Choice 4, Week 15: My reflections

                At the beginning of the semester I wrote that I didn’t really think of myself as a writer but that has changed after taking this course. Before, I saw writing as something that I wanted to do; I thought I had to have a degree in order to take on that role. I didn’t see that even with a degree, I wouldn’t be writer unless I wrote and that I don’t need one to do that.

                I wasn’t confident in my writing, didn’t think I had the skills to transform a boring situation into something special. I shot myself down before I tried and this class has forced me to step out of my comfort zone, setting me up for either success or failure. I found out it not only came easily to me, but I enjoyed it more than I anticipated and I now believe I have what it takes to actually make a career out of something I love.

                Of course, I know it will be difficult. Most writers struggle to make a living and it may never happen for me. I know this, but I want to try anyways. I am going to apply to San Diego State University school of Journalism to finish my degree where I will be given a variety of internship opportunities that will hopefully turn into a job after graduation. I want to insert myself into an environment where there are jobs to make my goals possible and can’t think of a better place to fit my personality than southern California.

                I am so happy I took this course and tried out a type of writing I’d never done before. I was nervous, unsure if I was comfortable sharing so much about myself. Journalism is appealing to me because it is unbiased (sometimes) and impersonal. You share important information about other people, the focus is never on you. I love research and technical writing, weird I know, but it has always come easily to me. There is a format, a layout, a right and wrong way to do it. There is less room for failure and when criticized, it stings less because you probably didn’t put your heart and soul into it. It wasn’t you. I’ve learned it is more rewarding to take risks and the sense of accomplishment after finishing a piece that challenged me is much greater. Not to mention more fun.

Theme Piece 2, Week 14

                She wandered aimlessly around TJ Maxx, disappointed there was nothing to buy. Shopping was the one thing she could always count on to make her feel better but it wasn’t working today. She knew she was in trouble.

                She knew it would be hard when he left, thought she was prepared for it. It was what she wanted, no question, so the pain she was feeling was unexpected. Now she wasn’t sure if she’d done the right, if she even knew what she wanted at all.

                “It hadn’t been that bad,” she thought as she sifted through the clearance rack displaying the fashion rejects of spring. Disproportioned stripes in loud oranges and blues hadn’t been as popular as designers had hoped. Neither had the sailor themed shirts with sexy cutouts in the back. Cute, but every girl must have thought the same thing she had. How would you wear a bra? She couldn’t believe now that she could go shopping whenever she wanted without getting a lecture about saving money, there wasn’t anything to buy. The universe hated her.

                She saw a black, flowing top with a low-cut draped back. “He would love that on me,” she thought and tears welled up in her eyes. Why was this so hard?? They fought every day; he came home late every night. Didn’t remember the last time he took her out to dinner and most of the time she felt like his maid, not his girlfriend. He cheated on her, lied to her, embarrassed her. She put the shirt back on the rack and went to look at the shoes. They were the one thing she knew she could count on.

Theme Post 1, Week 14

                She glanced at the clock again, five more hours left until it was 11:59. Not enough time. Document3 was still untitled after four rambling paragraphs about Reactive Attachment Disorder, a subject that after skimming countless resources she knew nothing about. Certainly not enough to write a meaningful thesis backed up by facts and studies for the ten-page research paper. A paper she had all semester to work on.

                Staring off into space, she absentmindedly picked at her nail. It was chipped. Nothing came to mind as she thought about a direction for her paper. Normally, she would have written an outline for the whole thing. She would have researched it thoroughly and known exactly where to find the information she needed. She would have had draft after draft until she knew it was an A.

                She wasn’t good under pressure. Eight PM. Cheesestixs were in the oven and all she could think about was the fact this paper was 50% of her grade. It had to be good but all it was a disorganized mess, a re-iteration of other people’s words, a jumble of numbers and meaningless statistics. She was writing long, wordy sentences to take up space, fake confidence. It was obvious she was trying to sound smart. Horrible.

