LT 2.0 Flash Fiction Mini Series: Wonder

This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.
This piece was from the prompt: WONDER. I struggled with it not wanting to write something expected. I hope you enjoy the incredibly loose connection to wonder that I conjured up in this fictional thriller.
She was a woman of distinction and a fine palate for the more refined things in life.  She liked her heels high, her drinks overpriced and her outings to be lavish. She was that woman from NYC who didn’t even see you when you walked by. Her brim was low and her shades were dark and why the fuck would she care about you?

You, you were an honest hard working, family loving, baseball obsessed, normal Norman.  You had just left the grocers.  A wife’s to do list on your smartphone. Milk, bread, eggs and tampons. Thank God that was on your list.  Three under 5 was plenty.  Hell, thats why you work so hard. You like your beer cold and cheap, your company with a bit of sleaze and your kids out of your hair.  Hey, you’re tired. We get it.

But on a dime She turned around as if to retrieve a forgotten necessity too important to buy another of.  You were flagging down a cab. She walked past you and you pointedly felt the intoxicating smell of her fill your pants. Fleeting moment. Fleeting thought. The cab hauls ass up to the curb you slid across the cracked leather seat with your wares in your lap.

“Take us to …..“ Said a crisp articulate hollow voice that trailed off at the end to a murmur.

There she was. In your cab. Take us? Looking around the cab it was easy to tell “us” was you and her.  The cab takes off in the direction dictated by the classy broad.

“What’s in your sack?”

“Milk….Bread…..T-t-tampons……”

“Oh! Splendid….I don’t think I have bread at home.” You start to get the feeling that she doesn’t care where you were going or why you have tampons or even who you are. She placed her feather like fingers over your high thigh and and with an unexpected strength she squeezed you and asked. “ You don’t mind if I have some of your bread with my supper, do you?”

Since words weren’t flowing freely and your brain was not making the connections as to why this beautiful creature was talking to you, you only shook your head no.

She made small talk with you and with the cab driver all the while gripping higher and higher on your thigh.  Her smells and whimsical motions making you more and more drunk on her.

The cab slowed down and you looked out the dirty window. Upper East Side……She brought you to her house no doubt.  She paid the cab driver and she reached across you, turning her swollen low cut dress into your face, to open the door.

She said something but the words come out muffled.

“Hahah! Darling….After you!” You obediently did as you were asked and she took the grocery bag from your hand, left it in the car, and took out the bread leaving behind the rest. She lead you into the very tall building and into the elevator. When the doors slid closed she didn’t say a word. She just looked at you. She smiled. You smiled. You knew what was about to happen.  A brief thought grazed your mind about your wife and kids and quickly your desires for the unknown took over.  The elevator opened and an older somewhat balding man in a nice shirt and a black apron greeted you and your glorious host that has left you speechless.

“Peter, how was your day?” Genuinely seeming to give a shit about her butler’s going ons she turns her attention from you to him.

“I’ve had a swell day.  I see you brought supper.” He smiled and gestured toward her hand. She gave him the loaf of light bread.

“Yes, something new, I thought, would be a nice treat for us….” White bread was ‘new’ for this lady…Wow…she had it good, you thought. “I’ll be taking our friend to the guest quarters to prepare him for dinner.”

“Very good. I shall prepare the kitchen to your liking.” She smiled sweetly and gently kissed Peter’s cheek in thanks and still with your hand in her’s she took you to the guest room.

She asked you to take off your clothes and lay them on the tiled floor. She went into the bathroom and started the shower.

“Come, love….I’d like you to be nice a clean…wash away the…day.  I’d like to watch to make sure you clean every part just right….If you don’t mind.” You don’t mind. Her smell…that scent…anything she’d ask you’d do. You stepped into the 9 spout shower room and she handed you a cloth with a sterile smelling soap.  She sat on a stool and instructed  you where to wash.  She wanted you to wash your legs 3 times. Her sweet honest darling face grinned and you knew she was dragging things out to make this come to an erotic perfect ending that was sure to be the best thing you’ve ever had.

She told you that you did a very good job.  You stepped out of the shower with all your clean massive glory standing before her.  She walked around you inspecting and smelling you. Her breath on your neck, the soft pillow of lips kissed your skin…almost as if to savor or taste you.

The door opened with no warning and you quickly cover your hard on and shouted “What the hell!?”

“Peter! You’ve startled our guest.”  She pouted her lips then turned to you and smiled. “No matter, it’s time for dinner and I’m starving. Are things ready for cooking?” Still beaming at you and your clean skin she ushered you to the kitchen. Again you are taken with her angelic presence, disregarding the manservant.

“Should I get dressed?” You found your tongue.. She seemed to have lost her’s since she doesn’t respond. Then it happened too fast.

She pressed you against the wall and kissed you deep and hard holding your arms out and firmly held her body to yours. Your eyes closed tight and you grind against her pressure. Her warm mouth and tiny figure wrapped up around you and you lose track of the world around you. She steps back and looks at you.  You have been restrained by Peter. Your wrists and ankles skillfully bound to the wall with leather belts. Suddenly her affect changed and she rinsed her mouth out with Listerine and spit it into the sink with a look of disgust.

“Very nicely done, my sweet.” Praising Peter’s work she walks to the counter picks up a power tool and hands it to Peter.  You scream and they giggle.

“Shall we have thigh tonight?”

“Yes, love, I was thinking we could use the bread and make sandwiches.”

“Yes my lady, Wonderbread….a fine choice to complement cheap meat.”

Peter tightly wrapped a tourniquet around your upper thigh. You’re screaming that you have a family and a job and a life. She’s not there anymore. It’s just you and Peter and the saw which is now in to your muscle. Taking your leg to the counter Peter feeds it into a deli meat slicer and sliced about a pound of leg.  Quickly he fried each piece on the Viking stovetop and seasoned the meat with a bit of this and a bit of that.

