The Common Language Project is a phenomenal Dallas area poetry competition wherein every writer must use the same 30 words to write a poem no more than 30 lines. While it is a competition, to me, it’s also a very enjoyable challenge. My poem “Divorce” was chosen for inclusion in the anthology in 2022 but my poem, rollercoaster Woman, was not chosen for this year. There are so many incredible talented artists, writers, and poets in this area that I can’t say I’m too upset about the judges having found 30 more local poets whose work I can read and learn from.
… it’s still a little bit of a bummer. But rejection is a huge part of being a writer! And I love my poem enough to stand by it even without a win this year.
In the context of amusement rides, air time, or airtime, refers to the time during which riders of a roller coaster or other ride experience either frictionless or negative G-forces. The negative g-forces that a rider experiences is what creates the sensation the rider feels of floating out of their seat. With roller coasters, air time is usually achieved when the train travels over a hill at speed.
Wikipedia
The theme
This year, we invite you to connect into networks, analog and digital, microscopic and macro-engineered. From the cells in our bodies to the smart phones in our hands, networks fill our lives with meaning, richness and beauty. Chain letters and congregations share secrets; the weave of textiles can bear witness to the tapestries of our families. Show us the truths of fractals, find the hidden meanings of street maps, trace the untold stories of spiderwebs.
The words
ambition artery autonomous belly bend bounded chart clicking compass drove
dwindle entire fitting guide hem identify joining ladder lost magnetized
means mercy mesh metal node received slant tangent unmade wear
And without further ado
rollercoaster Woman
ambition was a curse. We drove Ourselves to this ride, but when We boarded, We lost the means to identify Our slant. clicking up, up, up.
an autonomous belly pleading for mercy or at least a tangent to distract from a perfectly unmade hem. fitting into that dress, the beautiful fabric bounded but all We wanted was to make Our hips smaller.
it’s more palatable to dwindle; to chart a deadly path through a carotid artery rather than use Our feminine compass to rise above. Up, up, up. a single metal ladder, Our only hope of escape. We rode hoping to mesh with the magnetized, but ancient wood doesn’t hold charge.
then suddenly, soaring downward We are received by One Another. A great joining of Our entire experience, Women making primal dresses to wear, each a node, a guide, to a place where We needn’t kneel, We needn’t bend. a place where We get to experience the euphoria of airtime.
I began by asking myself what marketing means to me. From the various job postings I’ve applied to over the past few months, I have a good idea of what the market requires for this type of job. I went to school for Marketing and have gained experience from many of my jobs, especially my most recent job at a library. But standard marketing techniques weren’t what I was trying to define. I wanted to understand what I want to do as a marketer. I decided to focus on a newcomer to the marketing job postings I’ve seen: storytelling.
As a writer, I already felt connected to the concept. Not only do I have experience crafting fictional stories, and even offer a lecture on the structure of a story, I also took a Storytelling class at the University of North Texas in 2021. We discussed the ethnography, history, theory, and methods of storytelling. Through that semester of story research, analysis, and adaptation, I reached a deeper understanding of what it means to tell our own stories. Having that focus, I wrote the following essay.
Marketing Strategy
The marketing strategy I use is, of course, dependent upon the company I am working for. However, I believe that every Marketer also has a personal strategy that is woven into their standard practices. My personal strategy hinges on three concepts: storytelling, networking, and connection.
If a marketing plan doesn’t already exist, I start by sitting down with decision makers and talking about the company’s goals and assessing into three categories: “probable”, “possible”, and “prep work required”.
“Probable” means this avenue will succeed with little to no effort.
“Possible” requires slight effort and may have a few variables that still need sorting out.
“Prep work required” or PWR means there is a lot of work to be done where this idea or concept is concerned. It’s viable, but will take quite a bit of effort.
We prioritize these lists and determine metrics by which we can measure progress. With each goal, each assessment, we explore what story we are telling. “Storytelling is a fundamental human experience that unites people and drives stronger, deeper connections” (Whitler, 2018). In our current environment of brief, at-a-glance interactions online, it becomes even more important, not to inundate potential or current clients with pointless verbiage, but to take stock of these stories and make certain that we are distilling the best parts of who the company currently is and where they want to be in the future.
The three concepts (storytelling, networking, and connection) also work as a pipeline. Especially for small companies, networking isn’t just from the inside out. Once the story is set, we want to network within to ensure the company is utilizing all of what is already available to us. We dedicate time and effort, chatting with every employee, gathering resources that we can later decide whether or not to pursue. We, once again, assess whether the items we’ve chosen to pursue align with our story. Whitler (2018), in her article Three Reasons Why Storytelling Should Be a Priority for Marketers, states that “as marketers, we should always be seeking to learn more about the world we live in, the brands we represent, and the consumers we serve.” I believe that this in-house discussion with employees will not only provide insight into the world we live in, but also, additional jumping points for the goals we’ve set previously (and maybe even some new ones).
Traditional networking outside the company is also a key part of the marketing process. As we have assessed the story our company is telling, it’s also important to assess the stories other individuals, companies, associations, etc., are telling and most importantly, whether they align.
Where storytelling and networking meet, we find connection. In his article What is Storytelling in Marketing, Chapman (2022) talks about how stories unite an audience; that your potential and current clients all share “pain points” and “aligned end goals”. The main impact of incorporating stories is to weave emotion into the ever-present low hum of marketing being thrown at us. Emotion, causing connection, elevates your brand above the low hum.
In summation, we write the story, we bolster it with likeminded people, and we connect with the people that need to hear what we have to say. What I, and other marketers, bring to the table is an outside perspective on the company. We bring fresh eyes to your website, branding, social media, and overall marketing plan. My goal is to create an environment where discussion about marketing and viewing measurable metrics regularly is easy, that emotional connection is at the forefront of these discussions, and the heart of your company is illuminated. And so, your story begins.
Not an actual photo of my journals… but, ya know, it’s close. Photo by Julia Joppien on Unsplash
It’s happening. It’s super duper happening! I’m self publishing a book!
I could not be more proud of this project.
Over three years ago now, I began writing LOTS of poetry that came from a place of pain and misunderstanding. I wrote so many poems. Oh mylanta. So many poems. Really, really bad poems.
Some of my dearest friends (bless their hearts) would get daily text messages and emails featuring poems written with ALL of the emotion, but without much thought. (Yes, I’m pretending like I don’t still do this to them.)
If they hadn’t been so kind and compassionate about my poetry back then, I don’t think this project could ever have come to be.
You see, because of them, eventually I was brave enough to bring those poems with me to therapy. My lovely, wonderful, thoughtful, brilliant therapist helped me understand them and read between the lines.
With her by my side, those poems helped me spelunk into the darkest corners of my soul. I learned so much – and maybe most importantly, I learned that I never want to stop learning.
Over the course of that first year, something happened that I didn’t understand. We’d return to the same place every week; we’d look around and explore. But I couldn’t figure out how to keep going. I’d come up against a vast wall that had no end in sight. I knew there was something on the other side but didn’t know how to get there. After weeks of the same conversations, I started to think maybe it was impossible.
But then, my therapist suggested I write about the wall. In earnest.
So I did.
I journaled and journaled some more. I wrote about the wall. And then I wrote about what was beyond the wall. I chipped away at those poems, sometimes cleaving them in two or crumbling them into dust. I wrote and rewrote sections of this story so many times that my editor probably still gets a headache just thinking about it.
Honestly, I don’t know if you’ll like this story. There are scary parts, there are things that will probably gross you out (says my Mom). There are parts that will be confusing. There are parts that won’t make sense. But they do for me. I’ll be forever grateful for the time I was able to focus on my mental health in this way.
