I have written 12.5 novels. (The thirteenth one is a work in progress). This is the space where I share my stories with the world. There is so much to say in this life, and so little time...



Sunday, December 18, 2011

Goodbye, Alvin

When someone calls me at 10:45pm, warning lights don't usually go off in my head. When that person calls three times, though, I get a little scared. When his sister's shaky voice greets me on the other end of the line, I brace for the worst.

And the worst came.

Alvin died of unknown causes right after Thanksgiving. There were no warning signs.

Sometimes, the ending is a subtle one. There isn't exactly a round of applause or giant sweeping curtain.

I miss him in a way that's totally foreign to me. It's not like we were best friends or anything; I'd only known him a couple months. But we had a pretty intense understanding. His physical disability set him apart from others, while my isolation stemmed from being the new girl in town. We were both in search of a friend who had plenty of time to listen and plenty of stupid jokes to share. Of course, we were able to easily find that in one another.

Alvin, I'll never forget the first time we ventured out for bubble tea. I didn't tell you how nervous I was and I sure hope you didn't notice. I'd never had a friend who was paralyzed before; I didn't want to say or do anything wrong. Thankfully, you were understanding. Easy to talk to, as well. My anxiety proved to be completely unnecessary.

Even though we only got a small amount of time together, I feel lucky. The world could use more people like you.

You will be missed, my friend.

Love,
Lisa



Goodbye, Alvin

A cool breeze slid under my jacket, reminding me that autumn in San Francisco was not very forgiving. With a shiver, I realized I would need a winter coat soon.

Lights flashed from across the intersection. Old Navy's storefront was lit up like a cartoonish Christmas tree. I stopped walking for a moment, so I could marvel at the spectacle. Winter coats were on display in the main window. A spotlight had been strategically placed on the black peacoat in the center.

I assured myself I would purchase that coat. After payday.

My phone buzzed with a text. Nick was checking up on me, making sure I had successfully navigated my way from The Mission to Portola. I informed him I was almost there. The 8x bus would lead me straight to Alvin's door. Piece of cake.

I darted across Market Street. The bus driver didn't blink as I shoved my wrinkly dollar bills into the machine. Business as usual.

Inhaling sharply, I grabbed onto one of the leather straps. There was nowhere to sit; apparently, it was the right time of day to be heading South.

Downtown grew smaller and smaller; Portola was nowhere near the city center. The sky kept darkening until it was a murky gray color. Fog wasn't a type of weather in this part of town; rather, it was a way of life.

I called Alvin because texting wasn't an option.

"I'm close," I informed him.

"Ok. I'll leave the house now," he said. "Meet me outside the corner store."

Anxiety coursed through my veins with a fierceness I hadn't felt since I'd seen Nick in the lobby of the W Hotel. That had been two months prior, and it had been completely overwhelming. Like being hit by a speeding, extra-long freight train.

I couldn't tell whether I liked the feeling or despised it. The excitement was there, of course, but it was tainted by sheer terror.

As the bus cruised to a stop, I spotted Alvin's wheelchair. Even from across the street, I could see the hope in Alvin's brown eyes. It had taken six years, but he had finally found a friend who would accept him in his present state...regardless of how damaged or dependent that state was.

I stepped off the bus, keenly aware that this interaction would have a dramatic effect on both our lives. I greeted Alvin, then began pushing his chair down the street as though it was something I did every day. We started talking and wihin a block or two, I couldn't seem to remember what I had been afraid of.

Alvin pointed toward a park. Rain trickled from the sky, landing on our heads. But we barely even noticed the water. A blizzard couldn't have deterred us; we were on a mission, and together we were unstoppable.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Accidentally Vegas

I'm not dead.

I know, it surprised me too! I was beginning to wonder, considering that it's been like TWENTY YEARS since I posted anything.

But, no, it wasn't the grim reaper's fault. Instead, blame the lack of action on...laziness. Yep, pure laziness.

For some reason, I've actually been enjoying myself lately. As in, taking time to soak up life's little pleasures. You know, sitting on the porch during an insanely bright sunset. Re-reading my favorite children's book, the one that's all dusty from sitting on my parents' bookshelf for two decades. Designing stupid t-shirts that depict my love for all things vegan & travel-related.

Wait, maybe that last one only applies to me.

Whatever. You get the point.

Anyway, the laziness is still here (trust me, it's very much alive!). Buuuut, in spite of my incessant desire to RELAX, lately I've been hit with the urge to write. Taking too long of a break from writing is like some form of medieval torture for me. It's about time to get back into psycho mode.

I've got a story to tell, after all.

This one's a little gritty. Maybe a PG-13 rating. That's risque for a Disney-lovin' girl like me.

I won't give the premise, but I will say it takes place (part-time) in Vegas. Only, the main character never meant to wind up there. For that reason, I'm toying around with the title "Accidentally Vegas." Ehhh, not my best title...I may scrap it for something else. But for now, it'll do.

Here's a snippet.

Love, Lisa



He didn’t pick up when I called.

Hey, call me when u get a chance, I texted. There was a sinking feeling in my gut, one that told me Jordan wasn’t going to call. We’d been through this charade before. I wrote to him, he ignored me. It was like sending text messages to a rock.

I pounded my fist against the dresser. I wanted to chuck my cell phone out the window, but I knew that I couldn’t afford a new phone. I couldn’t even afford a cover for mine, which had gotten scratched and cracked in the three months I’d owned it.

Linda was at work. I had the house to myself, but this was the last thing I wanted. I needed someone nearby. I needed a distraction. Badly.

My shirt came off so quickly it’s a miracle it didn’t rip. Rifling through my dresser, I snatched a pink swimsuit. This one held no memories; I hadn’t worn it in years. It wasn’t a reminder of days spent along the coast, admiring the waves with the one human being who could shape my every emotions and dream.

I slithered into the bikini and bolted out the door. There was no time to think, no time to feel sorry for myself. Music blasted through the worn-out speakers in my car. I could feel myself slipping into auto-pilot mode. When things got confusing, I became a robot. It seemed to work just fine.

God, you’ve got to know how much this sucks, I said silently. Not much of a prayer. Then again, at least I wasn’t lying.

I leapt from my car and dashed toward the water. The beach was sparsely populated; not only was it a Thursday, but it was also late in the afternoon. Not exactly the ideal time for a sun-tanning session.

The waves crashed against white sand. There was force in the water, as though it had been given the same bad news I’d received today. The foam inched closer to my toes. Seagulls circled overhead, and I listened for a while. Just stood still and listened.