“Thank you for bringing the bread to supper. So generous of you.” After giving you thanks, Peter walks through the swinging door into the dining room where She smiled and waved to you. She shouted out to you through the still swinging door.

“See you later! I’m sure you are just devine! I’ll let you know!! Good night love!”

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LT 2.0 Flash Fiction Mini Series: Beginnings and Bedtime

This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.

These fiction pieces could be true for anyone. Isn’t there sometimes some truth for you in some of the fiction you read? Read these character’s harsh realities and tell me if you feel their pain.

Beginnings

Beatrice winced her eyes shut tight. She was ready to see the sound of her heart falling to the tiled floor, shattering into a million pieces. The double strip, a sure sign of the beginning. He was going to leave.

Daniel, a man of routine and instruction and of rules and regulations. A man of calculated risks and ponderings and of worse case scenarios. He had the plan all down pat. He had looked at this picture from every single possible angle. When he got home. He would start his own beginning. He was going to leave.

Beatrice held her own and used her own momentum and love and desire to turn the cogs. Each wheel click moving another click of motion. The intricate clockwork of rotations and cycles leading to something bigger than her. She knew from that moment that Daniel came home and started his own beginning that she never knew when the clock would strike. Or what the clock would read, for that matter.

Daniel, a man of routine and instruction and of rules and regulations. He knew his math was good. He was being logistical. He was finding his own way. When the double strip story trailed off her tongue in the sing-songy way it had twice before he let his emotions cloud the reason. Objective became subjective. His mind couldn’t function that way. It was messy and hazy. It was the beginning, again. Again. Again. Again.

Beatrice saw in his eyes a patterning of a spiral staircase. pupils circling the center and spinning wildly out of control. She reeled and pulled. She worked like a fisherman working his nets working each rope as to not lose her precious breadwinning catch. Her passion for her trade, for her love, was slippery rope slipping through her fingers in a frigid squall like night lost at sea.

It was the beginning, indeed. The beginning of very hard times.

************************************************************************************************************

Bedtime
 
“Amanda.” She said. “You may call me Amanda. It’s my real name”

I pretend I care. She thinks adding a deeper level of intimacy will make me get of harder. It won’t.

I lower my chin below her hairline and as my lips graze her skin “…..Amanda…”. Mostly I’m just saying it out loud as to commit it to memory.

Placing her gently on the bed I crawl over her and tug on the pull string of the bedside table lamp. The room goes black.

And like the switch that was turned off my mind turns on to Rachel. In my mind I’m with Rachel. This woman, ‘Amanda’, has the same slender legs as Rachel. She has the same flat backside as Rachel. I can tell this prostitute is self conscious of her flat butt, just like Rachel.

She starts to talk to me and I tell her “Shhhh, quiet baby.” I don’t want her to dilute the barely nearness I’m getting to Rachel. Rachel wouldn’t talk. She would just experience it.

Amanda quiets and lays back. Her breasts fall to the sides of her chest and her stomach has a belt of stretch marks, each a telling of a child born. I ripple my fingers over them and let out a heavy, deep sigh. Just like Rachel.

I run my fingers up her trunk past the curve of the side of her breast and over her neck up the side of her face and into her loose curly hair. My mind flashes to the late of the summer days and I can just see Rachel on a walking trail up ahead of me. She turns around quickly and her curls…oh, her curls just make me ache.

I grip on to Amanda’s hair and pull her head back start to kiss her jawline. My other hand searches down the other side of Amanda over her belly button, over her hair, in between her legs, down the inside of her thigh. Then its over. I lose it. I go flaccid and pretend play time is over. It didn’t work, again.

I give Amanda money for her time and walk this poor confused woman out the door after much insisting that she didn’t do anything wrong.

I head back to my bed and crash onto my pillow which quickly becomes saturated with the ocean of salty tears that are now pouring out of my eyes. Rachel is gone. She is dead. My wife is dead and I just can not move on. No matter how many prostitutes might look similar to her, none of them have that unforgettable quirky mole on the inside of their thigh. Rachel is dead and she’s never coming back.

I roll over, I set my alarm clock, I go to bed. Rachel is dead.

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LT 2.0 Flash Fiction Mini Series: Growing, Roots, Dog Days and Fire

This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.
In this post you will find four pieces directly related by one common character. She has no name, but she surely has a problem. I wonder if I’ll ever pick up were I left off. What do you think?
Growing
7:38 pm.  Where is he?

I’m sitting here.  I’ve got my routine down.  6:45 pm I turn off the lights.  I get my tea from the dank little kitchen in my 8th story three room apartment.  I sit on my bed facing the window that faces his window across the street.  I’ve got my camera, my notepad, my pen, my binoculars.  Binoculars are the newest addition to my arsenal.  I had to.  His apartment is long, deep.  The kitchen at the back.  I can’t see his subtle movements that far back.  Every egg crack, every dish scrubbed.  I had to see.  He needs me to see.  To be here for him

7:39 pm. I get anxious.  Different from the anxious I get when 7:28 comes.  When I know he’ll be home in two minutes.  That is a sickening, wanting anxious.  This anxious is more of a break-in-pattern, fear of losing him anxious.

He moved in two months ago.  It was fateful chance that I noticed his new residency.  I was sitting here, on my bed.  I was watching the birds above, the people scampering like ants at task below. Between the glances down to up I saw him with boxes.  I saw her leave him there with a final hug.  I saw him crumple to the ground and cry.  That’s how I knew he needed me.  He needs me.

7:40 pm.  Where IS he?

I look down below.  I don’t see him.  I stand up.  I start to pace.  I start to scratch my forearm.  I feel a tear trickle down my cheek.  The contact of the warm fluid to my cool flesh and I break.  I never bend.

I can’t wait. WHERE is he?  I hurl my mug of tea across the room leaving shattered clay pieces sprinkled over the furniture. WHERE is HE?!  I take the length of my arm and swipe the stacks of photos and notes from my ritual watchings off my drafting table.  Some sheets fly and float like feathers and some plummet to the floor with severe haste.  WHERE IS HE?!  I run to the kitchen to grab more things to hurt least I turn on my self.  Then I’d be no good to him.  I smash a plate into the sink.