This book, Before I Sleep: Poetry, Prose, and Peculiarity, is a piece of my heart, a catharsis, a snapshot of a moment in my life. I’m sharing it with you because we all have these moments. And for me, this is the height of my personal catharsis – putting this thing I love, love so much I could puke, out into the world.
It’s the last week of November! I don’t know about you but I’m thankful. Yes, that 2020 is almost over but also for horror and for writing and for this blog and the opportunity to share some of my creepy stories with all of you unsuspecting readers! This story is a particularly interesting one to me. It has started out as a genuine story about learning to love oneself – but I was having far too much fun writing horror and well, here we are. Trigger warnings for bad dates. And I threw in a sonnet. Yes, I know, eyeroll. But I was feeling poetic. Enjoy the final submission for Horrah Novembah 2020!
The Night I Fell in Love
“Tonight’s the night,” says Stephanie as she approaches my cubicle.
I smile, nod, and try not to think about my already-sweaty hands. It’s been a while since I’ve gone on a date.
“I’m so glad you’re getting back out there. Where’s he taking you?” she asks.
“We decided on Café 59,” I answer.
“My fave! And 59… curious, adventurous, sensual… perfect numerology for a first date,” she says.
I smile. Stephanie is weird. And my best friend.
“You need to call me the second you get home! And I’m not even going to say that you can text me the emergency code because you won’t need to!” she says, using air quotes on ‘emergency’ and ‘need to’. She holds my gaze until I nod in what she seems to assume is understanding.
She smiles warmly and places her hand on my shoulder before walking back down the hall to her cubicle. I don’t usually like when people touch me, but Stephanie started easing me into it a couple years ago. I don’t mind anymore.
I log out of my work computer, say goodbye to my boss and head out for the day.
I don’t have to be at the restaurant for a couple hours, so I plan to take a cat nap and then take my time getting ready.
I’m heading up to the third floor when the door to the stairwell opens.
“Tonight’s the night!” says Malcom. His booming voice echoes up and down the stairs.
It takes everything in me not to shush him like a child. He’s loud, but always very positive. I nod in response but avoid eye contact.
“You don’t look excited,” he says.
“This is my happy face,” I say in my best Tommy Lee Jones impersonation. Our favorite movie is Man of the House. But not because of the movie, because of the reviews on Rotten Tomatoes.
He smiles and laughs. “Well just don’t nap too long. You don’t want to be racing all over the place and get all panicked right beforehand.”
I look him in the eyes, incredulous. “Why do you assume I’m going to take a nap?”
His shoulders settle and he raises his eyebrows.
“Okay, fine,” I say. I feel my cheeks flush.
“And when I get home from my shift at the bar tonight, I better not see your light on,” he says.
I smile.
“Yeah, yeah, ‘naps equal late nights’, I know. But it makes sense for me, J. I actually have to be up till 4am most nights,” he says as if waiting for an explanation. Two years, he’s been waiting.
I’m still smiling but shift from foot to foot. The stationary dance of awkwardness.
He starts to make his way down the stairs. “Hey, if I had such cute cats, I’d probably take more cat naps myself.”
I smile. He waves goodbye and I reciprocate.
I count myself lucky to have such a good neighbor. He wanted to be friends almost as soon as I moved in. Some people had gone missing right around that time and he said it was good to keep an eye out for each other, especially since we both keep later hours. I found it hilarious but endearing.
I hear the faint jingle of collars while unlocking the door. How do they always know when I’m home?
Meow, says Juniper, a large ginger cat that loves to snuggle.
Meow, says Crucible, a sweet, black cat with large eyes that see into my soul.
“Hello, hello, hello,” I say as I sit down on the floor to give them hugs and pets.
When we’re finished with our greetings, I set out their dinner before making my way to the most comfortable bed I’ve ever owned. It’s covered in nostalgia blankets (the kind grandma used to throw over the back of her couch), a few too many pillows, and an assortment of books.
I snuggle into the bed and listen. I hear nothing. I wonder if it’s too quiet. But in no time at all, Juniper is tucked into the space between my shoulder and my neck and Crucible is curled into the most adorable little spoon that ever existed. Cat nap initiated.
I wake up with plenty of time to get ready but still somehow find myself rushing around for an extra ten minutes past when I should have left. I’m one of those people who has to check that I turned off the coffee pot at least four times, check the oven even if I haven’t used it, check the lock on the closet, etc.
“You three be good!” I yell as I lock the door behind me. I pause in the hallway. Only two cats, I think. I laugh at myself as I race downstairs to meet the ride service. I guess I’m more nervous than I thought.
“Thank you for waiting! I’m so sorry,” I say as I get in the backseat.
“You made it just in time,” he says. He doesn’t seem annoyed.
The car is clean and our ride is quiet for the first five minutes or so. But as always seems to happen, we start talking. I can’t imagine I look very inviting, always staring out of windows like I’m listening to sad music. Yet people always engage me.
“So, do you like this area?” he asks.
“I do. Lots to do all year-round,” I say my canned response.
He tells me that he just moved here. I offer a handful of suggestions for places to try, things to do, and events to follow.
“We seem to like a lot of the same things,” he says.
Our gaze meets in the rear-view mirror and we share a smile.
We reach the restaurant and I say thank you. He turns around as if to say something important but hesitates. I smile again and reach for the handle.
“Thank you for all your suggestions. Much appreciated,” he says.
“No problem!” I say and close the door. I wave goodbye awkwardly as I always do to ride shares.
“Jordan?” I hear behind me.
I turn around to see George, my date, standing near the entrance to the restaurant.
“Hi!” I say a little louder than I meant to.
He looks alarmed by my energetic greeting.
“Sorry, a little nervous.” I put my hand out to shake his.
“No need to be.” He smiles and opens the door. “Shall we?”
Once inside, we make our way through the crowd at the bar to a table in the side room.
“This place is pretty cool,” says George.
“Love this place. Sometimes, they have an N64 at the bar,” I add, nodding.
A server approaches. We make eye contact in that too-much-for-a-stranger kind of way and are both awkward about it. I don’t think George notices.
“Hi, I’m Mark and I’ll be your server tonight.” He doesn’t look at me directly but asks, “Know what you’d like to drink?”
“Oh, um, I’ll have a glass of the cab sauv,” I say. When I look back at George, his eyes borrow through me, his eyebrows raised. He seems surprised.
“I’m going to need a minute with the wine menu,” he says, still looking at me.
“Let me know if I can make any suggestions,” Mark says to George, adding “and I’ll be back with your cab,” in my general direction.
“Odd kid,” says George, watching Mark walk away. “So, you come here a lot. Don’t even need to look at the wine menu,” he continues, his eyes shifting back to mine.
“One of my favorite restaurants!” I say.
“What, do you bring all your dates here?” he asks.
I’m uncomfortable but brush it off. I just met George. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it.
“I don’t date much,” I say.
George nods and goes back to looking at the menu.
“What kind of wine do you like?” I ask.
“Definitely not cabernet,” he says.
Is he trying to be rude? I’m sure he’s not. Probably just concentrating on the menu.
“Red or white?” I ask, ready to help him narrow down his choice.
“I mean, it should really depend on what I’m ordering for my food. But we haven’t even looked at the food menu yet. So, I guess I’ll go with white,” he says with a sigh.
“I’m sure Mark could bring you a dinner menu if you wanted to look at food first,” I say, turning to see if I can flag our server down.
“What? No. I’m not going to be rude,” says George.
“It’s not rude,” I say, seeing Mark emerge from behind the bar with what looks like my wine. “I think he’s heading back this way anyways. I’ll ask him.”
