawl, Libby. You know, it ain’t that much. Probably 30, 40 bucks.”

            “What?” I feel my heart go quicker. “That’s bull and you know it.”

            “Come on. You know I can’t get much for it. I can’t even be sure I’ll sell it. I’m doing you a favor.”

            “But I paid $150 for it.”

            “You got ripped off.”

            “Bull...”

            “Listen, honey.” Jack interrupts.

            “Don’t you dare call me ‘honey’.”

            We stare each other down. I feel something like daggers coming outta my eyes. He looks like he’s gonna back down. But I can’t be sure. He looks back at the ring.

            “Okay.” His voice is gentle. Almost like what a daddy should sound like. I wish I had my daddy back.

            “Okay what?”

            “Listen. I know you got your heart broke.”

            “You don’t know nothing of the kind.”

            “Right. I don’t. But I can guess you did. I never seen a girl come in to sell a ring unless she got her heart broke. And every one of ‘em is as mean as you.”

            He puts the ring on the counter. It’s not pretty. It’s not the ring I wanted. But it’s the ring Greg gave me. The ring I had to give him the money to buy.

            “Here,” Greg had said. “You win. I’ll marry you.”

            Almighty. How’d I fall for that stupid man? Why’d I think he’d be a good man for me? I must be the dumbest creature on this earth.

            “Fine,” I say to Jack. “I’ll let you have it for $60.”

            “I can’t do that much.”

            “50?”

            “Nope. Not a penny over $44.”

            “You rat fink.” I feel a fever in my cheeks. “You think you can buy my life for 44 bucks? You can’t! You can’t have it!”

            “Now, calm down, dear.”

            “Shut up. You just shut up right now.” I slam my hands on the counter. “You give me that ring back right now.”

            “Lib...”

            “And I want the box, too.”

            He gently puts the ring in the box. “Listen, I didn’t mean nothing by it. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

            “That’s fine, Jack. But you ain’t gonna make a fool outta me.” I take the box and shove it back into my pocket. “I ain’t mad at you. I’m just having myself a bad time right now.”

            “I can see.”

            “I hope you and the family have a nice evening.”

            Passing the trash I leave Jack’s pawn shop. I get back into my car and kick up dust driving away. I go as fast as I can. Away from the town, the people, my family. I get away from the house I shared with Greg. I can’t look at none of them again. Not one face or building or street sign.

            I gotta start over. Gotta straighten up my back, keep from drooping low. Find a place where I can suck up something from this life. I ain’t got a clue where, I ain’t know how. But I need to start brand new.