Another.

Another.

AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!! WHERE IS HE?!

7:41pm.  In my fit I catch the glint of a lamp flick on across the way.  He’s home.  I slide my finger under the top tissue in my kleenex box and pull up on it.  Gently, I wipe my face dry.  As the tissue comes down over my face a content smile replaces the panicked twisted lipped grimace.

I sit on my bed.  I grin wicked.  I collect my binoculars.

He came home. He came back to me.  I love him so much.  I love him to death.  And what’s best about our love?  It’s growing more everyday.

****************************************************************************************

Roots

Walking closely behind him she carried her cafeteria tray, clutching the edges of it for her life.  Getting too close meant discovery.  She had watched his moves for weeks now. She knew his habitual patterns.  As all humans, ritual is within our nature.  At week three of watching, not one day differed from the last.  Her confidence had blossomed and it was time.

He discarded his school lunch issued milk carton, the brown paper lunch sack sent with him from home, and the plastic spoon.  Every day he had a yogurt or a pudding, no doubt lovingly packed by a parent. The spoon. The spoon…….

Keeping herself positioned directly behind him at the large garbage container she promptly shoved her tray into the trash.  Feigning clumsiness she reached down to retrieve her tray….

….And the spoon he tossed.

Success. She clutched it under the lip of the tray in an attempt to conceal her prize. She deposited the tray to the dirty tray line, shoved the spoon into her hoodie pouch and hurriedly burst through the cafe doors. It took all her might to not sprint to the lavatory.  Her heart beat unevenly and hastily.  Her cheeks, she could feel, were flush and hot.  The hair on her neck was raised and sweaty.  Her panties were wet and warm.  THIS, this is what she had been waiting for.

Checking each stall to confirm her solitude she closed her self in the far left toilet.  Locked the door and perched herself up onto the seat as to not be discovered.  Her only fear was interruption at this point.  She closed her eyes.  Held her breath.   Reached her clammy hand into her pouch.  Fingering the handle of the spoon she let out a moan and felt a tingle between her thighs she had never experienced.

Pulling out the spoon by the handle she held it with both hands in front of her and stared into it almost as if the spoon were his eyes.  She pulled it close to her face and parted her lips, as any pubescent teen practices kissing in the mirror, .she held the scoop of the spoon to her mouth and wrapped her tongue around its dirty edges.  Her eyes pressed tight knowing this moment couldn’t last forever she collected memories in her mind. The flavor of strawberry yogurt, foreign saliva and garbage all cataloged for reminiscing over in the privacy of her bedroom later .

Putting it deeper in her mouth she closed her lips over the white plastic spoon and tongued it as if it were his tongue.  Withdrawing it, heavy with her spit, she gently grazed her face with it. Again her thighs tingled with that unknown achey tingle.  She dragged the spoon down her face to her collar bone.

SLAM!

Another stall was abruptly occupied and she knew her date with the boy had to end… for now.

Now she has lots of that boy’s spoons.  They are the roots of her desire, her lust and her want. Her obsessions.

She has them still, now, in totes, in her three room apartment twenty-two years later. She looks at the full totes and smiles from the thought of the first spoon. “What a silly girl I was” she thinks. She picks up her binoculars and watches her new love make coffee…..

**************************************************************************************

Dog Days

The habit made its way into her life easily while he was away on what seemed to be a long vacation. His things were still left in his apartment in the dark of the night and the bright of the day. She missed something in his routine that would have revealed that he would be gone for any length of time.

Binoculars on her eyes at all hours of the day and night, save the few hours of sleep her body would force her into, left red rings and slight bruises on her high cheek bones. The pain of his absence was pain unlike anything.  Worse than the ache for him, worse than the minor possibility that he would run late on occasion and routine would be disrupted.  The pain required alleviation.

The habit. Ohhhh, yes the habit felt so good at the moment and would leave her feeling raw and unable to move. The habit tools were an exacto blade and a pair of tweezers. A steady hand was nice but not required. Going on day four of his vacancy and the steady hand was…well, not so steady.

The workstation had a light overhead for a shadowless effect. Bolted to the table was a length of leather strapping with a buckle to meet the two. The habit routine goes as follows:

Binoculars, collect tools from the sink in the bathroom from the last cleaning, binoculars, lay down the dark red blotched stained towel below the strapping. Check again with the binoculars…..

Now, see, she didn’t want to do it. She had to have the pain taken away for a moment though. So she checked often to make sure he was still gone. Just in case….

……lay left arm on the table, place wrist in strapping, buckle. Grit teeth. Grin madly…..Begin.

She didn’t mean for this to become the habit. She was cutting out pictures of him with her exacto blade….He’d been gone 8 hours. She tried to fill her time…..It hurts to miss someone you love so deeply….She was unfocused. She slipped. She skinned her forearm on the interior side three inches below her wrist about 2 inches long, half and inch wide. The blade was new and the fillet was superficial. It happened fast and the pain kicked in quick after but for that moment while she quizically stared at the pink flesh laying on the blood splattered worktable she felt…..amazing. It did the trick….It did the trick three times a day since that time.
Now she had a new collection on her table, 10 short strips of her flesh pinned and laid out to dry…a new fixation. Just till he returned. She promised she would stop once he returned. Really. She would.
It was mid-August and the dank studio, rife with the musk of trash and rank of drying flesh meshed well with the humid nasty heat…..But soon August would be over and soon he would return and soon the dog days of summer would be over.

************************************************************************************************************

Fire

The alarm. It was so loud. The elevator was deactivated so he headed for the stairs with a small crowd. All scrambling to find refuge on the ground, far away from the smoke and the fire and the eighth floor. Some of them pushing, some of them whimpering and grunting. It was flashes of memory looking back. He couldn’t decide if this was real or if the jet lag from his mini getaway was getting to him.