                At eleven she met the page requirements, wrapped it up in a weak conclusion and went to work on her reference page. This was all her fault, nobody to blame but herself. She spent the weekend before in Boston with a friend from high school. Spent too much money on dinners in fancy restaurants and a black, lace dress she would never have a place to wear. It had been a busy week at work; she was scheduled twenty-five hours, all night shifts. There was no time in between classes to get anything done. After work she crawled into bed and watched T.V. before drifting off to sleep. Every night she set her alarm for nine but without fail, turned it off and gave into the comfort of her bed. Her plans to write in the morning never panned out and before she knew it, she was rushing to class with barely enough time to shower.

                As she finished formatting her last reference, it crossed her mind that maybe school wasn’t really for her. It was impossible to stay on top of things; in order to do well in one area, another usually suffered. The paper was the worst thing she’d ever handed in. After she sent it, she found typos on every page and repetitive statements. It was hard to follow, disorganized. Stupid mistakes she never would have made if she’d been a better student, the kind of student that succeeded. Maybe she wasn’t that committed. Or maybe she wasn’t the person she thought she was. Not as smart. She knew people stumble, nobody’s perfect, but she still wanted to be. If this had happened to a friend, she would have known with certainty they weren’t a failure. She would have said “at least you got it in. A C isn’t that bad.” She would have meant it but for some reason, she couldn’t give herself the same slack.

               

Theme Week 13: Small to Large, Large to Small

                It was a Hallmark card. Pink and flirty, it was the kind of card you give before things are serious. It firmly planted me in the “more than friends but not quite in love with you yet” category, that grey, undefined area where most relationship mistakes are made. The note he wrote was simple. “I love spending time with you. Happy Valentine’s Day.” But it was more than that. It was the start of it all. Romance really does exist and love isn’t a fairy tale.

                There is a purple birthday card from my friend Meaghan. She’d gotten it for my 20^th, an uneventful year. Six years old, it still has silver glitter on the front. She said we were like sisters, thanks for being such a good friend. I remember that birthday, one of the worst one’s ever. Meaghan and I went out to lunch to 99 with Shane. I was living with my brother on Cottage Street, practically homeless after my parents had decided to convert my bedroom into the dog’s room, something I hadn’t anticipated when I came home from college for the summer. We were innocent then, I remember that. Selfish and close-minded too. Depressed over my relationship with my parents, focused on what I didn’t have, I was blind to what mattered. I got the best birthday card ever and a sister. Sometimes you have to make your own family.  

                In the sixth grade I tried out for cheering and didn’t make the team. The coach was a teacher at my school and she wrote me a note in a blank card adorned with pink lilies encouraging me to keep working at it, I had a lot of potential. She hoped to see me again next year. Signed in her illegible scribble, Mrs. Hatch. The next year, I made the team all because of a few sentences of encouragement that started a chain reaction of dedication and perseverance, all fueled by pride. You can do anything if you set your mind to it.

Prompt 3 Week 13: Loosely holding hands, not even aware of doing so, but, still, skin touching skin....

                Snow White lay still, her ebony hair framing her porcelain features, until the Prince kissed her. His love had saved her. Her Knight and Shining Armor. Her one and only.

                Scarlett was helpless in Rhett’s hands as he told her, “You should be kissed and kissed often, by a man who knows what he’s doing,” and she had never been kissed like that before. He was the love of her life, her drug.

                Harry told Sally that men and women can never really be friends because one of them always wants more. For years, she tried to disprove him but fell hopelessly in love with him instead. Best friends turned lovers, soul mates. A spark they had been fighting for years that couldn’t be contained any longer.

                Oh, the movies. They bring you to tears, get into your heart, and set your romantic expectations high. Too high? A cynic would say so, someone who has been disappointed time and time again only to blame it on pop culture’s love for sappy romantic comedies and great love stories where women are saved by the man of their dreams and there’s always a happily ever after. They’d say “love like that doesn’t really exist, that’s why nothing ever works out. You think you’re gonna get some movie romance and when you don’t, you’re devastated. Most people wouldn’t even know love if it hit them in the face; they’re too busy looking for something they’re never going to find.”