I don’t look at George because I can feel something building in his chest cavity. I’m not sure if it’s anxiety or anger but I’m hoping it will dissipate.
Mark sets my drink down in front of me. “Thank you so much,” I say. “Would you mind bringing us a dinner menu before George picks his wine? Pairings,” I say, lowering my voice on “pairings”, with a shrug and smile.
“Of course,” says Mark and walks away to get a menu.
“What are you doing?” asks George. He’s fuming. His face is red. Is that actually steam coming out of his ears?
I slouch and am silent for a moment before saying, “Getting you a menu.”
“If I wanted it, I could have gotten it myself,” he said.
I hesitate. How do I defuse this?
“They actually usually have them on the table together,” I start. I don’t finish my thought.
Mark is back in no time with the dinner menus. George is quiet, staring intently at the wine list.
“Sorry about that,” says Mark. George huffs.
“No problem,” I say with a smile.
“I’ll give you a few minutes,” says Mark.
“Thank you,” I mouth.
Mark forces a smile as he walks away.
“Do you know him?” asks George.
“No?” I say.
“It seems like you know him. Or he knows you.”
“I don’t know him.”
George stares at me, his right eyebrow twitches twice.
“He’s been my server before?” I say, asking if that answer is enough.
George picks up the dinner menu. The furrow in his brow eases.
The rest of the dinner goes fairly well. We talk about what we have in common, what we don’t have in common. What we find funny, what we don’t find funny. It’s made clear that one thing George does not, under any circumstance, find funny is himself.
“Another drink?” he asks as Mark picks up our plates.
“No, I think I’m–”
“We’ll have another round,” George interrupts me.
Mark seems to freeze, holding our plates like he’s the fulcrum of a large scale. He looks at George, almost pleadingly. Maybe chivalry is not dead. But he says nothing. He looks back at me and I nod.
Thankfully, George has already had enough wine not to notice the interaction.
We finish our final drink and Mark sets the check on the table.
I get my wallet out and set my credit card on top of the leatherbound booklet.
“Oh, you don’t have to pretend,” says George.
He picks up my card and tosses it back in my direction. It hits the table with a click clack and slides over the edge into my lap. I catch it and see Mark out of the corner of my eye backing away from the table.
“Really, we can just split it,” I say.
“No, no, I’ve got it,” says George. His misty eyes linger on my face as his mouth becomes a churlish grin.
“Well, thank you, George,” I say.
“You’re welcome,” he says with what he seems to believe is seduction. He reaches across the table as if offering to hold my hand.
I look at his hand and excuse myself to the restroom.
I reach the back hallway just as Mark turns out of the kitchen.
“Hey, anything new on your brother?” I ask.
“Nope, been long enough now, I think the cops are about to move on. Especially with… his history,” says Mark the last words in hushed tones.
He looks at me for a moment without saying anything, almost like he’s trying to read my mind. He seems to give up as his eyes fall back to his hands. I put my hand on his arm.
“It’s almost over,” I say in my most comforting voice.
He meets my eye again and I nod toward my table where George is ordering one last glass of wine.
Mark’s eyes grow a size or two before his eyelids return to their natural lull. He puts his hand on my arm now. We stand in an almost embrace for a few long seconds. I try to break away but Mark doesn’t let go. I wait for him to say whatever he needs to, but all he does is mouth the words “be careful”.
He’s right. I’m not sure if this night has gone worse than I expected but it certainly hasn’t gone well. I book a ride before leaving the restroom.
When I return, George is signing the receipt.
“Next time, we’ll have to remember to get a few bottles with the way you drink,” he smiles and laughs.
I smile but don’t sit back down.
George had already finished half his new glass of wine. I wonder if he’s a half-full or half-empty kind of guy.
“What’s the hurry?” he asks, motioning to my seat.
“Oh, I have to be up pretty early tomorrow. It’s been a lovely night, though, thanks again,” I say, walking away.
He finishes the glass of wine in one gulp and is at my side before I reach the next table over. He puts his hand on my back to usher me through the crowded restaurant. I stop and let him and his hands go ahead of me.
We reach the door and George opens it for me.
“Thanks,” I say, still smiling.
We stand on the sidewalk in silence. The street isn’t very busy but too busy to cross without warning.
“My car’s this way,” he says.
“That’s okay, I called a ride service,” I say, watching him closely.
He takes a few steps away from me. I hear him sigh.
He walks toward me again and I back away from him. His eyebrows are furrowed and the right one is twitching again.
“After all this, after listening to all your bullshit through dinner, after paying, after pretending to have fun at this shitty restaurant, you’re going to call a ride service?”
He’s not yelling. But it’s close.
“Yes,” I say.
“Unbelievable. Fucking Stephanie. I should have known you were gonna to be another one of her pet prudes,” says George.
My ride share pulls up. George continues taking steps toward me and for the first time in a long time, I actually feel afraid. The same driver, my friend from the ride to the restaurant, rushes out of the car and between George and I.
“Back up,” he says to George.
“I’m sorry,” I start, “He’s drunk–”
The driver raises his hand to acknowledge me but says nothing more. George is standing in front of him, huffing like a bull facing a matador. After what could have been thirty seconds or five minutes, George leans around the driver to swear at me once more and then walks down the street.
I’m silent.
The driver puts his hands in his pockets as he turns to face me. “Ready to go?” he asks with a calm that is out of place but welcome.
“Yes,” I say and get in the front seat of the car.
We ride in silence for the first half of our drive.
“Are you okay?” he asks me.
“Yes. Thank you for doing that. You didn’t have to–”
“I didn’t like those steps. Seen those before,” he says. He doesn’t offer any further information and I don’t ask.
“I really appreciate it,” I say.
He nods.
When we eventually pull up to my building, I thank him again and move to get out of the car. But I glance back at him and his face is sad. So sad.
“Not everyone in Buffalo is like that,” I say, leaning back into my seat.
The comment seems to break his trance and he chuckles to himself, “Yeah, I know. Just, uh, just bad timing. I was glad to be your driver again. Just want you to know that.”
He looks at his hands while he speaks.
“I’m glad I got you again too,” I say.
I wait for him to look at me and then smile. The silence in the car gets louder as neither of us moves. Awkwardness fills the space between us and I open the car door. “Thanks again. For everything.”
“Anytime,” he replies.
I shut the door and cross in front of his car. This time, I make sure I stay in plain view of him to wave.
A spark ignites in my chest. I feel like I could recite a sonnet as he drives away.
I unlock the gate and make my way up the walk to the door, thinking about the driver. Once inside and making my way up the stairs, matching the rhythm of my steps, I whisper to myself:
Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws, And make the earth devour her own sweet brood; Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws, And burn the long-lived phoenix in her blood; Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets, And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time, To the wide world and all her fading sweets; But I forbid thee one most heinous crime: O, carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow, Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen; Him in thy course untainted do allow For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men. Yet, do thy worst, old Time: despite thy wrong, My love shall in my verse ever live young. (Shakespeare, Sonnet XIX (19))
“How did it go, Shakespeare?” Malcom breaks my thoughts clean in two. I hadn’t even realized I’d reached his door.
I smile and shrug.
He scrunches up his face before putting his hand on my shoulder. “It’ll be better next time.”
“Thanks,” I say, wriggling myself out from under his hand.
“Oh, sorry. No touchy. Forgot. But for real, dude’s a douche if he didn’t roll out the red carpet. You know that, right?” he asks as he locks his door.
I nod, but follow it up with, “I’m pretty tired.”