The alarm…..the group of escapees was growing in number each time they passed a level on the poorly lit back stair case.  Babies were crying. Some people were yelling for help. One guy had a white Persian cat….Its hard to tell which of the two were more traumatized, the freaked out cat or the scratched to hell guy.  The cadence of group’s feet became a cohesive beat as they all had the same goal in mind. To get to safety. To get out of the fiercely burning building.

He could hear the emergency responder’s sirens, and shouting from the outside of the building with each window he passed.  The shock of the event left his tongue quieted and his eyes wide. Fight or flight. Nature versus nurture. Whatever the hell it was….it kept him in a state of shock. The alarm. The time was not passing by. Time was not moving. Why was it taking so long to get to the bottom? The smoke was filling the stairwell. The smoke was filling his lungs. His heavy panting from running and confusion allowing gulps of smoke to fill his every air sac.

Finally, a burst of a door and people were pouring out of the burning apartment building like water from a pitcher. Just flowing out like the water they all desperately needed. His eyes reached up to the sky to confirm that his confinement was over and that he had reached refuge under the sun in the the oxygenated wind currents created by the tall buildings.

Whether it was adrenaline overdose, excessive smoke inhalation or just plain old exhaustion. He passed out……”The alarms” he thought as consciousness left him…..”The alarms”.

And as soon as he burst through the door was about as quick as she was on him. The crowds. The smoke. The sirens. The fire. The alarms. A perfect storm. A calculated perfect storm.

She scooped him up under his arm, hauled his arm pit over her head and headed across the street. With much haste she made way for the elevator, key in hand. Her world, his world were moving so fast. The chaos and confusion that surrounded them stopped as soon as the elevator door slid closed. She buckled her knees hoping that his weight would hold on her for a little longer. And in that 24 second elevator ride she was brought back to that brief moment back in her school days. Back to that toilet seat, back to the spoon, back to her first rush of lust and love and obsession. The smell of him intoxicating, the curve of his lips where they met in the corners, the mess of hair falling in perfect cascades over his strong brows….Sucking in each detail and cataloging them in to her memory files.

……….

The alarms……where were the alarms?  Where was outside? He looked around and could tell that he had just exchanged one crisis for another. His feet and arms were bound…..and he could see her… She was hunched over at a desk pulling her own flesh from her forearm with a wild look he had only seen in movies…..He let out a breath a little too loud.

Her head jerked over in his direction. She smiled over to him. She smiled over to him in the way you smile at someone you‘ve known for a long time. A comfortable smile. “Good morning sweetheart……….”

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LT 2.0 Flash Fiction Mini Series: Sky

This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.
This was the first flash fiction piece I wrote for Literary Traces back in April of 2013.  I discovered that I loved deadlines and that flash fiction is my niche in the writing world. 
It’s amazing that I could still hear the screams of terror.  Or maybe that was just the sound of the speed of my fall racing past my ears.  I didn’t know how long this weightless demise would last.  I was certain that I would die.  You know, you hear those freak-chance sky-dive accidents where the girl lands flat on her back, lives and turns out…she’s pregnant.  Yes, the baby lives too.  One in a fucking million.  I’m not going to live.
I look up and around me and see others falling too.  A Woman clinging to her too-young-to-die child.  An old man that looks already limp.  Low cabin pressure is my bet.  Lucky man.  Many more, and frankly I don’t give a shit.  Pieces of the plane and debris from the collision fall like the ground is what’s moving, not it.  My tie keeps whipping me in the face and I find it annoying.  I take it off.  It’s torn out of my hand by the sheer velocity I’m traveling.
I start to do the math.  If I’m five miles in the air and I weigh 160 lbs then that would mean that I’m traveling at 125 miles per an hour.  12,000 feet per a minute.  Two minutes to live since my body left the plane.  Likely one minute now.
This flight was my ticket out.  Clean slate.  Fresh start.  All those damn clichés.  Take your pick.  No one knew what I did.  No one would ever find me if they ever discovered it was me.  I’d never have to spend a day in a prison cell held captive by my own dirty deeds.  The weight of the sky would be my burden to bear for my life.  This was not in the plans, however.  Dying on the way out.
Quickly the blurry earth becomes more defined.  I see property lines separated by different, darker colors. Houses. Buildings. Lakes. Rivers. Trees. A few blinks and it would be over.  No one will hear my final words but I’m too self serving to not…

“I KILLED JULIA WESTON!”

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LT 2.0 Flash Fiction Mini Series: Harvest

This week I will be posting flash fiction pieces I have written within the past year for a great writing collaborative that is now laid to rest. My dear friends over at JuiceBox Confession and Navigator, Equator birthed LT 2.0 and in appreciation for it, please enjoy.

I wrote this piece of flash fiction for Literary Traces while I was in the hospital with in the first twenty-four hours of delivering my third son. Please, enjoy my twisted mind.

The thick golden tendrils of her hair were bound back in a low ponytail and braided to the ends then bound again.  She walked the halls a look of unknown excitement in her glazed over eyes as she watched the busy birthing center nurses tend to ladies and babies. Other mothers-to-be clutching swollen fronts in painful anticipation to the initial meeting of their new spawn.

The golden braid bobbed to and fro.  Her eyes stayed focused on the task at hand. It was time for harvesting. She knew she would have to do this, and was often told that all things will come to an end in the pain and suffering of life. In acceptance of this way of life she knew the harvest would draw near and her duty would be her utmost responsibility.

Eyes ever diligent on the halls.  She was keeping track of the faces and trying to guess when each face might produce their own offspring. Feigning contraction she would stop every so often so as to not draw attention to the obviously painless labor she was enduring. The pain was never physical for her, however after several years of living here and learning about the intricacies of life she grew fond of the race she had studied for centuries.  Each time this task was bestowed upon her her heart sank a little more knowing that these women truly loved what was growing, living and soon to be breathing from within them.