Then I dove beneath the surface of the water. It was such a soothing sound, the liquid rushing all around me. I could almost forget the rhythm of my own heart.

What would happen if I stayed down here? I wondered briefly. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt at all. Maybe my tired lungs would just give up without a fight.

My parents would miss me, of course. But they’d recover. And they would never have to know the truth. They could think of me as their princess, a girl who was lost in an awful accident. I’d be untarnished.

Even though I knew it was a mistake, I opened my eyes. The salt water stung like a thousand tiny needles. It poked at the surface of my eyes but I kept them open anyway. I didn’t have the energy to blink.

And then a raging fire erupted in my chest. It was explosive and sudden, like a semi-truck crashing into my body. Without thinking twice, I jumped above the crest of the wave. Air couldn’t fill my lungs quickly enough. I tilted my head back and stared at the sky. Not a single cloud, not even in the distance.

An airplane soared overhead. When I spotted the SkyLine emblem on the wing, my heart jumped a little. This was my company, after all. Maybe someone I knew was working that flight. One of my friends from training, perhaps. Or a senior mama, the kind that had worked for the airline since its inception. There was no way to tell. But, whoever the flight attendants were, they were my kin. In a weird way, we were all connected by our lives of instability and uncertainty.

And mine is only going to get more uncertain from this point on, I reflected as the airplane weaved through the sky.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

Los(t) Angeles

I've got a head full of silly dreams. What else is new? I want to move to Nashville, Austin, Vegas...and, most of all, Los Angeles...

So that's the plan. When SWA takes over, I'll head to the West Coast.

In the meantime, I'll have to deal with these crazy daydreams that fight for control of my mind! Poems help. Songs, too. But nothing will scratch the itch quite like an actual MOVE to the city of angels :)

Love, Lisa





Los(t) Angeles

Knotted comforter-
Commercials claiming it's washed fresh for each guest-
And desperate daydreams
As tangled, mangled, mismatched as these linens.
No sleep last night,
No sleep now, either.
The images of there attack me
Like a hundred wasps
Trapped inside a 10x12 studio apartment.
Remember that?
Scottsdale.
2008.
The dead of summer,
With temperatures soaring as high as 120 degrees
And I'd re-live the whole thing,
The whole hot/dry/suffocating mess,
I'd re-do every scorching, third-degree-burn moment
If it meant I'd be ten inches closer
To the celestial city
The one that contains my hope
Like a snowglobe filled with glitter.
In the darkness of this foreign room,
My fingers wrap around recycled sheets
While my mind's coiled tightly 'round an image
Just as silky and over-used...
But captivating nevertheless.
I'll get there.
If I have to crawl, I will get there.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Smoke & Blood

DISCLAIMER: this book does NOT reflect any of my personal views.

It's a book about racism, ignorance, and destruction. It addresses the fact that certain people in this country still haven't learned to accept folks who look/act/think differently than they do.

Seems like my friends are always asking, "do you really have a twin?" or "were you adopted?" or "did you chase the Jonas Brothers across the country?" and I can assure you that the answer to all these questions is NO. While the characters in my novels have done those things, I have not. Not even close.

I write fiction. Fic-tion. As in, it is made up and not real.

Thanks for understanding. Now that we've gotten that out of the way....enjoy!

Love, Lisa





Blake smelled like smoke and blood.

I was sleeping; I went to bed early that night because tomorrow was testing day. I had to do well so I could be in the accelerated classes next year. A lot was riding on those tests.

Blake opened the door to my bedroom, waking me with his rotten stench. I breathed through my mouth in order to avoid it. Sweat, beer, and dirt. Something else, something rotten and decaying. It made my stomach turn.

“Where did you go?” I groaned, shielding my eyes from the light in the hallway.

“Out.”

“Why weren’t you here, Blake?” I asked. Mom came home from the hospital today. We were supposed to be together, as a family. That was the plan. Didn’t Blake care that Mom was getting better? This time she was healed. She promised me. And she poured her pills down the sink, right in front of me and Daddy. As proof.

“Because this place sucks,” Blake told me. His eyes were crazy red, like when Mom was in one of her spells. He glanced at me, at the wall above my bed. He couldn’t focus on one thing.

I swallowed hard. He had no right waking me up. I had a big day tomorrow. Blake was trying to ruin me, the way he had ruined Mom.

“Blake, I’m sleepy.” I yawned for effect.

“I've been, uh, I can't…” he trailed off. He ran a hand over his shaved head, stalling for time. Blake was not one to stall; he was impatient and loud. Demanding.

This change made me nervous.

“What‘s going on?” I asked, sitting up in bed.

“Shelby, I need you to get rid of these.”

“Huh?”

“My boots.” He slid out of the leather boots, something he never did. I swear, Blake slept in those things. They were a part of his body.

He dropped them at the edge of my bed, and I had to wrinkle my nose. The boots were covered in salt, mud, and sticky liquid. It was so gross. My heart was thudding so loud, I could hardly hear anything else.

“Blake, what am I supposed to do with those?” I asked as he slid the boots beneath my bed. I was crying, even though I’d tried to avoid that.

“The dumpster on the way to school. Thanks, Shelby. Thanks.”

He strapped up a pair of Dad’s old workboots. They were ragged and worn-out. But they were clean…at least, cleaner than the ones Blake had placed beneath my bed.

He walked out of my room like nothing had happened.

I sighed and rolled over. There would be no sleep tonight, that was for sure. I’d probably fail every test the next day. I’d end up in stupid classes next year. With the retards. And the ghetto kids, the ones in the projects.

Something crashed on the other side of the house. Then the screaming started. I crept to the edge of the bed. I tried to hear every word even though I knew this wouldn’t end well.

“I wanted you here today,” Mom said. Her voice was pleading.

“Shut your mouth,” Blake snapped.

Dad’s voice boomed through the halls. “Boy, don’t talk to your mother like that!”
“Don’t tell me what to do,” Blake growled. He always had a wild streak, according to Mom. But things had been really bad lately. He dropped out of school last month and he was stealing money again. Blake was a thief and a liar.

“As long as you live under my roof-” Dad began.

“I hate this house,” Blake retaliated. By this point, he was shouting so loud that I could feel the vibrations in my bones. “Go to hell. Both of you. A pillhead mom and a coward father.”

-GET OUT!

-I’M GONE!


The front door slammed. He would be back when he ran out of money. Blake was predictable. He was a disease we couldn’t get rid of. He sucked the life out of everyone.

Mom was crying in the kitchen; I could hear her whimpers. It was the most pitiful sound in the world.