He nods too and reaches out his hand to pat my shoulder but catches himself at the last minute. Instead, he shoots a finger gun at me before flushing ever so slightly. “Have a good night, okay? And if you’re still up in a few hours, come have a drink. On me.”
I nod again and continue down the hall.
I hear the jingling on the other side of the door and I’m so glad to be home.
Again, I sit on the ground just inside the door and give the kittens some love. Without moving, I get out my phone out and scroll through my contacts until I reach Stephanie.
“Soooooo? How did it go?” she asks.
“Steph. He’s perfect,” I say.
“I know, right? I knew you’d love him,” she says.
“Where did you find him again?” I ask her as I get up and walk into the bedroom.
“Some bar on Elmwood at like 3am.”
“Good find. I don’t know how you do it. Oh, speaking of which – I might have someone interested in joining us if you wanted to look into him. I’ll send you his info.”
She squeals in excitement, “Yes, yes, yes! You know I love new friends!”
I can’t help but smile at the excitement in her voice, “Okay, well, I gotta go. Have some cleaning up to do.”
Stephanie laughs, “Yeah, you do. Oh, did you see Mark tonight?”
“He was our server.”
“No, he wasn’t!”
“Yes. Yes, he was.”
“Well then I guess he doesn’t need an update. I bet he knew before I did,” she says.
“He definitely does. He kept a close eye on us the whole time.”
Stephanie squeaked again, “Which George hated, I’m sure.”
I laughed in agreement.
“Well, good. I’m glad. Let me know when swap day is, yeah?”
“Yeah, I’ll keep you posted. Oh, and before I left today, I yelled into the apartment ‘you three be good’ like he’s a pet.”
Stephanie laughed until she cried.
I like how well I’m getting to know Stephanie. Friendship means more when you know exactly what will make the other laugh.
“Just don’t tell the cats,” she says.
Then, I laugh too.
I hang up and text Stephanie a screenshot of the driver’s information before throwing the phone on the bed. I take a look around room.
I look at the pictures I’ve hung on the wall, the bedspread I bought at Home Goods, the lamps, the nightstands, the books on the shelves. Everything is exactly the way I want it. When I moved here and got this apartment, I was worried I had made a mistake. Then I met Malcom. Then started working at the hospital and met Stephanie. Shortly after, we met Mark and his psychopathic brother. I have friends. I even have confidants. I’ve started a real life here. It makes me wonder what being in love really would be like. Or even what looking for the kind of love everyone else looks for would be like. I mean, going on these dates is always fun but it does make me think about love in a more permanent way. After all, what is life without love?
I breathe deep, letting the comfort of my circumstances course through my veins. My eyes continue to survey the room before resting on the closet door. Oh, the walk-in closets. If there is one thing that sold me on these apartments, it is the closets. They are enormous.
I walk toward the door, stopping at the large armoire to grab the lock box, then into the closet I go. My happy place. I set the lock box on top of the extra-large dog crate in the middle of the room. I open the box and take out one of the filled syringes. As I press the liquid into the IV hanging out the side of the dog crate, I have an epiphany. The kind of love I want and need from a romantic relationship isn’t going to come from another person. That’s not me, that’s never been me. Unconditional love, the kind they write about in fairytales, no one can give that to another person. Not really. No one can love me like that… except for myself. That’s it. That’s the answer.
Jerry, curled into the fetal position, bound and gagged, begins to stir.
I truly am the happiest I can be. Because I have myself. And that’s the relationship I’m going to focus on. The realization has me giddy.
“Well, hello, stranger,” I whisper through the bars of the cage.
Jerry tries to scream but it’s muffled and the walls are thick.
“Mark says hello,” I say, standing and going back to the lock box. I place the empty syringe back in the box and get out a knife, plyers, and a pair of children’s scissors Jerry had once plunged into Mark’s stomach before telling his mother Mark had done it to himself.
I can see the panic in Jerry’s eyes.
I begin to unlock the cage, “Oh, don’t worry so much. It’s all over! We found a new one. So, tonight’s the night!”
I am honored to say that this story was edited by Lillian Boyd. I’m a huge fan of her podcast Rank and Vile. She is so wildly knowledgeable about all things pop culture that I am in awe. Even if you aren’t in a tawdry love affair with horror, the podcast is a true delight. Definitely give it a listen!
Special thanks to Cafe 59 for letting me use their restaurant in my story. I miss so many things about Buffalo and Cafe 59 is a big one! So, I thought to myself, how best to pay homage? Well, obviously set my serial killer’s date there! Go buy their food!
Week 3?! How did this happen?! Only one more week to go on this Horrah journey you’ve embarked on with me. This week, I present to you a little preview from a poetry collection I’m putting together. The full work will be available sometime next year! 2021, I’m ready. In the meantime, here’s a lovely story about a woman who realizes there’s no reason to be afraid of the dark.
A Bedtime Poem
Pajamas on, she gets in bed. Moving pillows, avoiding dread. She turns off the light and into the night, Blankets, sheets, over her head.
She does not see but only feels A presence that is all too real. Face it, she must. In herself, she must trust. She throws off her blankets with zeal.
The demon close, warming her skin, It sees her soul, the pain within. Gently it wraps her in a tender grasp. She’s scared but her fear wears thin.
It’s warmth does not burn like the dead, Instead it warms like fresh baked bread. “I will hold thee as long as you need me,” It growls and sets her in bed.
Her guardian demon hugged her. She fell asleep in its fur. When she awoke like a fever that broke, She welcomed what trouble could stir.
It’s Week 2. You’ve made it. We’ve made it. The second Saturday in April! Wait… Anywho, welcome to the second installment of Horrah Novembah! This week, we have a trigger warning about home invasion. (Mom, I don’t think you’ll like this one either.) Also, writing this story definitely did NOT give me, myself, and I nightmares. Enjoy!
Knot
The town built the fence. The fence between my backyard and the four-lane road I coast along every single day. The road with the middle school, the huge stadium, and a parking lot to match. The only road that leads into my neighborhood.
The fence has long since lost the scent of wood, washed away by countless thunderstorms. The wood is faded and rough to the touch. The first time I touched the fence, a memory rose to the surface like blood from a paper cut. I was dancing on the back deck of our old house and heard my dad’s voice, “Don’t drag your feet, you’ll get a splinter!” Then, the inevitable needle and tweezers, blurred as if seen through tears.
My yard is covered in soft, green grass; the kind that’s made for bare feet. A large wooden pergola shades half of the yard. Half the ground under the pergola is a patio, puzzle-pieced together with pretty pink bricks. The kind with those little flecks of sparkly stone that glisten in the sunlight. And the trees! Oh, the trees. There’s the tall English oak, towering and strong. And two crepe myrtles with pink blossoms that float down around my head like cotton candy snowflakes.
I like to sit out there. I write out there, think out there, run away from bees out there. I’ll sit on the patio and drink a cold beer on a hot day or drink hot tea on a cold night. I’ll lay in the grass or play fetch with my dog. Her nails click on the bricks like a song.
But whenever I look out in my yard, through the expansive windows or the glass of my back door, I don’t notice the trees or the bricks or the bees or the flowers. I notice the fence. I have to pry my eyes from it.
Today, just before I pull my eyes away from the fence, I notice a hole. Had it been there before? I don’t think so. No, it definitely wasn’t there before. It wasn’t even there yesterday. We had a big storm last night. One little-bitty hole caused by that great big storm? I throw a tennis ball for my dog and walk toward the fence. The hole is high enough that I’m not sure I’ll be able to reach it. There had been a knot in the wood. The storm must have popped out the middle piece.