She did her best to shake herself of these thoughts and focused on the labor of her work.  Walking, really marching, up and down.  Refusing help when asked.  Politely talking to family members of other laborers, and wondering how they fared.  How far into the process they were.  Eager to share with any person with a lending ear they often readily gave the exact information she needed.  It usually rang to the tune of “oh she’s about 6 cm now”, or “this is our second baby, we hope its a girl”…so on and so forth.

Today she chose an olive toned woman with hair that cascaded in dark ringlets down her face. Perspiration and tears saturated her skin.  Her cheeks were flush with the coming. Her name was Gaia according to the chart hanging from the front of the door.  Her partner, Abigail, ran to and from the kitchenette to fetch ice chips and whatever else Gaia asked for. Yes, the time was close indeed.

Finally the moments that followed produced the sounds of life and the cries of victory. Once the two mothers had their fill of staring into their newborn’s face for the first time, Gaia asked her to go make the long list of phone calls to alert family and friends of the arrival of the new life in her arms. Abigail moved the babe to the bassinet and encouraged her wife to get some rest. Once confirmed that Abigail was in the thick of the task assigned and the nurses were done tending to the mending and cleaning of Gaia she descended upon the room.

Entering silently she only allowed Gaia to know she was there by sound of the door closing. Gaia looked up at her slightly confused and with a questioning look about her. The door was locked and she smiled as she walked closer to Gaia’s hospital bed. As Gaia reached for the call button as she with the golden braid moved it aside out of reach as she had done to dozens of new mothers before.

“Your gift will ensure the safety of humankind. We are grateful to you and take this life as a continuation of the contract of peace.”

Gaia still very unsure as to the goings on of the current moment and quite groggy watched as the unfamiliar woman walk closer to her baby.

The one with the golden braid walked steadily to the sleeping baby.  Gingerly she picked it up and nestled it into the cradle of her arms and rested the sweet sleeper on her belly. Looking up into the suddenly horrified Gaia’s face she thanked her once more as she walked over to the only window in the room. She slid it open and in one fluid motion she pounced upon the window sill, and as if the embodiment of a snake, she unhinged her jaw and swallowed the newborn whole.

Gaia unable to speak, shook at the thought of what she just witnessed. Braid still swaying from the fast action.  Jaw still foot wide and slack she skewed her face into some form of a smile as her tongue fell loosely out of the gaping hole of a mouth and bound out of the window.

The contract of peace was fulfilled another day and Earth would be safe, until the next time.

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Resolution, Shmezolution.

Happy Birthday Blog. You are a year old. People always say the first year is the hardest (in marriage, child rearing and other things). And here we stand.

As I walk around my house (and nearly killing myself on the tens of hundreds of trains and matchbox cars littering the floor) I can’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude and overall happiness.  A year ago I was one child down, one job up, homeless, uncertain and feeling unsupported. I lived a life revolving around anger, resentment and objectifying everything.  My angsty tendencies and bristly demeanor wore over me like that proverbial dark cloud that hovers overhead in the anti-depression medication commercials.  Anyone who met me picked up on this and when I would try to reach out to be kind, my undying, dry-to the-bone wit would come out ill received and chalked up to bitchiness. Over the previous year I’ve tried to relinquish these attributes, ones created by myself as a defense poised to protect myself from whatever may be hurled at me.  See, all that tension and tightness was a reflection of my hard times. My good times and the real me parts were deep, DEEP down in there.  This year, my Saturn in return, has gifted me with patience, gratitude, open ears, a softer voice and a willingness to give. My walls are down and I’m so ready to take on the next year.

I just made a list of all the great things I’ve accomplished this year.  It feels amazing.  I strongly suggest you try it.  I’m still working on me though. I’m still trying to perfect my marriage everyday. I’m still trying to be the mom that I need and want to be. I’m still working on making friends and not just making them, but keeping them and making sure they know I love and appreciate them. My husband’s resolution last year and will again be this year: “Make it better.” And that’s what we intend to do. No resolutions. No impossible to reach goals. Just…Make it better.

Well…I meant for this to be a silly post on realistic resolutions like: “This year I resolve to never go to bed at a reasonable hour.” or “My New Year’s Resolution is to get dressed out of comfy pants as infrequently as humanly possible.” But I guess my fingers weren’t feeling it.

Goodbye 2013.  Hello 2014. Make it better, everyone. Be safe tonight. <3

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Sunday Confession: Social Media

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So, fellow lady blogger More than Cheese and Beer does this Sunday confession blog prompt and this week its: Social Media! Jussst great. I made all sorts of friends (no really….lots and lots of people agreed with me) with my post about social media. Well you know how much I love to kick a dead horse so let’s do this.

See, a couple of weeks ago I experienced an energetic burst of mania induced rant juice. I blew my lid on how I feel pressured in the Facebook realm. I took my emotions and purged them on to my blog in the way a college freshman pukes at his first frat party. And like that poor freshman turning his insides out at his first party I feel like my rant was justified, predictable and to be expected. Every now and then don’t you just want to say “FUCK THIS!” about everything…at least once? Well if not….cheers to you my freakishly optimistic reader….you rock and we all hate you for it.

For the rest of us normals….Here’s my confession on social media. It will likely not surprise you at all. I’m addicted to it! There I said it. I have my weekends that I try to stay off it. I’ve got my hubs man home on the weekend. My family of five is a family of five on the weekends (my oldest son is with his father Sunday night through Wednesday). So I tend to not “need” it. But ohhh sweet social media….we have our heavy bonding during the week. Once hubs man heads out to work and sweet tot is on the couch watching toons with a snack and a sippy and the wee bairn has hit the boob juice hard and has thus conked himself out I retreat to my “office” (read: rocking chair in front of the fire place).

Here you will find me neurotically clicking refresh, commenting, liking, updating, pm’ing but not poking. That ish aint me. ugh.

In all seriousness though, for me as a SAHM I live for it. But does it save my sanity…really does it? I don’t think so. The quality of parenting I’ve been exuding since the heavy addiction started has really been lacking. Before I am even handed my coffee (that’s right ladies and gents my dudr partner is so rad that he brings me my coffee every morning) and as I’m rubbing the sleep crust from my eyes I’m signing on the ‘Books to see what I missed in the 4 hours of sleep I got. Its nucking futs.

