“The killer awoke before dawn. He put his boots on…” the warm baritone of Jim Morrison cooed in the background as Terry blinked his eyes open to a new day. He felt like death, he probably shouldn’t have allowed what’s-his-face at the Boar’s Head serve him tequila last night. Tequila always messed him up bad. His head felt like someone tried to split it down the middle with a jackhammer, glued it back together, then slammed it with a hammer.
I decided to try Vocal.Media. I published the short story I wrote and posted here like a year ago. Help support me and give it a read!
As published in “Expression Literary and Arts Magazine” Spring 2020, Casper College.
Today is a blustery day, the wind crashes into the trees like a tidal wave breaking on the shore. The dry, crystallized flakes of snow are whisked away across the ground in swirling dances that cover the roads and blanket the ground anew. And when I close my eyes I can hear it, the ocean. Each gust, a storm at sea sending waves running into the sand. It pushes me forward, a demand to move. In the quiet between each push, there is the feeling of being pulled back. And yet as the wave builds in the distance and rushes to shore, my breath is stolen by the very air I breathe in, whisked away to some other place and time.
A gentle ebb and violent flow. The wave and its undertow.
Behind closed eyes, I see the land before there were people. Water that met a sandy shore, lapping and licking at the ground, soaking into the rich soil to nourish the forest. The wind is like a memory. It pulls me to the past and to the truth of these ancient lands I now call home. Wyoming, a land that was once filled with the same salt waters of the ocean. The fossilized seashells, the dried, petrified bones of animals beyond imagination show me this proof. A memory. A dream of what this place was before anyone was here.
It is magic. The wind is magic. The dream of memory.
When I open my eyes I have to squint past the golden, snowy glow to recapture the feeling of connection. It is hard when so often the land looks dead, to remember that it is alive and screaming, waiting for its people to hear.
It is in my sleep. I feel that the magic leaks from the wind and land. It seeps into the grey matter of my tired mind and works a new kind of magic. Each breath is a gateway for the wind in which the stories, the magic, flow in and mix with my blood and shoot through my body.
A teleportation to a new world.
Here again, as night falls, I close my eyes and I am nothing more than ears listening to the tidal sound of the wind. The rush of air pushing on the house and making it speak in groans under the hostile attack. The air pushes to get in and spread its magic, and I fall asleep to its rage. It pulls me back gently only for the roar of ancient stories to slam through me and into my most sacred of places.
Dreams. This is how I dream. I am eased back only to be grabbed by the hand and dragged into a line of story that is both mine and other.
The wind in my dream is quiet, everything is silenced. I have conversations with phantom pantomimes of my family without ever hearing a word that they say. The roar outside has made me deaf to their voices even within my own mind. But the magic carries me through another dimension where the houses are smaller on the outside and despite being locked between concrete and brick, the doors still lead to a garden and forest that extends beyond the reaches of humanity.
There is a story here that the wind pushes me to experience. This house is not new. While bland and uninviting from the outside, squished between neighboring cookie-cutter copies, its interior is warm Gothic. All hidden passages, dark shadows, and brightly lit kitchens. There are places I can only get to if I am lost, and I am often lost. The magic in the winds that powers this dreams-cape pushes me along to explore, whispering in my ear that this is where I live; this is my home. And I feel at home, wrapped in a blanket of constant change and surprises, here is the landscape I’ve been looking for.
I want to know this story, and I listen to the whispering in the stream of air that brushes across the folds of my mind, “He is alive here, will always be alive.”
And I look, and he is. A resurrected and frail but breathing incarnation of my dad. He is smiling. His salted hair looks feather-light, and his green eyes catch the light the same way they always did when he was alive and happy. He still stumbles when he walks and I am pushed by the wave of the wind to go. Go and embrace the fallen because he is here.
The house swirls, a marriage of color and dancing light and it is a new day. I am awake again, my eyes prying open, only to fall shut again, a struggle I face every morning. The morning is quiet, the rage of the night before is temporarily sated, but I am not. I am never finished with dreaming. I wish for the wind to come again.
It is winter. In Wyoming, every day feels like winter. I miss the long springs and autumns of the East. It had been that way in my dream. The odd garden and forest that existed there are familiar and comforting. The flavors of green were not oppressive but life-giving. And the feeling of nature being so close that you are within it causes memories to drift across my mind of my childhood home. I am so lonely without the endless sounds of crickets chirping, singing me to sleep through the crack of my window. The wind here blows it all away.