I look for a smooth space to place my hands on the fence and stand on my toes, willing my spine to extend an extra inch. I’m surprised to find I’m able to look through. I see – my house? My backyard, the same oak tree and the crepe myrtles. The same brickwork on the house. Through the windows, I can see my yellow couch in the living room and my grandpa’s lamp in the bedroom window.
I lean away from the fence and look around. I’m still in my backyard. I taste something metallic in the back of my throat.
I raise myself up to look again and there, staring back at me, is a green eye.
I scream and whoever is on the other side screams too.
My hands slip and I pull them away from the wood as quickly as I can to avoid a splinter. I stumble backward and tumble to the ground, my tailbone ringing up into my ears. Annie thinks I’m playing and licks my face.
I scramble back to the fence and shoot to my tiptoes again.
Cars rush by. A child leisurely rolls past on a scooter. The middle school sits off in the distance.
I stare for another moment before dropping back on my heels.
I take a step toward the house before a chill catapults through my veins like the cold metal sphere of a pinball machine. I allow the fear to wash over me like a wave. Like saltwater, it seems to leave a residue. Something tangible hangs just outside my awareness.
Annie’s jingling collar brings me back to the yard. She leans into my leg as if to say, “It’ll all be okay if you throw this ball again.” And so I do.
The day turns to night and grogginess overcomes me. Snuggled in my bed, in the dark, with Annie curled up beside me, I think about the fence and the eye. Was it real? I think about the scream and how it echoed with familiarity.
That’s it! I’ve seen her before. I mean, yes, in the mirror every day. But also, when I was little. The same house with the splinters. My room was a refurbished attic with slanted ceilings that made two small cubby holes on each side. It always felt like a fairytale room to me. It was just my size. The old door had a keyhole that I used to look through from time to time. I’m not even sure why I looked. But one day, she was there. We had talked. Albeit briefly, but we had talked. What did we talk about?
Whimpering.
I don’t remember falling asleep but I must have. I feel around the bed for Annie but she’s not in her usual spot. The bed is warm so she hasn’t been gone long. I turn on the light.
Whimpering.
I hear it again. It seems to be coming from down the hall. Maybe she’s at the window. Maybe she saw a rabbit in the garden or heard a low rumble of thunder. I grab her thunder shirt off the nightstand and make my way toward the front of the house.
The door of the office is closed. I hear her whimper from the other side.
The hair stands on my neck. I hear a shuffle behind me.
Sudden unfamiliar hands around my torso. I hear myself scream and hear Annie’s bark from the closed room. I kick and flail against strong arms. I feel a searing heat across my abdomen. My hands are wet now. It’s harder to move. The arms let me go as if they’ve done what they came to do. I fall to the ground. A shadow stands above me. Watching, waiting.
I don’t move, hoping I can wait out the monster, but my energy is waning. I can’t just lay here and do nothing. I begin to crawl toward the living room. I hear the squish of slow footsteps behind me. I smell a candle I had blown out hours ago and taste copper.
I reach the couch and pull myself up. The floor is slippery.
The back door is so close. I try to run but he catches me again.
I swing my arms and make contact with his throat. He smells like chemicals. He stumbles backward.
I pull the backdoor open with so much force that the window in the door shatters. Time seems to slow as the glass sprinkles the ground. If twinkle lights made a sound, that’s what it would be.
I’m outside now and I feel like I’m walking in mud. I don’t know why it’s so cold in June. The sparkle of the bricks, the dimly lit trees, the smell of a summer night, the backyard is beautiful in the moonlight.
I move toward the fence. My breath gurgles in my chest. I take as deep a breath as I can, lift myself up and scream through the hole, “Wake up! He’s coming!”
I slide down the fence and into the soft grass. The patio light is blotted out as the shadowy form approaches.
“She was first,” he says.
Her scream rushes out of my memory like water over a waterfall. That day, at the keyhole, her father had pulled her away. He wore a lab coat. He didn’t look angry. He looked scared. Someone else stood behind him. I couldn’t see them, but I had heard a shuffle.
“You and her,” the shadow pointed at the fence, “would have connected us all.”
It’s Week 1 of Horrah Novembah! Before I bestow my first delightful story upon you, I want to add a trigger warning – this story is literally called “Blood”. There will be blood. I’ve also been told the story is gross. (Mom, you won’t like it!) Reader beware! Enjoy.
Blood
With blood on her hands, she closed the front door. She was careful not to smear any on the doorknob or the lock. She heard the lock click into place and felt the smallest weight lift off her shoulders. It was replaced by another yoke slowly lowering around her neck. The weight was so heavy she feared she might leave footprints in the wooden floor as she made her way to the kitchen. Holding her hands out in front of her, she let her bag slip off her shoulder, being careful not to touch it. Something clinked as the bag made contact with the table. She kicked her shoes off, each one hitting the far wall with a clunk. The cool tile floor felt good on her feet.
She looked down as she carefully removed her yellow raincoat. Her button-down blouse and jeans beneath it soaked through with the same red liquid dried in her nail beds. She carefully examined the coat, a faint scent of rubber and something earthy emanating from it. When she was satisfied nothing had transferred, she draped the coat over the kitchen chair. She quickly washed her hands in the kitchen sink, only bothering to remove the freshest blood.
Making her way back down the hallway toward the basement door at the end, her pace slowed. Hung on the door was a child’s finger painting. An array of paint colors, smeared across the construction paper, ending in a solid hand print of dark red. The paper had crinkled as it dried. For the briefest moment, she stood still in front of it before raising her hand to press over the small hand print. She looked at her hand, still red with another kind of paint. She felt her head swim the way it does right before tears surface, like she could feel the salt water surging upwards. She shook them away, her hand dropping back to her side.
She knelt before the small table in the hallway just outside the basement door. After carefully pulling the drawer out until it fell free, she reached back in the empty space and retracted a key. She unlocked the door before replacing the key. The drawer slid back into place as easily as it had come out.
Without giving the painting another look, she went through the door. The house was so quiet tonight. The storms had subsided. No rain, no thunder. Only the silence, the darkness, and her. Another comforting click of a lock before she turned on the light.
Each step down the stairs felt like wading in deeper and deeper. One more creaking wooden step and her head would be under the proverbial water. A nightly cleansing; a drowning.
The concrete of the basement was colder than the kitchen floor.
She turned on the second switch that illuminated the rest of the basement and her eyes took a moment to acclimate. Her grandfather’s old wooden work bench stood against the wall to her left. His tools still in their proper place with a few new ones she had added.
Past the work bench, the wall was lined with neatly stacked chopped wood. She gathered a few in her arms. The wood stove sat at the far end of the room. The hinges groaned as she opened the heavy metal door.
“Oh hush,” she said as she placed the wood inside.
She stood and began unbuttoning her blouse. She tore it into strips before setting each of them on fire, one by one, and tucking them under and around the logs. While the fire grew, she turned on the hot water at the utility tub on the wall opposite the stacked wood. She gathered her scrubbers and brushes as the water ran. She placed them on a shelf between the utility tub and the washer and dryer.
She checked the fire again before removing her camisole and tearing it into pieces of kindling as well. She added these to the building flames and stoked the fire with a poker. When the flames were high and steady, she removed her jeans and cut them, careful not to let the shears come in contact with the red. She added each piece of fabric methodically, waiting for the fire to partially consume the previous addition. She checked her under garments and breathed a short sigh of relief. Bras are so expensive.
After she’d placed each piece of fabric into the wood stove, the water was finally hot. As if she were a surgeon prepping for an operation, she scrubbed her hands and arms. With the same level of attention, she cleaned her chest, clavicles, neck and face. In the mirror hanging from a rafter behind the utility sink, she checked her hair to see if there were any concerns. It looked clean but she decided to wash it anyway.