I love Macklemore and Ryan Lewis….who doesn’t right? Well I was listening to “Cant hold us” the other say and a lyric I’d heard several dozen times plays through and piques my interest.

“Looking for a better way to get up out of bed
Instead of getting on the internet and checking a new hit me

​Just a lyric. Nothing special…but its those things that get my attention for some reason. See, the thing is I DO have a better way to get up out of bed than to hop on the facespace and mole away the day in my shade drawn house. I’ve got these rugrats that love to play with me. That love to just have my attention. I’ve got a house to keep. I’ve got two writing gigs due THIS week. I’ve got knitting jobs due. I’ve got about a million ideas brewing for a novel. Sooooo….. Its time for me to just step back and say “SNAP OUT OF IT MELODY!” and just do something different. It’s that easy anyway right?…..Right?!….I hope so.

So my dearies….not only did you get my confession but also a bit of resolve. I resolute to cut back on it. Lets say 25 minutes in the morning and 25 minutes in the evening? Give or take some time, of course. But this hours on end BS has. To. Stop. Hell….I’m not even using FB via mobile….I suppose at the tap of a finger its using less time but I’m on my lappy!

You have my permission to verbally kick me in the ass if you see me on FB for longer than 30 mins at time. Just seriously…..tell me to go make a to-do list or something. That’s my real obsession any way. ;)​

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WrapHappy

As some of you may have noticed…I’ve got a thing for wearing babies. If you haven’t noticed the it’s time for you get your head out of the dirt and have a look!

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My baby wearing experience goes back to pre-first born! That’s right! Over six years ago I started learning about different carriers and wraps and learned how to use them. When my first son was born I was strapped with all sorts of knowledge! I had a Moby wrap and an Ergo Carrier. After that…well I never looked back. I’m three boys in several carriers deep and loving every moment of it. And do you know what my favorite part of all this is? Sharing my knowledge with other parents! Nothing makes me happier than to talk to a parent who says “My baby doesn’t like to be worn….I cant figure it out….it hurts my back” and then after 10 minutes of readjusting, rewrapping, and re-educating the parent and the baby walk away happy (and usually the baby has fallen asleep).

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I’m working on outreach and education locally here in So. Vermont and my big picture goal is to have a community in the greater tri-state region of supporters and inquirers of baby wearing. I currently am working on building my carrier library so other parents can borrow a wrap or other type of carrier before investing the money into it blindly. These wraps and carriers are costly and you don’t want to make the wrong decision for you and your baby.

Baby Wearing International is hosting their baby wearing conference in July 2014 in Tempe, Arizona. I very much would like to go to learn more and bring back with me a wealth of knowledge and maybe a few more wraps for sharing. Below is a widget that will link you to a GOfundme page where you can donate money toward this cause if you feel so inclined to do so. I would greatly appreciated it and your money would not go wasted. Thank you so much and I hope you stay tuned for my wraphappy adventures!

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What if I don’t “like” you?

Something has been gnawing at me.  It’s taking up my thoughts, and thus my time.  And it’s irritating. It’s making me angry. The whole cycle. Its making me angry. My time, which is valuable, is being spent on the following.

It’s Facebook. It’s Twitter. It’s Gmail.  It’s not them. It’s my decision to partake of the daily bread that is the salvation of socialization. The addiction, and the pull to keep up, click that, like him, support her, join them, block him and it goes on. That bright red notification bubble pops up and we feed off of it. We crave it. We close the laptop to step away only to be pulled back in moments later like Pavlov’s dogs looking for a meaty morsel, or in our case, attention.

I think that’s what it really boils down to. We are looking for some thing to break down the walls of our isolation of our far too busy lives. We have to. Its not an option. We are required in today’s society to meld to the mold of (deep breath) fast-paced-get-everything-done-and-if-you-fall-behind-our-expectations-that-are-now-your-expectations-because-it-is-instilled-that-this-is-the-only-acceptable-way-to-live, then…..you fail. This failing to not get the likes, push the buttons and open the PM’s leads you to loneliness, this leads to diminished confidence, this leads to bad self image, this leads to depression. Do you see what I’m getting at here?

As a stay at home mom I guess I’m talking to me. There are a lot of “me”s out there. This is how we fill the void. This void is decreased adult interaction.  It happens to us all after we have a kiddo or two…especially three. We hole up in the cave and we feel obligated to remain as thus until we are allotted the freedom that Kindergarten offers. Time. Free time. So in the mean time till then we are here. Right where you are. Staring at a smart phone, a tablet, a laptop screen or a monitor. We log on meet and have coffee every morning, we laugh at each other’s well thought out witty snarky clever status updates jokes and create plan pages playgroups and we push ask each other to share invite others to come and like join the fun. But there is something missing. Everyone wants me to like them. I should be satisfied. Are you satisfied? Is not that what friendship is? The request to like and the like in return? I don’t know. It’s starting to feel superficial. The once gratifying tracking of hits to my Facebook group pages is now spiraling down to a feeling of desperate need of real human interaction. It is so much easier to hole up in the cave. I know it is. Especially since…ahem…winter is coming…(sorry, I’m having GOT withdrawals). It takes so much effort to get going. So I sit back. I sit by my pellet stove and Facebook my day away while I nurse, while I throw snack on the table for my toddler, while I forget to change the laundry….again. Is this what I want? Is this what you want?

I have been thinking about all this for a couple of weeks with the intensity of my feelings rising each day. Then as if manifest from thin air came this video on my Facebook feed….of course, where else? I feel more justified in my emotional Facebook rant.