My dad loved that home, the one that was on top of the hill, hidden by trees with it’s back to the woods. When it was winter there, the snow did not blow and there was no rage in the wind. We built snowmen, snow forts, snow tunnels, and sledded until it was too dark to see. The wind did not tear at us violently, forcing us inside, but instead, we listened to the quiet nuances of the forest and believed in its nymphs and fairies. In the East, the thorn trees were our friends, and the blackberries were fresh from the vine in our yard. My dad mowed the lawn once a week and we never had to water it. There was rain, it was green, and the trees were tall and strong.
The East was my dad. Wyoming is other.
The wind is howling outside again, as it so often does in winter. The snow has all blown away, its sandy grains no longer pelt against my face as I climb the stairs into my dwelling. The blur of evening action is the same as it is every day. There is no change, no surprise, no variation. The difference from the home I once knew is striking. In Wyoming, there are small angry cacti and the berries are poisonous. And if the nymphs ever existed here, they too have been frightened away by the temper of the wind. I want to sleep in the wind and surf its tide into the home where my dad still lives and the spring flowers are blooming beneath a mist of rain. My head hits the pillows and I am sucked under by the undertow pulling me out to sea.
The house is still here. It is here every night now, a home in my sleep where I go to seek the things I miss. My dad wanders the hallways like a spirit though here though he is not one of the departed. The wind has whispered him to life and he is a constant, steadying presence even when he is unseen. He takes me to rooms where the real ghosts live. A pair of sisters who haunt their bedrooms together. They are the Wednesday Addams of my home and I cherish their tomfoolery even as I gaze upon them with jealousy. Where was this when I was young? My sister and I made each other bleed from hatred. The wind has brought me the ghosts of what could have been. My dad, alive and laughing with me as we tease those around us mercilessly. My sister, a cherished partner-in-crime, pulling pranks on unwitting passersby. It is magic to see this world and I surf through each night exploring the wilds of my dreams.
In Wyoming, the wind is magic and the magic is in my dreams. Although others in Wyoming hate the beast that roars and bellows at all who dare to listen, it is my favorite part of this land. It connects me to home. It connects me to him.
Is the ending ruined when you know it is going to happen? Is it less unhappy because you saw it coming?
For me, the answer to these questions is ‘No’. Unhappiness sucks no matter how much notice you have. Or how little.
When I was woken by a loud thud coming from the floor above me, my mind immediately knew the cause even if I verbally denied it to my startled boyfriend next to me. “The dog knocked something over, go back to sleep.”
It wasn’t the dog. I knew this but I said it anyway. A delay to the inevitable heartbreak that awaited me upstairs.
Despite desperately wanting to hope that everything would be okay, I could tell by the way he was breathing---a ragged rattled and snore that caught in his throat and release only with great effort in a tumble of air before all noise ceased---that this was the end.
I shook his shoulder and called, “Dad. Dad!” and the rattle returned. A sickening sound of death nobody writes about and is silenced in the movies. They skip these parts. The sounds of real death. I wonder if it is because they have not seen it like this before.
In the hospital, I hear another noise. This one I do hear in every doctor show and movie. It is the sound automatically associated with the final moments of human life.
Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
They shocked him. An unseen and nearly silent jolt, but only after I am pushed from the room.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep… Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.
Again.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.
They said he was stable enough for surgery and they would take him back immediately. So we wait.
I have known in my mind, my heart, that this was the end. The moment I heard him fall to the bedroom floor above me, I knew; the moment I heard his breathing stop, start, stop, start--I knew; the long thin note of the death from the emergency room triage, I knew.
When the surgeon comes in, it is no surprise. Dad didn’t make it. He passed before they could even start the surgery. He’s sorry, the surgeon is. But he is smiling. His eyes are warm, but his upturned lips make me shudder with their insincerity.
I knew but this did not help me. I knew he was not coming back home, but the finality of the doctor’s word did not destroy me any less.
The light turned green, and the motor hummed as I pressed a heavy foot on the accelerator and drove on.
When I was a kid, I used to scratch at my arms until they bled. There was this sense that I would be able to find the better version of myself somewhere just under the surface of my skin. If i could just get there, reach in, and pull it out then everyone would see how special, worthy, I was. The problem was that I never found anything new or better, I was still just the same. Even when I thought I had reached down deep enough to grab at that something great, no one ever seemed to notice a difference and I felt less worthy than I was before. Even in the pools of my own blood, I was nothing. Meaningless.