When she was done washing, she took a perfectly white, perfectly folded towel from the top of what could have been a store display on the other side of the utility tub. Like it had been freshly laundered at a hotel, it smelled sterile. She smiled thinking of that first hotel stay and the maid that shared all her laundering secrets.
She dried herself off and wrapped her hair up in an ice cream twist on top of her head. She stoked the fire again before unrolling a strip of wax paper on top of the work bench. She opened the deepest drawer at the bottom of the workbench and retrieved a mason jar.
“Damn it,” she muttered as she remembered the two jars still in her bag on the kitchen table. The drawer clinked as she gently pushed it closed with her ankle.
She opened another drawer and retrieved the rest of her tools. Pushing that drawer closed with her elbow, she slid a piece of wood on the top of the workbench to reveal a bottle of rubbing alcohol.
She connected the tube to the needle and unscrewed the top of the mason jar. Taking one side of the rubber tourniquet in her mouth, she wrapped the rest around her arm and pulled tight. She examined her veins. Is today a cephalic or a cubital kind of day? She made a fist and released it. Cubital, it is.
She pressed a cotton ball to the top of the rubbing alcohol and flipped it over, the liquid sloshing to the top of the bottle. She checked her veins again before cleaning the area with the cotton ball. She picked up the needle and placed the other end of the tubing into the mason jar.
The needle slid into her arm with ease. It had almost amused her the first time she’d done it. How easy it was to press something sharp through skin. The blood began to fill the tube and drip into the jar. She laid her head down on her arm and watched as the jar filled. She watched as her pain, her joy, her anger, her sorrow, her happiness, her fear, her apologies, her blood drained from her arm and into a glass container. Another piece of her soul. Something she could see and touch.
As the level rose to the 16 oz mark, she bit the tourniquet to release it, removed the needle and replaced it with gauze as if in one movement. She sat for a few moments, holding the gauze on the needle mark and staring into the jar. She felt the edges of her mouth curl into a calm smile. She breathed a deep sigh before wrapping the purple bandage tape around her arm and screwing the top back onto the mason jar.
She turned around to look at the basement. She was looking forward to the rest of the cleaning, the smell of disinfectant, the assurance that not a drop of blood would be left behind. With the jar in her hand, she made her way back to the staircase. Standing to the side of the stairs, she set the jar on a step and with some effort, pulled out a stack of large plastic storage containers with a loud scrape. With “Christmas stuff”, “Memorabilia”, and “Miscellaneous” pushed to the side, she picked up the jar and ducked under the staircase. Once under, she stood tall and opened a large wooden door. Behind it was a smaller metal door that opened into a walk-in cooler. Inside, she flipped another switch and a single bulb in the middle of the ceiling flickered to life.
The room was only about six feet by six feet and the insulated walls were lined with shelves. One full side of the room was completely full of glass jars. Some were red, some had separated and others looked like lava lamps. She ran her fingers along each row, a faint smile still on her face. Each shelf housed just shy of two hundred jars and each wall had four shelves. She was excited to start the second wall of shelves with this offering. She placed it in the middle of the second shelf from the top in the back of the cooler. She stepped back, looked at the jar, and took it in.
She blew a kiss before backing out of the cooler. She closed both doors and put away all her bloodletting tools. She stoked the fire again and got out a large bucket. She placed the bucket in the utility tub and once again, turned the hot water knob all the way on. She poured a sizable helping of disinfectant into the bucket before adding the water and stirred it with her hand.
By the time she’d finished mopping and cleaning, the woodstove had died down. She decided she’d sift the ashes for any remnants tomorrow. She made her way back upstairs and locked the basement door before closing it. She made her way to the bathroom, removing the towel from her head as she floated down the hallway. Her hair fell around her face in damp ringlets. She looked into the mirror and practiced smiling and laughing without making a sound. She practiced mouthing the word “hello”, watching her facial muscles. She practiced touching her face while she talked, the way she’d seen the newscaster do so the night before.
She glanced at the clock in the hall. She hadn’t realized how late it had gotten. She turned off the light and made her way back down the hall to her bedroom. She passed the basement door once more, passed the child’s painting. Her painting. Yellow, green, and purple paint mixed with the blood of the first man she murdered. She thought about the first jar she’d ever placed in her grandfather’s secret cooler. The bottom shelf had already been full. Blood for blood, he’d said. Just before she’d run out of red paint.
I haven’t written a blog post for a while. There are a lot of reasons for that!
And one of them is depression.
Depression can and does look different for every person. In this post, I’m going to write about specifically my experience, which means you may or may not relate. Someone you love who also deals with depression may or may not feel a similar way. But if you’d like to share, I’d love to hear about your experience and how it’s similar or different from mine in the comments.
I was diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety about four years ago and now-a-days, I’m proud to say that I have a pretty good handle on it. I’ve also been in talk therapy sporadically since college and regularly for the past three years, had the opportunity to figure out what medication works best for me, and have had the time to learn a lot about my particular brand of depression.
The fact of the matter is that those things aren’t available to everyone. Talk therapy can be expensive (here are some inexpensive/free options), medication can be too (here are some natural treatments (always consult a doctor first)), and the most challenging part: it’s really, really, really hard to make ourselves a priority over other things in our lives. Not only do other people occasionally not understand but I know for me, I give myself a hard time about it on the regular. It’s not easy and I don’t have it figured out.
I don’t want to feed anyone rainbows so that *lofty, pretentious voice* you too, can poop skittles. No. But! I have found, in the midst of my own depression, some ways to find a moment of peace. And in this moment, when some folks have some time on their hands, I felt moved to share.
I’ve learned that, for me, depression and anxiety are all sorts of tangled up. In fact, while they are separate things, they are often connected in some way. External factors, like anxiety, can have a big impact on the way I function with depression in my day to day life.
Something I’ve worked hard on over the past couple years is coming to an understanding with myself that depression is a part of me. That some days are good and some days are bad but I can always love myself and give myself grace even in the midst of a hard time. I understand that I will eventually emerge from the depths as a butterfly. Or sometimes, I’ll emerge more like the goo phase between the caterpillar and the butterfly… but I will emerge. Just like I have every time before. It might be short lived or more long term, but either way, I try to take full advantage of moments where I can find and hold onto gratitude. I know. Eye roll material. But also, sometimes when I emerge as the goo, I’m not up to or have the patience for trying to remold myself. Which can lead to me falling right back into another cycle. But now, at least I know I’ll emerge from that one too.
Actually, that little line hidden in the middle of the previous paragraph might be one of the most important discoveries for me: “Just like I have every time before.” There’s something about recognizing my surroundings when I’m in them: I’ve been here before, I know this feeling. I realized I could, slow and steady, start figuring out how to make changes. And! Some changes have worked and some most certainly did not. Like eating all the ice cream and popcorn while watching movies all day and napping excessively… for me, that only helps like… 10% of the time (for real though, it shouldn’t be ruled out completely). And full disclosure, when it does help, it’s usually in a temporary, superficial kind of way.
I still find it important to first and foremost, throw myself a little mental back-to-this-familiar-shitty-place-welcome-home pity party and really acknowledge that I’m there. Sometimes that can take a couple minutes or it can take a full day. Both of which are okay. But I try to keep it to a day. Then, I go into recon mode (… reconnect mode… making up phrases and mantras: my forte). I like doing this while I drink a cup of coffee. Because, well, coffee.
