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.

Oh how I love chocolate!

(This is a contribution to The Diaper Diaries for her "Things I Love Thursdays")

Friends, I have an addiction. There are days when it's all I can think about. My skin crawls without it. I start drooling all over my very unfashionable clothes at the mere mention of it. I love...

...chocolate (just in case you had no idea what that picture was...and, in that case, I worry about you). 

Mmm. Just the way it melts on the tongue. How it relaxes me and then hypes me up with all the sugar and caffeine. It has the power to tap into all my dietary weaknesses (especially when there's a salty flavor involved). 

But here's the problem.

This is who picks the cocoa beans that go into most chocolate that goes into the mouths of Americans. But he looks so happy, right? 

I'm sure he's not. This child is a slave. He won't go to school. Won't get paid for his long hours in the fields. Will never even taste the candy that his labor makes possible.

When I heard about this child and the other thousands like him...well...let's say I thought my chocolate eating days were over.

BUT! 

Then there's this...

Green & Blacks is a Fair Trade Federation company. They only use cocoa in their chocolate that has been sourced ethically and responsibly. They, in fact, vastly improve the communities from which the cocoa is harvested (which is, by the way, in the Dominican Republic...which makes my heart even happier). 

But...how does it taste? Is it actually any good.

Oh, sister (or brother...I don't know who's reading this), the flavor is leagues beyond anything you can get at the gas station. 

This is one thing that I love...not just because it is delicious and wonderful...but also because it is a better choice for the world in which we live.

Enjoy!

Compassion (a short story)

I hate doing my grocery shopping at night. Seems that's when the really strange people come out of the corners and wander the store. I never feel quite safe walking around the produce and deli sections. Always have to keep my hand on my purse. You never know what one of those people will do.

"Hey, Mom," my teenage son says to me about five minutes ago. "I need four dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale tomorrow."

And guess who doesn't have nothing in her cupboard to make his cupcakes.

"Make the boy get the stuff," my husband grumbled. "He gotta learn."

"He wouldn't get the right stuff," I answered. "I don't know nothing about baking."

"Suit yourself."

I put on my raincoat and drove the four miles to the super market.

"Mama! Mama!" a little girl is screaming from the cart. Her mother, or at least I think it's her mother, is on the other side of the aisle looking at the canned vegetables.

Somebody's gonna come along and snatch that kid right up and that mother wouldn't even know what happened. Probably wouldn't care neither. Except she wouldn't get her food stamps no more. Leaches on society. Should all have to get a job. Working flipping burgers is better then taking money from the government. Shame on them.

"Mommy!" That little girl's got some lungs on her.

"What?" her mother says. She don't really care what her kid needs.

"Mommy, I'm hungry!"

"I'm getting you something. We'll eat in just a few minutes."

"I want chicken nuggets! Or a taco!"

"We ain't gettin' nothin' like that."

"But I want it!"

That kid starts carrying on like she been slapped across the face. Probably would do her some good. That's the problem with people these days. They don't punish their kids. Just want to be their best friends. A good whipping never hurt nobody.

"We ain't gettin' no junk tonight, April. So shut up about it."

How dare she talk to her little girl like that. I just about tell her off about that one. What kind of mother uses such language? I have half a mind to shake some sense into her.

That mother takes three cans of green beans in her hands. And, I swear, she puts them right into her purse. I kid you not. She looks up at me. She knows I seen her. She rushes over and pushes the cart and the little girl away from me.

I ain't letting that go. No, sir. I take off after them. What right she got to steal them green beans? And right in front of her child. Ain't right at all.

I peek my head around the corner and watch that woman slip a can of tuna into that purse. And she don't stop there. Spam and crackers and a couple apples. I follow her all over that market. She sure does have a big purse.

"Hey, there," I say, pulling aside a woman in a red polo shirt. "You work here?"

"Yup. Can I help you?" she asks.

"Sure can. You see that woman there. The one with the screaming kid?"

"Yes. But, ma'am, I don't feel right telling her to keep the girl quiet. She's just a tired little child. We see it here all the time. They'll leave soon enough."

"No. That ain't the problem."

"Well, then, what is the problem?"

"See that big ol' purse? She been packing it full of food. She's shop lifting."

"Oh, my."

"So, go get her."

"Thank you, ma'am. I appreciate your concern. I'll go talk to the manager."

I go to the bakery. There are all kinds of cupcakes there. Might as well just pick up them. It'll save me lots of time. I get myself a couple doughnuts to eat myself. I done a good turn today. Doughnuts are a good prize for me.

"No! Please!" A screaming voice from the other side of the store. "I'll pay for it. Just let me pay for it!"

"Ma'am, we can't have no one stealin' from us." I'm guessing that's the manager.

"But they'll take April. Put her in a home."

"I'm sorry, lady. But that ain't my problem."

"Here. I'll give you all the money I got in my wallet. It's more'n enough to pay for everything."

"Listen, if you had the money to pay, then why'd you think you should steal this stuff?"

"Cause that's all I got. How am I supposed to pay for rent and food? I ain't got a job."

"Shame on her," I say to the cashier as she scans the code on my cupcakes.

"Happens all the time." The lady at the counter pushes buttons to ring up the doughnuts. "These look yummy."

"Yeah. I got me a weak spot for sweets."

"Don't I know it. I got this gut to prove it." She hands me the bags. "That'll be $17.65."

"I gotta write a check out."

The manager's pulling the shop lifter toward his office. April's walking next to her, tugging on her hand.

"Mama? Where we going? I wanna go home." April's voice is so much smaller now. She's so scared.

"I don't know, baby," her mother weeps. "Just don't be scared. I'll take care of everything."