Will I still sit by every morning with my coffee and chat it up with friends and “like” everything they ask me to while they do the same for me? Yeah, it’s likely that I’ll keep it going. Hell, just in the interim of writing this blog post I’ve check my Facebook pages 4 times. Plus it makes my “friends” feel good, too. And if having 40 “likes” by tomorrow gets them through another day feeling happy and if 4 of my other friends comment on a photo I post and that gets me through another day feeling happy, then why not? I just hope this is not the beginning of something much bigger that we can never stop.

What happens if we forget how to hold a real unadulterated conversation? What if we stopped clicking like and started picking up the phone and really met up with half of the people we interacted with on Facebook. I don’t know that this is possible since I have three hundred and one “friends”…..but what if.

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Interviews with the Inappropriate. A Blog Hop.

When my lady friend over at Juicebox Confession asked me to join in this blog hop I thought it would be a great way to get my postpartum ass in gear. I’ve been looking to work my atrophied writing muscle and this is a great way to dip my blogging toe back in the cool waters of the interwebs.

What follows is a myriad of questions compiled by eleven bloggers all answered and posted on the same day by said bloggers. At the end of the post you will find links to the other blogs!

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So enjoy this interview of sorts and please hop over to the other bloggers same questioned posts.

1. What made you start blogging?

What made me start blogging? What was it? It was writing…..

I started my blog at a time of many transitions and changes in my life. My family’s financial situation greatly changed. I was taking non clinical courses toward my nursing degree. I was staying at home taking care of my, at the time, one year old boy so all of the courses I was taking were online. I did A LOT of writing. I found myself in it. At the end of the semester I got my final paper back from one of my classes and in the review my professor said that she would buy anything I published. Even if it was a manual for a washing machine. She *enjoyed* my writing. She looked forward to it. That felt good. So. I started my blog and I dropped nursing school. That’s right. Just let it go. It wasn’t what made me happy. Writing did. Using my hands did. Now I’ll never be broke because I’ll always be happy in my work. When you are happy with what you do, the rest will follow.

In the archives from the birth of the blog you’ll find a few of my essays from my Psychology class.

Now my blog has many masks because what I’m into *now* changes. Knitting, cooking, mothering, babywearing, writing fiction. It’s always writing.

2. What is the meaning behind the name of your blog?

Flaws and All. This is me flaws and all. You’ll see all my triumphs and my success here but don’t think for one hot minute that I won’t exploit myself too. Hell yes I will. There can be found much hilarity in all that business. It’s also very humbling and courage/esteem building. In divulging my flaws I’m helping others and my family AND myself grow. People will read my blog and come to me and say “Oh my gerd….I’m not alone.” And what’s worse in this world than to feel alone? So. This is me Flaws and All.

3. Blogging is a great, quick way for a writer to reach an audience; how has blogging affected your daily life and do you get nervous when posting your thoughts for the interwebs to judge?

My blog, I feel, is an extension of myself. I dont put on a different hat (unless I’m writing fiction ;) ) to write a post. I dont try to fill a different mold. So that being said….Do I get nervous when I go to the bank? No. Do I get nervous when I go to my best friend’s house to just hang out and shoot the shit? No. I’m me. I can’t, and I won’t, change that. If I was nervous I certainly would not be posting my flaws!

Wait…that’s bullshit. Yeah, yeah I do. I do get nervous. I get nervous that what I wrote might not be good enough or maybe its too opinionated. Lots of my readership is local and are people that I, like, care about. So I always am concerned with what people I care about think about what I publish. What I said in the previous paragraph is true. I am me…flaws and all and so in that regard I’m not worried about what the Greater Interwebs thinks about my writings. I’m not aiming for numbers. I’m aiming for that chord that hits for some when they read the “just right” blog post that hits home for them. A post that might change their perspective or even give them perspective. So yes. That is a tad nerve wracking.

4. How does your partner/others in your life feel about blogging? Do they find it invasive or do they fully support the blog effort?

My biggest fan IS my husband. He really is the driver in the car that drives my life. He’s my fuel. He critiques with love, he shares posts with gusto and he sits me down to write when it’s been too long. Full support all the time. Damn, I love that dude.

5. What are your limits on your blog….? (What don’t you talk about, who don’t you name, etc.)

Well, like I said, I’m a heart-on-the-sleeve kinda lady. So there isn’t much I won’t share. Where I do draw the line for posting is when I feel heated or hurt. These feelings are usually brought on by an external stimulus. Its never wise to type or speak when heated. I have found at least.

6. What is the most inappropriate/awful/shitty thing you ever blogged about, and did it you actually post it to your blog?

Yes I posted it. And here it is. Though you’d never know it.

7. How do you feel, as a writer, about the digitization of books? Do you prefer your Kindle or an old fashion paperback?

I think the digitization is great. I prefer to have my hands on paper. But access to text, literature and media just at the click of a button is priceless.

8. What 3 things are you reading online (blogs/websites, e-magazines, or social media) do you follow or always read when you see new content, even when you’re busy?

Facebook. And….that’s it. I read other blogs. I am interested in other websites. But that’s all folks. And a lot of that has to do with the time I don’t have to spend being on top of it all. I have three boys! One of which is 2 months old and nurses….when he is awake. The others are a two year old with the mind of a two year old the size of a three year old and the capability of a four year old…so that’s time consuming in itself and the other is a 6 year old the size of a four year old with the imagination to reach to the bottom of the ocean…so the time I have not focused on them is….usually sleeping.

9. What song/singer/band is on your iPod that would surprise people the most?

Gregorian covers of pop culture songs. Check it out. It will knock your children out on car rides. And you too if you aren’t careful.

10. Who is your biggest celebrity crush?

Patrick Stewart….Anthony Kiedis…..no Patrick….NO Anthony……Robert Downy Jr? No….Anthony Kiedis…..I can’t decide….

11. What is your guilty pleasure?

Relentlessly grooming my children. Nose picking, ear wax mining, toe nail clipping. Nothing pleases me more than grooming my kids. Screaming and thrashing and all….and when they are done…I move on to my husband…I’m a freakin’ monkey. It’s bizarre.

