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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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