She had a secret stash of pills in the laundry room, behind the fabric softener. I crept down the stairs, moving quickly and quietly. I dumped every pill down the toilet so she wouldn’t be tempted. Blake was determined to destroy her. I refused to let that happen.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Recess Gone Wrong

Two posts in one day! That's what happens when I'm stuck in snowy Grand Rapids, with noplace to go...

Love, Lisa



Nobody played with me during recess. I didn’t mind.

Jacksonville was gorgeous in April. The weather was calm and warm without being oppressive. The unbearable heat would arrive in a couple months, but for the time being it was perfect. It was paradise.

So I spent each 30-minute recess beneath the shade of a big, leafy palm tree.
I was alone but content. I’d study the latest math lesson, the newest English poem. It was so much better than doing homework inside Forrest Elementary. Or, worse, trying to tutor Michelle Jenkins.

Michelle spent her recesses on the blacktop. Now that we weren’t study buddies anymore, she resumed her active social life.

She would practice dance moves with a few of the girls. Sometimes she’d talk to Nick. Or Jesse. Jesse loved to shake his hair. It was his way of proving that he was a surfer, I think. Shaggy blond hair and board shorts. That was his trademark. That was how he defined himself.

Jesse was busy practicing skater stuff that Thursday. He slid up and down the cement, demonstrating his talent for the world. He was good. But he was also a show-off.

I sighed and returned to my pre-Algebra. It was a boring unit, one I’d mastered last year. I was ready for sixth grade, when we’d pick up the pace. They had accelerated units in sixth grade, the kind that would actually make me work. Instead of this baby stuff.

The warning bell rang. We had five minutes left before lunch started.

Michelle kicked up some mud as she walked past me. I didn’t fight back; it wasn’t my style. I brushed the dirt specks off my shorts and continued working on problem #16.

“Hey.”

I glanced up at the sound. It wasn’t Michelle, though. She was already long gone.

“Oh. Hi, Deandra,” I muttered. In an instant, I grabbed my books. I stuffed them under my arm and jumped to my feet. Recess was officially over.

“Hey, I saw what she did to you,” Deandra said quietly as I grabbed my belongings.

I shrugged. It didn’t matter that Michelle was mean to me. I didn’t want anyone’s sympathy…especially Deandra’s.

“It’s not fair for her to act that way. It isn’t right,” Grace insisted.

Please stop talking to me, I thought as I scrambled for the door. It was a beautiful day, but I wasn’t going to spend it outside. Not if I had to spent it with Deandra.

Gone for good

Book #12 is coming along, in spite of the fact that my main character is still nameless. Soon I'll need to give her a title. But I'm gonna stretch this out as long as I can. Who knows? Maybe I can go a long time. There's very little dialogue in this story, so that is a HUGE help. We'll see, I guess!

Love, Lisa




Dad brought home McDonald’s that night.

I ate my chicken sandwich quickly, trying not to think about the envelope resting at the bottom of our garbage can. Dad chewed his fries across the table. I almost felt sorry for the guy; he had no clue that there was a legal battle facing him. I wanted him to know the truth, but I couldn’t let him find out this way.

Mom should’ve had the courage to call us. She should’ve done this in a more personal, gentle way. Better yet, she should have tried to work things out. She’d always been so selfish. She put her own needs above everyone else’s.

Why didn’t she consider our feelings? Maybe Dad didn’t want a divorce…and maybe I wanted a mother. I’d never really had one. Even the times when Mom had lived here, she’d been distant. Her eyes were always focused on things that nobody could see. Nobody except her, that is.

After dinner, I helped Dad wipe down the kitchen table. He retreated to his office and I headed toward my bedroom. I was determined to re-do my math homework. In case I had gotten something wrong the first two times.

But I closed the textbook a couple seconds after opening it.

There was a greater issue at hand. I knew what I needed to do. If Mom wouldn’t take the time to contact me, I would contact her. The world wasn’t such a big place anymore; if I really wanted to find someone, I could do it. Easily.

Turning on my computer, I clicked on the internet icon. There had to be some information about my mother.

Jenny Williams, I typed into the search bar. Memphis, TN.

Nothing popped up. My mom was a ghost, apparently. She knew how to fly under the radar.

Jennifer Williams, I tried. Zip, zero, zilch.

Jen Williams.

She didn’t exist. Not in the cyberspace world, anyway. How was she surviving? She never worked when she stayed with us. She attended college for a few years, took some nursing classes. But she didn’t graduate. She’d relied on my father’s income since I was a baby. Each time she left, she took some more of Dad’s money. If I had a college fund, I’m sure she would’ve depleted it by now.

She’d been gone fourteen months this time. There was no way she was still living off the money she’d taken from us. She must have found some form of employment. It was the only explanation.

I turned off the computer and whipped out a sheet of notebook paper.

Mom,

I really need you right now.

Michelle Jenkins made me feel like an idiot today. She basically announced that we were never friends at all. I’m just the smart kid who helps people with homework. I knew this, I suppose. But nobody ever told me to my face. It felt awful. Am I a loser? Michelle seems to think so.

What am I supposed to do now? And what the heck are you doing in Memphis?

You always came back. You left for a couple weeks, sometimes a month or two.

But you always returned.

So why are you still gone? Why are things different this time? A divorce is final. You should know that Daddy still loves you, and so do I. Maybe we shouldn’t. You’ve always treated us like garbage. You were partly invisible, all that time you lived here. I might as well have lived with an emotionless robot.

And yet I miss you.

I miss having a mother nearby.

Are you ever going to call?

That’s all for now. If you get this, please write back to me. Please tell me I am wrong. Tell me you really did care but you just didn’t know how to show it. That would make a world of difference. It would change everything, I swear it would.


I folded the letter and stuck it inside a business-sized envelope. Those paragraphs were incoherent and childish. I’d never, ever turn in a paper like this…yet I refused to edit a single word.

Mom would have to send us another package. Dad couldn't sign the divorce papers, since they were covered in banana slime. Eventually Mom would have to mail the documents again.

And this time, maybe she'd include a return address. I would be waiting.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

You've got mail...

I need a really Southern name.

MaryAnna? Sarah Beth? Seems to me that Southern names are really two names, stuck together. Still searching for the perfect one.

In the meantime, our protagonist will remain nameless. Interestingly, she doesn't need a name. Not yet, anyway.

Can you guess where this story is going? I tried to make it a little vague. Hopefully I achieved that!

Love, Lisa



I was in fifth grade when Michelle Jenkins destroyed my world. Or, at least, my social life.