It wasn’t until college that I had this kind of ... epiphany, we’ll call it that anyway. It was like the universe shined its overwhelming wisdom down on me and I realized that my worthiness wasn’t something that was lacking inside of me, but that those around me were failing to see what I could offer. That the void I felt was their failing, not mine. I had put everything I had into this life yet there was nothing I received in return.
It is easier to make that transition than people believe. The anger that I once had at myself for being meaningless and a waste of space turned outward. The self-loathing that was all-consuming was no longer pointed toward my center, but instead at those who failed me. Failed by never seeing me the way that they should have.
TV would have you believe that women who become violent don’t do the dirty work themselves. They use poison. They convince a dumb man to do the work. Maybe some choose to get out the old man’s shotgun and take a wild shot. I don’t find that that releases the anger. It is too quick. To impersonal. No, I have found a different method. After all, when you loath someone, everyone, there is no shortcut to emptying the sick from your mind. You have to take your time, dig down deep and rip back open the scars society placed on your soul and return them to the places they belong. Place them back onto the world over and over and over again until they stick.
I am driving to the cabin my parents used to own in New York, up in the woods and away from any real civilization. I have a half-hour more to go. The snow is falling in heavy, fluffy flakes and I am reaching the last gas station I’ll see before I reach the cabin. I pull to a stop at the red light just before the turn into the station and check my gas gauge. I still have three-quarters of a tank left. When I stop, I turn down the radio’s blabber about the storm and listen for other noises. The snow is soft as it hits the car, hardly making a sound. The world is quiet in the night, the loudest sound is the heater running in the car and the engine rumbling. I wait.
THUMP! THUMP THUMP!
Ah. There it is. Not dead yet. I smile.
I had been slightly worried that the drive would kill him before I took him to his final destination. It had been so cold. I blasted the heater the whole trip and even left him a blanket. It wouldn’t be time for him to understand my loathing unlit later tonight, and it would spoil my healing process if he expired before I got to explain why I hated him so much.
The light turned green, and the motor hummed as I pressed a heavy foot on the accelerator and drove on.
This is totally accurate.... We didn't sacrifice anyone, but we did draw down the moon to speak with the goddess once. And there was that other time where one girl thought she was possessed and we tried to force the entity out.... Girl Power, Bitches!
This semester I am taking a class in Creative Non-Fiction writing.
This is a much a surprise to me as it might be to those of you who have read or at least glanced at my writing. I am a fantasy writer. Everything I write about is made up and a figment of my very average imagination.
Yet. I think this is going to be the class that helps my writing the most. There is a need for a certain amount of realism in any fantasy to help plant the reader into your world. Believable. Real. Fantastical.
I am excited. We have two essays to write for the class. I am hopeful that I will do well in this so that I can better improve on my other writing projects.
We have a ton of reading to do, and my interest has been higher than I expected (considering I have never really read non-fiction before).
The first essay we’ve read for class was “Consider the Lobsters” by David Foster Wallace (Found Here). You can be mad at me, but this was the first David Foster Wallace piece that I have read. The first few paragraphs made me groan with boredom and want to pull my dyslexic hair out by the roots at all the geographical references that I just don’t care about.
But then. This miracle switch happens where Mr. Wallace becomes this sarcastic man of genius who drags me along the horrors of lobster murder and slaps my sense of morals in the face with a wet fish.
It isn’t about not eating lobster. It isn’t about ceasing in your attendance at commercialized celebrations of mass lobster murder. It is just simply a piece written for you to confront your moral compass on whether is it OK to boil a creature alive regardless of its understanding of pain.
Why is the human condition on that will buy insurance for their pet turtle, but will throw a similarly shelled creature into a pot of superheated water while it is still alive?
The answer Mr. Wallace gives us is simple. We are selfish. And our want to eat these creatures is greater than our moral need to protect their shelled exterior from the torturer of boiling water.
I am satisfied with this introduction to Creative Non-Fiction as a genre.
Autism comes on a spectrum. Some of us require more support than others. Some of us are better at masking/fitting in with our peers. Some of us are nonverbal, while some talk a lot. Some stim openly and publicly, while some don’t.
It’s fine to say “autistic person.” You don’t have to say “person with autism.” Person-first language implies that having autism or referring to us as autistic is bad, when it isn’t. You wouldn’t say “person with shortness” to refer to a short person, would you?
Autism is NOT a mental illness, and it doesn’t need a cure. It is classified as a developmental disorder, not any sort of mental illness. Every autistic person that I’ve talked to has been adamantly against a cure, because there’s nothing wrong with having autism.