I check in with all my senses and get specific about it. What am I hearing? The low hum of my computer fan. What am I smelling? Fresh brewed coffee beans. What am I seeing? My favorite pictures on the wall, cast in the yellow hue of my desk lamp. What am I touching? My hands are holding a warm coffee cup and my feet are on a soft carpet (I mush in my toes). What am I tasting? Rich bold coffee with a splash of non-dairy creamer. I settle into that moment for a minute.
Once I’m grounded, I check in with my body. I have the most struggles with anxiety and stress in my stomach (nausea), neck (pain) and shoulders (tension) so I check on those first. I’ll also see if I have any other pains or weird feelings elsewhere. Once I note everything that’s going on (and they’re all things I’ve already talked to a medical professional about), I try to figure out why those things are bothering me.
If I have a stomach ache: did I eat something I don’t usually eat? Did I drink too much coffee? Did I take a new medication? If it’s nothing external, I think internal. Is it general anxiety? Is there a specific stressor? Is there more than one stressor? Which is most important? Which is having the greatest effect on me? Once I have those things figured out, which again can take a few minutes, a few hours or a full day, I try to deal with the most important stressor first.
A couple examples:
1. If the stressor is a big meeting at work, I ask myself why I’m anxious about it. Am I prepared? If yes, I think about what else it could be. If no, I’ll then decide on some course of action. I’ll think about how much time I have left and decide if scrambling will actually help me feel better or if I will instead confess that I am not prepared, see if the meeting can be rescheduled, deal with the repercussions and know that next time, I’ll start making the presentation a week in advance instead of two hours beforehand. Either way, I’m making a choice. I’m always making a choice even if I do nothing. But bonus, if I own it, doing nothing actually does become an action.
2. If the stressor is that I’m not getting enough sleep, I’ll go to bed earlier. Easier said than done. So if that doesn’t work and I just can’t fall asleep, I’ll try to figure out one thing, just one thing, I can try that would make going to bed easier, like sleep podcasts. And try it out for a week. If the sleep podcast doesn’t work, then maybe I’ll try a noise machine or noise app. Try it out. If not, maybe a new playlist. Or! Maybe meditating! (More on meditating later.)
But who has time for all this thinking!? That’s the thing. We think all the time and I don’t know about you but my thoughts tend to veer in the direction of “unhelpful” fairly often. These productive thoughts can take place while drinking your morning coffee and packing your lunch for work, or while you’re on the bike at the gym, or on your commute, or on a bathroom break, or on your lunch break, or while you’re making dinner. It was awesome to realize that I didn’t have to change my whole life immediately to start being a little more mindful. And when I actively work on whatever it is that’s bothering me but thinking it through (and effectively replacing lots of the negative thoughts I would have been having) even though I’ll still have some anxiety about it, the fact that I’m working on it eases the weight of the anxiety enough that sometimes, I can then climb out of depression.
Meditating is another really wonderful way to find peace. I’ve been consistently meditating for about a year now and have seen a real difference in my ability to handle my anxiety and depression. Some folks may find it a little woo-woo but there are a lot of different options, I swear! For example, this is one of my favorite songs for meditation and I like to incorporate the chakras, some stones and light some incense – which I know for a fact, some people find a little over the top. But Bob Roth’s book Strength in Stillness: The Power of Transcendental Meditation, takes a very laid back, practical approach to meditation.
Sometimes, like the situation we find ourselves in now, the major stressor might be something that we can’t change or have no control over. For me, that’s when things get extra tricky. I feel like my body goes into Hunger Games mode (I honestly don’t know why I call it that) and starts shutting down all non-essentials.
But that moment, in and of itself, is where a choice can be made. I can let myself shut down and lay on the couch all day (which is a valid option and sometimes what my body needs) or, I can turn the non-essentials back on. It’s a balancing act of figuring out how to take care of myself. And making a change when I pick something that doesn’t work. I can decide that even though I feel sucky right now, I can get out my paints and throw some on a random piece of cardboard I found in my garage, or I can get out some paper and cut out some freaking snowflakes (winter in *insert month*), if I own my house, I can find some crayons and color on the walls if I want! I’m an adult! I can also sit down at the damn computer and write a freaking blog post about depression.
The take away? Be creative! Research (see below) shows that repressed creativity has a lot to do with depression. And that even just a little creativity can have a huge impact on those struggling with depression. And this is SO CHEESE BALL but, from my personal experience, like literally right now, I feel a little better having written this blog post.
Disclaimer: I don’t think it will be surprising to anyone when I say that I am NOT a doctor. Or a nurse, therapist, psychologist, or psychiatrist. I have just had the opportunity to see various doctors, therapists and psychiatrists to learn how to assess my personal health needs. If you are experiencing physical or mental health issues and have not done so, please seek medical attention.
And for anyone that might need them:
Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration National Helpline 1-800-662-HELP (4357)
National Suicide Prevention Lifeline 1-800-273-8255
So this meal, I mean… do you ever eat something and you just take a bite and there are. no. words. for the joy you experience? I don’t know why, I don’t know how, but this meal is that for me. I eat it for breakfast, I eat it for lunch, and sometimes, if they day is right, I’ll have it for din din too!
Salmon, salmon, salmon. Smoked, smoked, smoked.
And the best thing is how easy-peasy it is! Not a ton of ingredients, it still feels fancy AF, and rolling it at just 334 calories for a serving, it’s not too shabby on the health spectrum either (just one little bitty tinsy weensy ounce of cream cheese).
“Rosemary, sage and thyme, while also herbs, when shouted toward a person are not funny,” she adds. (Susan Credle, the executive creative director at BBDO New York)
I will say, I usually have this on a dark rye bread but on a whim, I tried this Dave’s bread today and I am sold! It was even more heavenly than it already was.
So! Go ahead and toast your slice of bread, dollop an ounce of cream cheese on there and smear it all around, do a little sprinkle of garlic salt across it, a 1/4 tsp of dill weed, an ounce (or so) of cucumber, and two ounces of smoked salmon!
And then nom!
That’s literally all you do. It takes like 5 min.
Also, I’m extra so I like to cut the cucumber on an angle so it’s extra fancy.
There are so many pictures in this post. But I’m just so excited about this recipe.
So here’s one more of the finished delicious product.
And the heavenly chorus sang.
Recipe:
2 oz – Smoked Salmon, store-bought or homemade (stay tuned for my homemade smoked salmon adventure) 1 oz – Cream Cheese (or less) 1oz – Cucumber 1 slice – Bread of your choice (but I highly recommend the DAVES bread pictured above or a dark rye) 1/4 tsp – Dill Weed 1 sprinkle – Garlic Salt (I tried to measure it but it was such a small amount that I chuckled quietly to myself and gave up)
Step 1 – Toast bread. Step 2 – Spread cream cheese on toast. Step 3 – Sprinkle seasonings on top of cream cheese. Step 4 – Add cucumber slices. Step 5 – Add 2 oz of smoked salmon.
1 Serving – 334 calories if made with Dave’s bread and full fat cream cheese.
Also yes, that’s me holding a big ol’ salmon in the cover photo. My brother is a guide! More on that later but if you wanna go fishing up in New York, give him a shout here!
As I’m sure many of you already know: writing isn’t easy. It’s a glorious and painstaking process. I mean, think about it: the biggest obstacle between most writers and a finished book is simply getting the words on the page. And yes, writer’s block is a thing. Or maybe you’ve been rigorously researching a remote town in Idaho for six months straight and you need a break (she says definitely not from experience or anything).
Whatever the reason you’ve stalled, it’s important to find ways to keep those fingers typing or those pens swirling. One of my favorite ways to keep the creativity flowing is with a writing prompt. My writing group will often set a flash fiction (less than 1,000 words) prompt that we can bring in the following week. I find that when I set to writing a short story and complete it, it’s such an awesome feeling that the creativity spills over into my larger, long-term projects. There’s just something about that instant gratification of finishing something in one night and being able to say:
So! Why am I telling you all this? Because! I recently found a really fun writing prompt generator!