We stayed in during recess. This was the millionth time I tried to explain to her the difference between a possessive pronoun and a contraction.

Your shows ownership,” I explained while Mrs. Simpson wiped the chalk board clean. She was used to me spending recess in here with Michelle. Seemed we went over school lessons twice a week…sometimes more. Michelle just couldn’t wrap her head around certain concepts. I was happy to help.

“So when I write your, spelled Y-O-U-R, I am talking about someone owning something?” Michelle asked, furrowing her brow.

I nodded. “Exactly. You’re, on the other hand, with the apostrophe…well, that is just a convenient way of combining a noun and a verb. It is a literary shortcut, basically. A faster way to say what you originally wanted to say.”

Michelle nodded. Her light brown hair moved softly around her shoulders, falling back into position flawlessly. She was so pretty without even trying. Looks came naturally to Michelle. Friends and crushes, too. It was school that gave her trouble. I was the exact opposite, which made things interesting. I was a whiz kid in the classroom but a loner in every other setting.

“Ok, let’s test it out,” I said, sliding a piece of paper toward Michelle. “I’m going to say a couple sentences, and you write down which word I’m saying.”

Michelle grabbed a pencil. We usually worked in pencil. Never in pen, because Michelle tended to make lots of mistakes. The erasers on her pencils were worn thin.

“You’re a great actress,” I said. It was true, Michelle was one of the best in the school. I’d seen her in the fall play and the winter musical. She stole the show. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she ended up in Hollywood.

Your, Michelle scribbled across the blank page.

I slapped my forehead without meaning to.

She glanced at me, then erased the word. She neatly wrote you’re. Which wasn’t very impressive since it was the only choice left. At least her handwriting was impeccable. It was composed of little square letters, perfectly symmetrical like something generated by a computer.

“Let’s keep going,” I urged, trying to remain positive. No use making Michelle feel dumb.

She cracked her knuckles like this was a really intense exercise. Then she picked up the pencil once more and concentrated on her sheet of paper.

“Don’t let anyone steal your confidence,” I said, glancing up at the clock. Five minutes left until recess was over.

Michelle wrote Y-O-U and then stopped. She was torn. I watched as she bit her lip, trying to decide what to write next.

“Is that something that belongs to you?” I asked quietly, nudging her toward the correct answer. “Is the confidence yours? Isn’t it a possession?”

She threw her hands in the air. “I don’t freaking know. What does this matter? When I text, I just write your all the time. People know what I’m saying. This is so stupid; who cares whether it’s a contradiction or not?”

“Contraction,” I corrected her lightly.

“Whatever.”

“Don’t get frustrated. It becomes second-nature after you practice,” I assured her. “And it does matter which form you use. Think about resumes, and formal documents, and stuff that needs to be professional. It makes a difference. People won’t take you seriously if there are tons of errors.”

She nodded without saying a word.

“Ok, let’s try one more before the bell rings,” I suggested. I scooted my chair an inch closer to her desk. “I’m happy that you’re my friend.”

She pressed her pencil to the paper, then stopped. Her blue eyes flicked toward my brown ones. She tilted her head, as though evaluating my statement.

“Are you serious?” she asked. “I mean, is this for testing purposes…or are you for real? Because we’re not really friends, you know. You’re my tutor. Basically.”

My mouth dropped open. Yes, I had been tutoring her. But it’s because we got along.

I wanted Michelle to do better in school. I wanted her to get A’s like me, without having to struggle so much. Didn’t that make us friends? I had given up so many recesses and lunches for her. I’d stayed after school, and devised mini lesson-plans at night so I could explain things better. I’d spent tons of time on this. How could she say something so cruel?

“Michelle, I just thought-“

“You're always thinking,” she cut me off. “Just stop already. Don’t make something out of nothing. You help me with schoolwork because you’re smart; that is all.”

The bell rang and Michelle shuffled toward her locker. She didn’t glance at me, not even once. I returned to my desk and pretended to do homework while students filed into the classroom. They didn’t want to look me in the eye, so why bother lifting my gaze from my desk?

I was just the smart girl, that’s all. Nobody worth talking to.

End of story.

***

That afternoon, I arrived home to find a thick envelope in the mailbox. We hardly ever got mail like this; usually it was thin letters from the cable company, the car insurance people, or the homeowners’ association. Bills and ads cluttered our mailbox.

But this was different.

It was heavy, for one thing. And post-marked from Memphis, TN. None of our bills originated in Tennessee. I knew Daddy wouldn’t want me opening his mail without asking, so I hurriedly sent him a text.

Can I open the big letter in the mail? There’s no return address, but it’s postmarked from Memphis.

Dad didn’t respond, of course. He was busy working and wouldn’t even see my text until he drove home.

Which meant I could open the letter and tell him I’d tried to ask permission. Not my fault he ignored my question.

It was a perfect plan.

I crept into the house, stepping lightly even though I was the only person home. I felt like a sneak and a fraud. But my curiosity was eating away at me. It had always been a problem; my mind zipped along like a super-charged jet plane. I was always plagued by worries and wonders.

Bob, sign all the places marked with red ink.
-Jenny


That was all. No explanation of why she’d left, no well wishes for a bright future. No mention of the daughter she had abandoned for the millionth time.

Tears clouded my vision as I looked over the divorce papers. They were filled with legal jargon, vocabulary words that made little sense to me. The message rang out loud and clear, like a church bell centimeters from my ears.

She wanted to erase us.

She wanted to break free from the baggage that was her former life. I was a weight, a burden she didn’t want to carry any longer. Dad was a memento from her past. A souvenir that she decided she didn’t need anymore.

I could deal with Michelle’s mean words. I could handle my isolation at school. But this was a whole different ballpark. This was my flesh and blood, trying to deny that I even existed. This was my mom’s attempt to cut me out of her life. Forever.

Setting the papers on the kitchen table, I swallowed back my tears.

No use wasting them on that woman. She never cared about me. So why should I care about her?

I opened my History textbook and began reading the next chapter. I could memorize every word just by looking over the page a couple times. It was a talent; it was my greatest gift. I was good at something, after all. I was not a waste.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

The Deepest Hue

What's my problem?

I said I'd wait until Feb. 1 to start writing this book. I wanted one month--JUST ONE!-- to live like a normal person, instead of being consumed by this insane need to write. But noooo. I had to go and type away. Like an idiot.

Oh well. It's in my blood! I'm just a writer, whether or not I like it. It's my therapy, my creative outlet, my passion. Hopefully someday I'll get to make it my full-time career. Guess we'll see.

