Please, Darling, Open the Door
I wrote this story for my Theory of Creative Writing class in the spring of 2019.
She just got home from work, and thought the day was over but, honey, it's just begun. She unloads her bag and puts everything nicely in its place. I admire that about her, she's organized. She's like a mama duck, trying to keep all her little ducklings in line. Even after sundown, she still pops open some wine and gingerly pours some down her throat. She carries herself and her wine to her bedroom, but stops to admire the picture of her family in the hallway; her son is away at camp, and her husband is gone for work.
She continues to walk, leaving the picture with a smile on her face. The smile soon fades into a look of concern after a sound from her bathroom catches her attention. Something fell, didn't it? She wonders to herself, "what the hell?" quietly, but loud enough to be heard. Her head tilts curiously to the right as her feet freeze her body. The bathroom door is cracked open. She hopes to figure out what made the noise without venturing in. She stares into the darkness of her poorly lit bathroom. I stare back.
April Showers
I wrote this story for my Theory of Creative Writing class in the spring of 2019.
May was first time he struck her and the May would be the last. She returned home late from her book club that night, Uncle Tom’s Cabin was on the agenda. He heard what he wanted, thought she was unfaithful as sinful priest, and laying with a man named Tom in his cabin. A car couldn’t avoid ice as quick as he avoided the truth and he swung his right hand. The next time, his hand came back red. Faltering flowers laid carefully in an open wooden box before the ground swallowed it all. The man’s height in dirt took her back to peace, the peace she knew only before him.
Eight Thousand Eight Hundred Thirty-Three
I wrote this story for my Theory of Creative Writing class in the spring of 2019. I submitted it to literary journal Medium Weight Forks in February 2019.
“You’re colorless, you fucking whore!” I yelled at either the mirror or my reflection. Really, the anger in my tone could resonate with both. “You just reflect what people want to see. Why can’t you stomach being yourself?”
Pieces of the mirror lay shattered on the floor, and my hand lay bloody in the water-filled sink.
Torn apart from the feeling of happiness, forced by the fear of cleaning up the mess I made. The mirror and I weren't so dissimilar now, I guess: both were in shattered and broken pieces of our former selves forced that way by a hand now bloodied.
Only two differences remained: it was on the floor, and it had no chance.
Terminal
I wrote this story for my Theory of Creative Writing class in the spring of 2019.
I can’t imagine doing anything else with that time that was taken from me. They got what they desired by grabbing me from my seat, pulling me apart, and tossing me into the pile with the rest of the discarded pieces. Now they've left me in this heap, the unimaginable heap. Somewhere the villagers discussed as being, well, unimaginable in its horrors. They lure you in by feigning sympathy, and they rip you to pieces without taking any more seconds to think. So, now I have no desirable pieces left. I have been stripped, left dirty and lonely, beckoning for either another chance or more time to make things right. I really wanted things to end differently. Cancer was not supposed to take my life. I just wanted to die peacefully of old age.
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