12. If you could offer a baby only one piece of advice (kind of like the fairies in Sleeping Beauty), what would it be?

Try everything once. If you don’t like it you don’t have to do it again but you might never know you like something until you try it. Once. (And responsibly….do not be a fucktard. Herion is bad. So is that krokadil shit….)

13. Has your biggest fear ever come true?

My biggest fears are natural disasters, any and all water slides and house fires. I will not get on waterslides and I have, knock on wood, cross my fingers, throw salt, all that stuff, have never experienced a natural disaster to the capacity of my fear. However, I’m only afraid of house fires after living through one. I wasn’t afraid of them before hand though. So ultimately, no, my biggest fear has never come true. I have only obtained a fear though experiencing it.

14. When something awesome happens to you, who do you call first?

Easy. Hubs, Mom, my bestie -Stacy. Not always in that order, always those people.

15. What is your passion and do you do it for a living? If not, why not?

I have so many passions. I’m a passionate lady. They are ever changing. Right now it’s my littles. They are my passion…I cant help it. It’s primally engrained in my brain to keep them alive. So yes. I am doing it. Come back in a year or two….who knows what my passion will be then and if I can make money off it or not ;)

16. Give us your worst/funniest/silliest/most interesting SELFIE picture. (If you don’t have one you love, just take any picture of yourself, go to PicMonkey or any other online service or program and add a mustache/glasses/anything!)

This is a picture I took of myself inspired by the hashtag pretty girl ugly face epidemic. Please…enjoy.

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17. What is your favorite childhood movie?

Drop Dead Fred. All the way. I had that movie memorized by the time I was in 4th grade. Inappropriate and full of imagination. That movie had no impact on who I turned out to be as an adult! noooooooo…..

18. If you could be any kind of animal, what would you be and why?

I would be a horse. Have you ever been on a horse? If not….man…you’ve got to do it. Its the best therapy ever. Forget your meds, your wine, your shrink….get on a horse. I would be a horse because I have never felt more connected to the earth or ever felt as aware of the earth as I have when I was riding a horse. Imagine the sort of energy a horse can feel. Have you ever seen a horse run? Full tilt? Its amazeballz.

19. What’s your favorite adult beverage?

I joke that my boys middle names are ‘Jose Cuervo’, ‘Tanqueray’, and ‘Bailey’. But my favorite would be a nice classy gin and tonic.

20. How many drinks does it take before you get drunk and what is your bad drunken habit (think: tequila makes her clothes fall off….)?

Wow…I haven’t been this drunk in a lonnng time. But it used to be 6 shots of tequila or several G + Ts make me think I can fly….out a third story window….ahem. Now that I’ve been pregnant or nursing for the past 3 years its one or two beez knees (again a gin drink)  and my bad drunken habit would be biting my husband. No, not in the sexy way…In the “I’m a out of control teething toddler and I can’t fight this urge to bite you” sort of way. Its indecent.

21. If you had to appear on the popular Gameshow, “Baggage” as a contestant (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baggage_(TV_series)), what would your 3 pieces of baggage be? (NO explanations)

My small piece of baggage would be “I’ve been engaged four times and married twice.”

My medium baggage is “I’ve done a suspension and I cant wait to do it again”

My large trunk of baggage is “I have to parent with oldest son’s father and that baggage will never go away”

22. Do you hover over the toilet in public bathrooms?

In portapotties ALWAYS! Why does it always look like a fracking petri dish in those shit shuttles?!……In public restrooms…I try to. But….not usually. I give the seat a ten point check before I sit on it. For sure. But I’ve found trying to stand and pee with three boys under six trapped in that stall with you is damn near impossible.

23. What’s the strangest talent you have?

I asked my husband this question of me. His response: “That weird fuckin’ dolphin sound you make is strange…..”. There you have it. I make a weird fuckin’ dolphin sound with my tongue.

24. If the zombie apocalypse were to happen, how long would you survive and why?

Alright. That’s the end of my tolerance for this question. I’ll tell you how long I’d survive a zombie apocalypse…I just would. Why?! Because its not real. This trendiness of who would out live who theoretical BS and who would be on my ultimate team of zombie apocalypse survival blah blah blah has to come to an end. Don’t get me wrong. I love George A Romero just as much as the next guy but, come on. I’ve taken the online quizzes…I know I can kill 28 zombie infected children before they take me down. Can we just fracking move on….Please?

25. What are 3 things you think people usually assume incorrectly, misunderstand or don’t “get” about you either in real life, or as a result of your blog?

1) While I did say earlier that I exploit my flaws for the value of humor or for others to see that they are not alone I will say that a misconception that people may have of me might be that it’s easy for me to share these things. My imperfections. Sure, I over share on the playground with other moms. Sure, all my facebook friends know I’ve had diarrhea for 5 months. But the really hard stuff I share like what happens behind closed doors is damn near impossible to type through the tears. Its very….therapeutic.

2) People assume that I am a bitch. By “people” I mean people who don’t know me. I’m not a bitch. I’m not out to ruin your day….I just don’t want to have any of that drama in my life. And I literally do not have time for it. Its not good for me, its not good for my family….so when I drop someone like a hot potato for being as such it’s only for the better of all good.

3) People think I’m tough as nails. I’m totally not tough as nails. I can hoot and holler about my astrological sun sign (Capricorn) all day and I can talk a mean talk….but I wont ever let you know you hurt me if you aren’t incredibly close to me. And I’m super sensitive!

26. Last question, at the end of the day…what will have made your life a success?

That my boys didn’t end up in jail. I will have created reasonable, responsible, law abiding citizens who value life. Boys who treat women and men good. Boys who have balanced checkbooks but know that life is not about the acquisition of dollars. If I can lead my boys in the right direction and they succeed that by virtue will have made my life a success.

Participants:

Juicebox Confession

More Than Cheese And Beer

Mommy Needs Wine Not Whine

Full Metal Mommy

Pink Fuzzy Slippers And My Hubby’s Pants

Flaws And All

Toy Cars In My Purse

Comfytown Chronicles

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