So here's the first little teeny snippet from the new book. It's FRESH (as in, I wrote it ten minutes ago) and un-edited. Comments are much appreciated!

Love, Lisa






She didn’t leave a note.

Mom had done this before. She was always abandoning us, but usually there were warning signs. An argument with Dad. A hushed phone conversation, with the door closed and the shades drawn. An open suitcase in the middle of the bedroom. There were always indications. Big, ominous clues that weighed on my mind like a cement slab.

But there was nothing this time.

I walked home from school that gray February day, obsessing over the fact that Michelle Jenkins didn’t like me. She was the most popular girl in the fourth grade. In fact, she was the most popular girl at Forrest Elementary. I helped her with her science homework and basically gave up recess to show her how ecosystems work. Yet she acted like I wasn’t alive. It didn’t make any sense.

I sighed as I hopped up our porch steps. Then I knocked on the door and waited for Mom to greet me. Sometimes she took a little while. Sometimes she’d show up with bloodshot eyes or flushed cheeks. Then she’d run to her bedroom and lock herself inside, leaving me alone with my homework. Which I always did two times. Once to get it right, and twice to get it perfect.

But that day was different.

Nobody was home. With no way to get inside the house, I ran over to Mrs. Herman’s yard. I waited with her ‘til Daddy returned from work. My nine-year-old heart was aching so badly that I believed it was going to stop beating. Just flat-line, like on those medical shows.

Why hadn’t I seen it coming? How long would Mom be gone this time?

I didn’t say a word to Mrs. Herman, even when she offered me some sweet tea. I just chewed the straw and pretended to concentrate on my English homework. I pored over the same two pages for about an hour. After that, I wrote an essay that wasn’t due for another week. Then I proof-read the whole thing until every sentence was grammatically correct.

It was the only way to keep the tears from falling.

Daddy came home at five. We ate a silent dinner. He didn’t talk about Mom, didn’t address the fact that all her clothes had been removed from the house. Her car was gone from the garage and her cell phone was smashed on the floor. It was broken into about twenty pieces. This was her way of telling us not to try to contact her.

It was really over this time. There would be no coming back, no happy reunion a couple weeks later. I knew this; I sensed it as I lay awake in bed that night. Mom had walked into and out of my life so many times. But she wasn’t walking anymore. She was running now, in the other direction.

I had lost her for good.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Jasmine...Again

I have never experienced anything quite like this! Atlanta shut down after 3 inches of snow. No, SERIOUSLY shut down. As in, all the highways were closed, all the hotels were oversold, and the airport was a disaster area. As frustrating as it's been, it has also been kind of exciting. I've been flying by the seat of my pants (no pun intended) and I've been unable to predict where I would wind up.

It's a giant guessing game.

Fortunately, I was "stuck" in Los Angeles for 20 hours. I love my job.

The madness has made it hard to keep up with writing/revising, but I've got some time these next few days. I fully intend to dive back into the literary world. I'll start by posting another little snipped from "Nothing Left of Me." Alyssa visits Jasmine for the second time.

As a reminder, this book is available at barnesandnoble.com and 100% of profits go to Food for the Hungry!

Love, Lisa


A gray car eventually pulls into the lot, kicking up dust as it gets closer. Kara smiles at me from the driver’s seat. I jog toward the sedan; I’m ready for the afternoon that awaits us.

“Hi, love,” she greets me.

“Thanks for driving,” I say as I fasten my seat belt. “Did you end up going to Calculus class?”

“Yes, Mother,” she laughs.

I shake my head. “Technically you’re the mom, since I’m still a baby Martian. Not even…a Martian-in-training, actually. A Martian fetus.”

“I’m only a part-time Martian, though,” she points out, flicking on the radio. “Doesn’t count.”

“About that…do you wish you were more active? I guess what I’m asking is, why don’t you participate in all the Martian events? It makes me nervous. Like maybe there’s something I don’t know about the sisterhood. Something bad.”

Kara sighs. “No, it’s not that. I love the Martians, but it can become a cult. Many of those girls don’t associate with people outside of B-Hall; I can’t limit myself like that. My second year at UWI, I started dating a boy who lives in Milner Hall. Half the Martians shunned me, acting betrayed because I spent time with someone outside the sisterhood. It was juvenile. Are we not allowed to have friends? I was frustrated…I kind of gave up on the B-Hall girls.”

“But you came back to Bartelby Hall anyway; you didn’t have to live there again,” I reflect. We pass the Tunapuna Marketplace, an open-air market. I stare out my window at the flurry of excitement; vendors and buyers are exchanging money. “Something must have lured you back.”

“Yes. B-Hall is a nice place, very clean. And the location’s great; I like living on campus. Closer to classes. And Brett.” Kara smiles. “That’s my Milner Hall boyfriend.”

“You’re still together? That’s cute. Very Romeo-and-Juliet.”

“At times it feels that way. I wish B-Hall and Milner didn’t have a rivalry. That’s the worst part about being a Martian. It’s obnoxious.”

“I haven’t seen the rivalry side yet,” I say. “But I love the creative things we do. Like this talent show, for instance. Granted, I wish we had more time to prepare for it, but still. It’s a cool idea.”

“Well as a Martian senior, I’m required to be there tonight. So I’ll watch the talent show…part of it, at least.”

I bite my lip. “I hope we can pull it off. Guess the truth will be revealed soon enough.”

“What street is this place on?” Kara asks as she scans the alleys. “I think it’s nearby, but I’ve never actually been to the orphanage. I don’t know the exact address.”

“This one,” I point at the alleyway. “If I remember right, it’s just around the corner.”

The dilapidated building comes into view, and I direct Kara toward it. We pull up onto the yard, right where Joshua parked his car two days ago. I get a funny feeling in my stomach. Suddenly I wish that Josh, Satelle, and Proctor were here with me again. Proctor’s presence put me at ease. And Josh was so natural with the children. And Satelle, well, she’s like my long-lost sister. It made it easier to come here, to this lonely old house.

I open my door and step onto the dirt.

“Let’s get this party started,” Kara smiles. As though sensing my insecurities, she links her arm through mine. We walk into the house side-by-side.

“De American return!” Stella cries when she spots me. “How nice! Tanks for offerin yuh time once again. Who dis come wit yuh?”

“I’m Kara, pleased to meet you,” Kara says with a wave.

“Well we jus about to have a snack, if yuh wan help us distribute it,” Stella informs us.