You just hop on over there, scroll down and click the generate button! You can pick one based on what you’re feeling that day. I skipped the first prompt it gave me and opted for the second because I knew I didn’t have a ton of time to write that day the second one was only 300 words. The prompt provides a word count, genre, character, material, sentence and a bonus idea that you can add in if you’re feeling frisky.
I’ll share my short story and then afterwards, I’ll share the prompt!
*Warning: it’s a little dark.*
Unnamed Story:
“What have I done?” she asked, emotion tightening her throat.
Her hair was heavy with water. Strands fell into her eyes as she looked down to see her clothing soaked through. She pressed her hand against the fabric, surprised to see red flow over her fingers. Her fingers. The skin was clean but a reddish brown color clung under her nails. Blood, she thought as she reached to touch her forehead. Her head swam as she touched something smooth. Smooth like bone. Her hands flew as far from the laceration as they could reach.
She swallowed hard and with effort, lifted her head. Time slowed so that her breath matched each new plume of smoke off the water: a sailboat completely engulfed in flame some distance off the coast. Her eyes blurred and new warmth fell to her cheeks. She collapsed to the sand, her knees against her chest.
Some faint awareness rose as something fell from her pocket.
A golden coin rested on the sand.
A blinding flash of light and a deafening explosion rang in her head the moment her eyes met the luminous metal. She closed her eyes and covered her ears.
A whisper surrounded her as if carried on the wind, “Take it.”
She looked toward the woods behind her.
“Hello?” she said.
She stared hard at each patch of brush, leaf, or branch dancing in the wind, but heard nothing more.
She looked back at the coin, stared for what could have been days.
Her fingers outstreched, she hesitated for what could have been hours.
She took it.
She stood, with certainty in her eyes.
She walked toward the sailboat.
She walked to her ankles, to her knees, to her waist, to her shoulders.
She walked until the world became a blur beneath the waves.
Prompt
Word count: 300
Genre: Suspense
Character: A remorseful murderer
Material: A coin
Sentence: Hello?
Bonus: Your character is shipwrecked.
The coin was totes cursed. Anyways, hope you enjoyed this dark, damp story!
This story is a prizewinner! No really, it won the flash fiction contest at the Roanoke Public Library Writing Conference in 2019!
“I don’t wanna do this,” said Roger, crossing his arms.
“A thousand years in heaven and you’re still a curmudgeon. How do you manage it?” asked the Divine.
“It’s a gift,” snarled Roger. Five hundred years ago, his stubbornness had deemed him “ineligible” to be a Guardian Angel. He knew he wasn’t getting out of it this time but he had to try.
“Come here,” She said.
Roger didn’t move. He realized he was holding his breath. He finally pushed the air out of his lungs and propelled toward Her as if his own breath was the wind behind him.
“There she is,” said the Divine, pointing through the large glass window of Her office. A young girl walked on a college campus. She was dressed for winter. Roger felt a chill straight to his bones. He hated the winter. Cold and wet and frostbite and—
The Divine had placed Her hand on his shoulder. He was warm again.
“What’s her name?” he growled.
“Annabelle,” replied the Divine.
Before he could stop them, the words fell from his mouth, “Had a dog named Annie.”
“I know.”
“Of course you do.”
“Perhaps the only thing you ever loved?”
Roger harrumphed.
A long silence and three sighs later, Roger mumbled, “Well, what am I supposed to do to her?”
The Divine gave him a knowing look but he refused to meet Her eye.
“Well, where’s the list of guidelines? What are the rules?” asked Roger, getting impatient.
Her voice was flat with feigned annoyance but Her eyes danced. “We don’t have rules or guidelines, Roger.”
He opened his mouth to speak but the Divine spoke first, “Your job is just to love her.”
“To what?” cried Roger. It was as if he’d been told he had to tear her limb from limb. His horror swelled as he saw a familiar look in the Divine’s eye. “Don’t—“
Before he could finish his sentence, some unseen heavenly orchestra began to play. She took Her hands out from behind her back, a microphone in one and the other a dazzling jazz hand. The wall behind Her disappeared like a falling curtain and a vast, glorious choir surrounded them.
“There’s nothing you can know that isn’t known, nothing you can see that isn’t shown. There’s nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.”
Roger groaned as the ensemble swayed and harmonized.
Louder still, She crooned. “It’s easy!”
She threw Her hand out in his direction, not so much asking as demanding he sing the next line. He stared at Her with a new kind of fury. His lead-in played over and over. As Her eyes burrowed into him, he felt his heart soften. As if of its own volition, his mouth formed a whisper, “All you need is love.”
With one last echo, the room was plunged back into silence. The spotlights went out and the two of them were once again enclosed in the Divine’s office, earthly sunlight pouring in through the window. Her arms crossed in front of Her, a smile in Her eyes, as if nothing else had happened, She said softly, “Love is all you need.”
He stared at Her. His anger boiled over.
“Then where was mine?” he yelled.
“I’ve been waiting,” She said. Patiently, kindly, waiting for him to continue.
“Ever since I got here, all I hear about is love! Before coming her, I’d never seen it, never experienced it. Where was my guardian angel?” he howled and fell to his knees, his anger turning to tears.
She approached him slowly and placed Her hand on his head. “You’ve been here for a thousand years, Roger. What took you so long to ask?”
“Because it felt like a mistake. Me being here. I didn’t love, no one loved me.”
“Roger,” said the Divine.
He didn’t move.
“Roger, stand and look at me,” She said with equal parts compassion and force.
He did. And he had never seen such a thing. She was glowing, somehow emanating warmth and understanding.
“You were there to learn something, you’re here to learn something. At least, that’s the goal. All of us must always, intentionally be in the midst of growing. And the only way we can possibly grow in a way that changes us to our core – is to love.”
He scoffed but met Her eye again, his eyes still shining with tears.
“What if I never learned?” asked Roger, his voice small.
“Annie, Roger. Annie was your guardian angel. Annie was your love.”
Roger heard a scratch and looked behind him. He saw little white paws sticking out between the carpet and the bottom of the office door; he heard a nose sniffing furiously. He walked toward the door as it opened. Annie ran in and jumped into Roger’s arms and he fell to the ground. Both frantic and calm, she nuzzled into the crook of his neck. His heart overflowed.
He suddenly remembered where he was.
He got up and turned back to the Divine. She was standing by the window, looking out.
“It’s time,” She said without facing him.
He understood. Or at least, he understood more than he had before and that was enough for now. The office disintegrated around them. Roger and Annie were back in the farmhouse, his chosen heavenly dwelling.
“Time for a walk?” he asked Annie.
She wagged her tail just like she used to, but this time, he appreciated the knowing in it.
Out the front door, they stepped onto the college campus, just as Annabelle approached. She stopped abruptly as her backpack fell to one side. The strap had broken.
“God damn it all to fucking hell!” she yelled for the whole campus to hear.
“Oh, I’m going to like her,” said Roger.
And Annie wagged her tail in agreement.
For those who don’t know: yes, I wrote this story for my dog, Annie.
Watching this magical YouTube video is the first time plot structure REALLY made sense to me. Of course I knew that a story needs a plot. It needs a drive to get from Beginning to End. But I hadn’t really grasped it until watching this video. It comes in at just shy of an hour and a half – but it’s totally worth it.
It’s supposedly more about screenwriting than about writing a novel – but needless to say, I found it applicable.