"But I don't wanna go with no one. I wanna stay with you."

"I know it. I know."

"I'm still hungry, Mama. We ain't had nothin' to eat."

"I know, baby."

"Can't even feed her child." The cashier clucks her tongue. "What kind of monster. Probably spends all her money on drugs."

"Probably." I feel my heart breaking a little. Ain't never felt so bad about doing the right thing before.

I tear the check out of my wallet and hand it to the woman. "You need my license?"

"Naw. You're good." Her drawer slides out and she puts the paper check inside. "Have a good one."

I have to walk past the manager's office to get out to my car. He's in there with the woman and her girl. Both is crying and carrying on. It makes my stomach feel sick. I ain't gonna be able to eat them doughnuts now.

April looks out the door. Her little girl eyes is so red and her mouth is so turned down. I can't stand it no more. I look away.

Them doughnuts ain't a good thing for a little girl to eat for dinner. I tell that to myself. But she ain't got nothin' else to eat. And the police'll come and who knows where they gonna take her.

"Hey, little girl," I call with my gentle voice. "I got something for ya."

She looks up at her mother.

"I'll bring it to you. You stay put."

I walk in and hand her the two doughnuts. She don't smile. I never expected that.

I also never expected how hard I'd be shaking as I walk out to my car.

Seven days late (short story of pregnant vengeance)

She walked...no lumbered...no waddled into the coffee shop, her round and extended tummy upsetting the newspapers on the counter.

"I need a double mocha and a blueberry scone," she said, her voice desperate.

"That mocha's decaf, right?" the kid behind the counter asked.

"No." Her voice was sharp. "I want a double freaking mocha. Full strength! Lots of whip! Chop, chop!"

"But don't you think that would be bad," he said, snotty tone behind his words. "I mean, in your condition?"

"And what exactly is my 'condition'?"

"Um, really?" He looked at her stomach. "It's kind of obvious. And I'm not giving a highly caffeinated drink to a pregnant woman. We have plenty of fruit juices."

She reached both of her swollen hands across the counter, taking the young punk by the collar of his annoyingly peach polo shirt. She pulled his skinny, pimply head close to hers.

"Listen, you little idiot, and listen closely. I want that coffee. I have gone forty weeks obsessing over everything I've put in my mouth, terrified that I would damage my little baby. But no more. Oh, no. No more. I haven't had a single cup of coffee, not even a sip of wine. Do you have any idea what that does to a person? I've stayed away from tuna and feta cheese. Don't even get me started about how many times a day I have to pee!"

"I'm sorry, lady..."

"You're sorry? Are you really?"

"Yeah." Gulp. "I really am."

"Then get your saggy pants wearing booty over there and steam that milk!"

"Okay. Thank you."

She released him, rubbed her hand across her belly and whipped her hair around. "Don't forget that blueberry scone."

"I'll be right on that, ma'am." He scampered to create her drink.

"Reina!" a woman from across the shop called. "Is that you?"

Reina swung her pregnant body around, knocking over the plate of cookie samples.

"Oh my goodness!" she squealed. "Leslie!"

The woman hugged. The boy behind the counter peeked over the whipped creamed mocha, marveling in her ability to go from homicidal to bubbly happy all within 5 seconds.

"Ma'am," his voice quivered. "Your mocha and scone."

"Oh, thanks! How much?"

"Don't worry about it. It's on the house."

"How sweet of you!"

"So," Leslie said, putting her hands on her hips, accentuating her thin waist-line. "What's new?"

"Not too much." Reina answered. "Gosh, I haven't seen you since college!"

"I know! I didn't even know you were expecting. How exciting. Who's the father?"

"Eddie Market."

"Eddie. As in, Eddie that I used to date? That Eddie?"

"Yup. This is our first."

"How about that." The smile left Leslie's face. "When's your due date?"

"Oh, last week. I'm a little overdue."

"My goodness, Reina. Shouldn't you be home with your feet up?"

"Nah. I feel fine."

"Well, look at you. All up and going and carrying twins."

"Um, I'm not having twins."

"Are you sure?" Leslie looked directly into Reina's. There was some kind of attitude set in her face. "You're pretty big for just one baby."

"You think so, do you?" Reina put an edge on her voice.

"I do." Leslie challenged. "Isn't your doctor worried that you've gained too much weight?"

"No. She thinks I'm doing just fine."

"Well, I think you should probably lay off the scones." Leslie puckered her lips and cocked her head. "Don't you think?"

Reina's fist connected solidly with Leslie's left eye. She picked up her mocha and scone, stepped over Leslie and found a table.

She sipped the perfect mocha and felt her baby bump around her womb. It made her smile.

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.

I need your help.

Hello, Blog Friends!

First, I want to thank you for reading my blog. I can't express to you how deeply moved I am that anyone would take the time to read what I've written. It's unbelievable humbling. I appreciate it. I also am so very thankful for those of you who have referred Periwinkle Peacock to others. That encourages me to move forward with this project.

That being said...don't worry, this isn't bad...I need a little advice from you. You get a say in the direction of this blog (for the time being at least). I would like to ask you what you want from me.

No, I can't give you a million dollars.

Sorry, no flashy giveaways.

What I need to know is this -- what do you want me to write?

I've written both fiction and non-fiction, serious and funny (or, I hope that a few were comical...at least the one's I intended to be). I enjoy writing in each of those styles. However, I wonder if switching it up like I have leaves the blog unfocused.

So, what do you think?

All fiction?

All creative non-fiction?

A little bit of both?

I'm open to your ideas. I want to hear what you think. I will read your input and make up my mind accordingly.

Thank you again, Dear Reader Friends!

Blessings on you!