I scan the room, searching for Jasmine. I see the boy that Josh was playing with and a couple other familiar kids, but there’s no sign of Jazzi. I follow Stella to a closet underneath the staircase.

“Each chile get one lolli,” Stella directs us, placing one bag of lollipops in my hand and another one in Kara’s palm. “Only one per chile, no matter how much beggin dey do. An trust me, dey gon plead wit yuh.”

“I’ll go upstairs,” I offer, hoping to find Jazzi up there.

Kara smiles. “Ok. Have fun.”

I hop up the staircase, eager to see my little girl. The upper level is dusty and bare, like the bottom level. There’s the same bare floor, the same meager furniture. The one difference is that a corner of the room is covered in blankets and cushions. I observe these makeshift beds and immediately a wave of sorrow washes over me.

A lady wearing an outdated cotton dress smiles. She’s large. And she is old, at least twenty years older than Stella. Her hair is twisted into frizzy braids that extend halfway down her back. Her skin’s only a couple shades darker than mine; she must be a mix of East Indian and something else. Maybe Hispanic? It’s hard to tell.

“I’m here to give out candies,” I tell her. “I’m Alyssa, by the way; I volunteered Monday night with Proctor, Josh and Satelle.”

“Me name Filena. Welcome to de upper level; dis where I usually work. De kids gon love dat yuh givin out lollis!”

There are about ten kids here. Some are smiling, some playing. These kids are much younger than the ones downstairs, but they’re the same in every other way: tattered clothes, scabbed knees, messy hair and heartbreakingly beautiful faces.

I smile and distribute the sugary snack. Jasmine is nowhere to be found. She must be hiding behind the couch.

But when I walk to that side of the room, there’s one little boy in a diaper
and yellow t-shirt. No Jazzi. Confused, I hand a purple lollipop to the smiling boy. I glance at the other children, wondering if I missed Jasmine.

I hurry over to Filena.

“Um, excuse me, there was a little girl I played with on Monday. She’s got…uh…” I trail off, realizing there are no distinguishing features I can use. What do I say, she’s black? Young? Tiny? Every kid here fits that description.

“Don know which chile yuh talkin bout, but we send tree or four youth to de doctor today. Dere a volunteer medic aroun de corner; dey take a few little ones each week, to see how dey progressin an make sure dey still healthy.”

“Oh. That’s good.” My words don’t match my mood. I can’t control the disappointment flooding my body; I’d really been hoping to see Jazzi today. With a sigh, I descend the stairs.

“Yuh leave so soon?” Filena calls out.

“Just taking the leftover lollipops to Stella,” I tell her. “I’ll be back.”

On the first floor, Kara’s already befriended a whole group of children. They sit around her in a circle, listening as she tells a story. I shake my head, marveling at her ability to entertain a bunch of three-and-four-year olds. Kara’s a natural; she makes it look so easy. You’d never guess she just met these kids today.

I give the bag of lollipops to Stella wordlessly, offering a half-sincere smile. Sunlight streams into the room as the front door swings open. My eyes instantly flicker toward the light. A few kids run inside, followed by a man in a white medical coat. He’s tall, with buzzed hair and glasses.

“Sorry we took a little longer than usual,” the man tells Stella. He has a trace of a Canadian accent. “Baby boy over here has a rash on his shoulders, so I wanted to check that out. Seems like an allergic reaction; nothing major. Maybe stay away from wool blankets, to be safe? Other than that, all is well. You’ve got a strong bunch, these kids. Much healthier than the group last year.”

“Tanks, Doctor Dave,” Stella says. She waves as he slips out the door.

At the very end of the pack, I spot a familiar face.

“Jasmine!” I cry. She sees me and perks up. She’s wearing the same jumpsuit she wore earlier this week. The same ruffled socks, too, except they’re a little dirtier today. Although that could be my imagination.

“Yuh come back for me?” she asks, reaching her hands up for me to grab onto them. “Yuh love me?”

“Of course,” I assure here. “Jazzi, you just missed snacks. But don’t worry, I saved you a very special sucker.”

“But I got a orange candy at de doctor man,” she whispers, her eyes wide and guilty. “Das two snacks, den.”

I reach into my pocket for the lollipop. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. Our secret.”

“I like secrets.” Jazzi’s eyes light up. “An dis my favorite flavor! How yuh know?”

“You like green?”

She makes a face. “What color? Green?”

“Yes,” I smile. “It is a very pretty color. Your jumpsuit, that’s pretty too, but that’s a different color. You know what your dress is?”

Jazzi shakes her head no and licks her green lollipop.

“It’s blue. It looks terrific on you, by the way.”

“Tanks.” She glances down at the dress for a long time, as though re-evaluating how good it looks.

“You know, I had a dress like that when I was a little girl.”

“You was little like me?”

I laugh. “A long time ago.”

“Yuh live here too? Wit Miss Stella an de other Miss upstair?”

“No,” I answer, picturing my perfect suburban childhood and my two amazing parents. “But Miss Stella and Miss Filena are lucky to have you here. You are a very nice girl, when you’re not kicking people.”

Jasmine rolls her eyes and chomps down on the lollipop. “I already say I sorry for dat.”

“I know. It’s ok, we’re still friends.”

“Bes friens?”

“Sure.”

Thursday, January 6, 2011

Nothing Left of Me

The time has come to say goodbye to "The View from Way Up Here."

Sheesh...what was I thinking? With a title like that, it was bound to be a failure! Well I wrote the book as a way to purge my soul of all these traveling adventures I've experienced. It wasn't really designed for the public to read, so I removed it from the B&N shelf. This was a long-overdue action. I feel good about it.

In it's place, I have added the newest (old) novel of mine, book #3. I also tweaked the title of the book. Lots of changes yesterday. Maybe I should've gotten a tattoo, also (just kidding. sort of).

"Nothing Left of Me" is now available at BarnesandNoble.com. This book depicts the horror of an eating disorder. It follows a confused college student as she tries to overcome the death of a family member. It also addresses marriage, broken dreams...and a broken heart. Alyssa Rossini is the most damaged heroine in any of my stories. She is flawed and messed-up and real. I love the girl.

So check it out. Search my name on barnesandnoble & see for yourself if the book is worth reading. An excerpt is posted below.

Love, Lisa



When I get to my dorm room, I set the letter on my desk. It feels good to collapse onto my bed.

I lie flat on the mattress, staring out the window at the setting sun. It’s beautiful. Night is about to pour in, with its silent dark charisma. In the half light of dusk, I glance down at my darkened arms. I spent a long time in the Trini sun today. I’m at least three shades darker than I was before.