There are many different types of stimming. Hand-flapping isn’t the only one. Chewing on things (shirts, chew necklaces, etc), rocking, fidgeting with our hands, playing with a stim toy (tangle, fidget cube, etc), bouncing, tapping, and even vocal stims are also common and valid.
Our special interests are varied. Sure, things like trains or space or dinosaurs may be special interests that a lot of autistic people have, but switch it up a little. My special interests, for example, are rainforests, witchcraft, movies, the Periodic Table, and random fun facts.
While we’re on that topic, special interests are basically like diamonds to us. When I think about my favorite movies or TV shows, I get all happy and I can’t help but smile. I can literally talk about my special interests for so long. Often, after I introduce myself to someone new, I’ll say “Have you seen [insert favorite movie or TV show]?” And if they say they have, my heart will explode and I will just start gushing.
Social skills aren’t the only thing that we can have difficulty with. Some of the hallmark characteristics of autism include having trouble making or keeping friends, not making a lot of eye contact, and speaking in a monotone voice. Please try to add in some symptoms other than just “awkward around people.” Personally, I can only make eye contact with someone if I have a connection to them or if I know them well - and even then it’s so draining. When I try to make eye contact, with anyone else, I look away quickly. It feels strange and difficult and I don’t like it.
For the love of all things holy, do not use the term “mental r*t*rdation.” It’s outdated and isn’t used anymore by doctors. Plus, you know, the r-word is a slur.
The world is strange and hard to understand sometimes for us. It feels like allistics have these rules that I have to follow that are so dumb, and sometimes I don’t even know the rules, but I’m expected to follow them anyway. Oftentimes, I will say something that sounds funny in my head, but when it comes out of my mouth it wasn’t funny and no one acknowledges it.
Allistics can be sooooo frustrating. If you’re going to write an autistic person accurately, you’ll want to add in some annoying and unwarranted comments by allistic people. Such as: “You don’t look like you have autism!” “I couldn’t tell you were autistic!” “People with autism are so much better than normal people - they never lie, and are never mean to anyone.” “My child has autism, and I wouldn’t have it any other way! I’m so strong for dealing with them!” “Vaccines cause autism.”
News flash: Autistic people aren’t angels. We can lie. We can cheat. We can be mean just like anyone else can. It all comes down to the individual. We are not perfect little golden children just because we have autism.
Sheldon Cooper is not a good example of an autistic person. He is just a stereotype. Media either portrays us as super-smart geniuses, or as robots who don’t understand anything that’s going on around us. Don’t perpetuate the stigma.
We have reached that point where we are all supposed to have made it halfway through out novels.
I am sure there are a few of you who are proudly raising your hands to say, "hey, I've made it!" For you guys I would like to say, Congrats! That is amazing! In your busy life you have found time and motivation to get this done. You have worked hard. You are half way there and you have proved to yourself that you can make it!
For the others who are almost there or who feel that they are drowning in lack of ideas, motivation, time, or whatever that something else is that makes us enjoy this process....
It isn't too late. So things didn't go your way so far, you still have half a month left for things to turn around.
Maybe you are thinking of giving up this month and trying again another month. ---- That's okay! You need to make a decision that will help you stay happy and healthy. Did you write 10 word for your project? Yeah? Cool, that means you made progress and that is what this is all about.
The best part about NaNoWriMo is that you can pick any 30 days of the year to buckle down and write your novel. It doesn't have to me November, it could be any consecutive 30 days that works for you. If November doesn't work, then shrug it off and pick a different month to do this in.
Whatever your situation, keeping up or dragging behind, I want to tell you all that you are amazing capable people.
Is it wrong for me to throw my favorite Fairy Tail characters into my NaNo novel when I stuck? Like... Need a librarian? Here comes Levy to the rescue! She’s smart, beautiful, and the perfect woman to push my character forward in her needed research. Thanks, Mr. Mashima!
How far are you? Remember that the point of NaNo is to write anything. If you have 100 words, then that is awesome because you have 100 words more than you did before and that means you are winning!!
Remember:
You do not need to write in order. Write whatever scene is in your head right now.
Word count includes vague filler ideas that you want to have in a chapter but aren’t sure about
bullet points about a scene
Anything writing pertaining to your novel.
Don’t feel like writing today. That’s okay, but don’t make it a habit. Get it done! 2 words at a time if you need to...