I realize that I never finished Kevin’s letter. There were a couple of paragraphs left.

I lie very still, debating. Will it make things better or worse to read the rest of the letter?

Probably worse, I admit. Everything I do somehow makes it worse.

After a moment, I lift my hand and grab the paper. My eyes scan the words nervously.

…Either way, it’s been too long! It’ll be good for us to reconnect.
I value our friendship so much, Alyssa. You’ve been there for me since we were teenagers, and I’ll never forget the time we spent together. High school basketball games, small group at my house, spring break in Orlando.


Megan told me your response card came in right before you left for Trinidad. I’m so glad you’ll be able to at the wedding. It means a lot to have you there. My family will love seeing you; after four months in Trinidad, you’ll have so much to tell Caryssa, Sandy and my parents! They’ve always enjoyed talking to you. Especially Sandy. She really looks up to you. You were like a big sister to her throughout high school.

Yeah. And for a while, I thought I really would be her big sister someday. Legally. Funny how Kevin skips over that part. I guess Megan is more deserving of the title.

Well I have to get going. So much to do here. Be safe and enjoy Caribbean life. I’ll see you soon! Can’t wait to explore the island with you. I’m sure by then you’ll know Trinidad like the back of your hand. Or maybe you already do…you always were great with directions.
Take care, Alyssa.
~Kevin


I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. It’s as if Kevin is trying to make me hurt. Telling me he is coming in a month and a half…it’s vicious.

I’ve been through this before; I can predict what’ll happen: the next few weeks, my life will be put on hold. There will be nothing but anticipation. I’ll be living in the future, waiting for that stupid day when Kevin arrives. And when October 18th does come, I’ll feel important for about ten seconds. I’ll probably have a resurgence of hope. But nothing will change, in the end.

Isn’t that how it always is with Kevin? Excitement builds, expectations multiply, and nothing ever happens. Well, that’s not entirely true. One thing happens: I fade away a little more each time.

I decrease in size. Do my disappearing act, which I’m good at. It’s taken years of practice, but I really have become an expert.

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Round II

So here's the follow-up to Alyssa's brief church session.

She's caught in an awkward situation. She can't ignore Kevin's e-mail, but she can't let herself get too involved in the response, either. She has to find a balancing act. Somehow, she must prevent her heart from breaking any more than it already has.

She's also got an annoying little habit of not sleeping at night. There's a lot I can't relate to concerning my main character, but when it comes to sleep disorders...well, we're totally on the same page, sister.

Love, Lisa



Kevin, thanks for the e-mail, I type. I hunch over in the metal chair, eyes to the ground as I consider how to say the things that need to be said.

There are no good words at a time like this. I hate that Uncle Chris is gone. And it’s frustrating being a million miles from home.

On a less depressing note, I love Trinidad. The girls in my dorm are nice. School starts tomorrow, which is exciting. But I feel guilty enjoying things when Uncle Chris is dead. It doesn’t make sense, you know? How can he hug me one day and disappear the next?

Maybe prayer will help.

As soon as I type those words, I delete them. Kevin’s e-mails are censored and I don’t want him getting in trouble. It’s better to be safe.

But death is part of life, right? I type. No way to avoid it. Oh well. I hope things aren’t too bad in Iraq. Take care and write back whenever.

I send the e-mail before I have a chance to edit it. I tend to drive myself crazy with revisions. It’s so silly, so obsessive. I shouldn’t spend extra time poring over a five-line e-mail.

Sighing, I rise from my seat. The computer lab is the only part of Trinity Hall that’s air-conditioned. My body rejects this artificial air; goosebumps cover my arms. I eagerly dash from the cold room.

I head back to the first-floor lounge. Throwing myself on the couch, I sink into cloth cushions and turn on the television. There’s nothing on. That’s fine, though. I’m not really watching anyway, just letting the noise and images soak over me.

An advertisement fills the screen. Skinny girls parade around in striped sweaters. I crack a smile, because it’s almost fall in certain parts of the world, but Trinidad has no autumn, winter, or spring. It’s always summertime here. Thankfully.

And soon I will look exactly like those girls, down to the last detail. Bones and angles and edges. I will be their twin sister.

Except, of course, for the sweaters; I’ll be wearing a tank top.

***

I wake up, gripping the sheets in one fist. A layer of sweat covers my forehead and nose. I want to wipe it away, but my hands are too shaky. My heart pounds so loudly I wonder if it’s going to explode.

The room is so dark, so desperately lonely.

At first I take short breaths, shallow ones. Then they’re deeper. I sit up, propping myself against the wall. As much as I tell myself I am fine, there’s still a lingering hollowness in my core. My stomach screams at me, but that pain is tolerable. It’s the aching in my chest that is unbearable.

Why are you doing this? I ask him, knowing I’ll never get an answer. Leave me alone.

Kevin’s face remains etched in my brain. I can see it so clearly, every fleck of green in his eyes. His shaggy hair has grown so long that it’s almost messy.

I lie back down. The tension in my chest decreases a little, but not enough. I stare out my slitted window. The silent world stares back at me, offering no condolences.

I’m sure there’s something that can take away this pain. There is a solution, a cure I’ve turned to in the past. There must be. But I can’t recall what it is.

So I face the window. I close my eyes and wait for morning to come. I tell myself that once the sun rises, this isolation will depart. But that’s like tossing confetti in the air and expecting it to never fall.

Church in Trinidad

Alyssa is starting to realize there is only one answer to her problems. The world offers so many "solutions," but none of them really seem to solve anything.

Christ is the cure. There is no remedy except God's love. We can run in crazy circles and tell ourselves that we are fine, but it's a lie.

Alyssa is beginning to understand this. She still has a long way to go.

Love, Lisa




I roll over in bed, reaching for my blanket. It’s all the way on the floor. Gremlin chants pound against my skull. My head feels like it’s been slammed in a door. I’m exhausted, but I need to get up. This is the last day before classes start; there’s a lot to do.

I throw cold water on my face and brush my teeth in a hurry. There’s no point showering; I’ll get dirty by walking to church anyway. I’m getting used to being muddy and sticky all the time.

Returning to my room, I select a flowered dress. Its silky material clings to my legs and waist. I touch my stomach briefly, and instantly I regret it. There should be a crevasse, a void. A dip where my ribcage ends. It used to be there; I would touch it every day. I want it back. I want to be a straight line.

It’s early enough that the streets are quiet. A few maxis pass by, but I keep walking. My legs are aching, which is a good sign.

A car drives by, kicking up dust. Black flakes cling to my skin.

“How it goin, whi-tey!” the driver hollers, whistling at me.

I’m gross, I silently tell the driver, even though he’s practically out of sight now. Don’t pretend I’m attractive. It’s a lie.

I sigh, because this fight with myself never results in victory. Never.

Eastern Main Road feels strange on Sunday morning. Stores are closed. Not just a couple of shops, but every single one. It’s a ghost town. A bird leaps from the sidewalk into the air. Its flapping wings echo down the street, the loudest noise for miles around.

My legs begin to tingle, the way they sometimes do when I’ve walked too far without eating or drinking. I pause for a moment, enjoying the sensation. This means I’ve worked my body past exhaustion.

Squinting down a worn-out alley, 5th Avenue, I spot a white building with a cross on top. It’s small, the size of a house. There are no people out front, just a home-made sign that reads “Jesus is Lord, Amen!”

The tingling grows stronger as I approach the church. I’ll need water soon, I know, to avoid blacking out. My heartbeat erupts in strange places, like my shoulders, ankles, elbows. I grasp the wooden door, leaning against the handle for a moment.

After catching my breath, I slip inside. Immediately, a wave of music hits me. It’s a gospel song.

I grab a seat in an empty pew. This church is relatively empty. Some of the rows only have one person, some two. Mine is empty, except for me. It’s not lonely, though. God suddenly feels much less distant than before.

Surprisingly, I know this song. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it before. Behold, He comes/Riding on the clouds…I try to join in, but my throat is dry. I barely make it through one line of the song before my vocal chords give out.

Suddenly I choke on my tongue.

I have to stare at the ceiling so I won’t cry. Uncle Chris is gone. He’s really done it this time; there’s no turning back. No joking or returning to the family.

Why him? I wonder, closing my eyes. There are people like me, people who make no difference and have no real ties to anyone.

Why wasn’t I the one who was killed?

I’ve been far from home for years now. Kevin picked Megan and my life became meaningless. I successfully alienated every person that ever loved me. It was like a twisted game where I earned a point for each relationship I destroyed.

Uncle Chris should be at home with his family. I should have been the one to flip over in a car on the side of the road. Chris has children and a wife. I have friends and acquaintances who won’t remember my name in a few years.

What the hell, I ask God, throwing up my hands in frustration.

“Out of Zion’s hill, salvation comes!” the people in the pews shout, raising their hands in worship.

My hand is high in the air, too. But it’s clenched in a fist.

And then it hits me: I have two options. I can continue to be angry, to feel that the world has screwed me…or I can turn to God, trusting that He is greater than these foolish problems.

“I’m sorry. I can change,” I whisper.

The words are drowned out by the loud singing, but God can still hear me. He hears every single word, tear and thought.

“I can change,” I repeat. But the growling in my stomach, the angry acid churning there, indicates otherwise.

Monday, January 3, 2011

In Pieces

Alyssa is unraveling very quickly.

I've added some flashbacks to the story at various parts. The goal was to make this book as intense as possible.

So here goes nothing. It might be a mistake; I may snip these little flashbacks.

Not sure yet.

I'm placing the most dramatic ones in this post. All feedback is appreciated.

Love, Lisa



In spite of myself, I looked back.

Mom was crying in the passenger seat. Dad had his arm around her shoulder. He was trying to hold it together; Dad had always been the rational one. His emotions didn’t get in the way of his life.

But he was even upset this time.

I wanted to run back to the car, tell my parents I am sorry. Tell them I would change. We all knew that was a lie, though. There was no way I would go back to the body I used to have. I would’ve rather died. Literally. I’d actually been working fairly hard to achieve that.

I exhaled sharply and stepped through the airport’s entrance. My flight to Florida left in an hour, so I needed to rush. There was no time for regrets, for meaningless apologies. Mom knews I loved her; that wasn’t the issue. It was myself I couldn’t stand.

She begged me to get treatment. There was a good place in Schaumburg, just a few miles from our house. But that would’ve meant staying in Illinois. That place was crawling with memories. It was a cesspool of could-have-beens.

The world used to be such a bright place. I was not willing to live in the shadow of that brightness; that would be a torture beyond what I could bear.

Besides, I didn’t want treatment. I didn’t want to be healthy because this half-crazed, extreme method I’d discovered was much more intriguing. It was my sole source of relief these days.

I lost Kevin. I chased away my family and most of my friends. I had no plan for the future and only a painfully wonderful past to reflect on. A reminder of the perfection that had slipped through my bony fingers.

Everything that mattered had been stripped away.

But I had control. I floated above this heavy anchor that weighed others down. I was immune to temptation and desire. I could go days without eating, then live off crumbs. I was a champion of my own little game. I was a queen.

A tiny, narrow, hollowed-out queen.


***

If only it would come faster, I thought. I’d be abroad in a couple months. I’d be away from this nightmare of a life.

I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Mom was running errands, Dad was working from his home office, Johnny was hanging out with friends. Because, unlike me, he still had some. He hadn’t ignored their phone calls until they eventually stopped calling.

I closed my eyes. What I wanted to do was reach across the dresser and grab the novel I started reading. Or maybe even the Bible, although it had been hard to comb through that book lately.

I didn’t have the energy. Stretching my arm across the nightstand would’ve felt like running a marathon. The books would have to sit idle. Just like me.

My breathing was shallow, my muscles were tired even though they hadn’t moved today. It was tiring to breathe, even. My eyes flew open and I stared at the white ceiling.

Maybe the breaths would just stop. That would be nice; I could finally rest. I could drift off into nothingness. After all this time, the gaping hole that Kevin left would dissolve.

I would be free.

I chewed the inside of my lip, trying to remember the last time I ate anything. I had a tea yesterday, maybe at ten in the morning. But I’d only finished half the cup. It tasted too sweet; Mom might’ve slipped some sugar in there. That was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.

I blinked. There was no water left in my eyes, so I couldn’t cry. Couldn’t sweat, either. No periods anymore. No emotions left. My body was shutting down.

I couldn’t work my face into smile. But there was a grin inside my head. My body was transforming into something stunning. I was so little now that I had to buy children’s clothes. Girls’ size 10 usually fit me. I was five feet and ten inches, yet wearing the same items that an eight-year-old typically wore. It was amazing.

Maybe I could be a child again, travel back to the time when the world made sense. It was my only chance at happiness. Adulthood had brought loss. And misery, too. So much misery. The kind that chipped away at me until I shattered.

I was in pieces. A teacup that someone had tossed to the ground. The fragments were really sharp; they could slice through flesh. Easily.