                Maybe. But the happily ever after of life is a lot longer than the average two-hour romantic comedy and in between the hard times, picture-perfect movie moments are the glue that keeps love alive.

                “I like your necklace,” he said.

                We were standing a few feet apart waiting for the night to be over so we could go home. We hadn’t had any customers in a while; it was cold and rainy, people didn’t want to come out. “Thanks.”

                He stepped closer and gently placed his fingers around the chain to study the beads. It was long, an assortment of colorful, jewel-toned beads that didn’t really match. It fit me perfectly, my favorite piece of jewelry.

                I couldn’t breathe, he was too close. My stomach turned, I felt like I did the very first time I held hands with the hottest guy in the seventh grade. I was hot, unsure of myself, but I liked how he felt so close to me, not touching me at all. I stepped away; I didn’t want him to sense what I was feeling. I was in love with him.

                Our first kiss was like a chemical reaction, an explosion. Better than any movie I had ever seen. It set the bar pretty high, there was a lot of room to crash.

                I waited.

                And waited.

                Waited some more.

                The downfall never came. My heart didn’t get broken. The love didn’t die. Our movie didn’t end.

               

Prompt 2 Week 13: Dump the trash bin on the floor, pull on your rubber gloves, and start hunting for the truth that only your throwaways know.

                I got to the front of the line after what felt like forever and put my PowerAde on the counter. “Is this going to be all?” the young kid behind the counter asked me. He had wispy brown hair and wore glasses. Pale with freckles, his smile was weak, clearly forced.

                “Ummm, no. Actuallyyy, I want you to check this ticket I bought. I just can’t seem to find it…..” My small, leather wristlet was empty except for my keys, wallet, and perfume. My ticket wasn’t in there. I smiled sheepishly, suddenly aware of the growing line behind me. “Sorry, I must have left it at home. I’ll be back!”

                Nervous I had lost the ticket that a day before held all my hopes and dreams, I went home to find it. If it wasn’t in my purse, it was definitely in the pile of paperwork and mail that was scattered across the table in my bedroom.

                Scratch that. It was in the pile of paperwork and mail that used to be scattered across the table in my bedroom. The table that was now clean, with nothing on it. “Oh no. No. The one time he cleans!? Seriously? Ryan? Are you here?”

                He didn’t answer. I didn’t expect him to, he was working. I dialed the number I was only supposed to call in case of an emergency, deciding that my missing ticket definitely constituted as an emergency. “Hey, what did you do with all the mail and papers on the table?” I asked.

                “I threw it away. It was all junk,” he said.

                “You what?? No, don’t say that. My ticket was in there!!” I wailed.

                “I’m sorry. If it makes you feel better, you probably didn’t win anyways. You know the chances are like a gazillion to one.”

                “You know that’s not true!! My horoscope said I’d be coming into money this week and my astrological number on the day of the drawing was my favorite number. I’m pretty sure all the signs aligned to be on my side. Except for the fact that you threw my ticket away. I have to go now.”

                “Where are you going,” he asked.

                “I have some trash to go through.”

                I couldn’t believe what I was about to do as I pulled out the first bag of trash from the garbage can outside my apartment building. I had just gotten my nails done the day before. The bag was wet from the rain and I hoped the rainwater washed away germs, even though I knew better. I remained focused on my prize as I sifted through old yogurt cups and half-eaten meals.

                I had never been much of a gambler. Had only bought about three lottery tickets in my life and lost on every one. My Dad spent a lot of money betting on horse races and basketball games when I was a kid. I saw him win but more often than not, he lost. I knew what that meant, lots of spaghetti and mac n’ cheese for dinner. No movies or new toys. He couldn’t help it.

                I had a special feeling the afternoon I placed my faith, and my future, in the hands of a cashier at the Big Apple. I never bought these things, there had to be a reason I felt the urge that day. I read my horoscope in The Edge and there it was. I was going to feel better about my finances this week.

                I began to dream. I still wanted to finish my education, but not in Maine where the tuition was cheap. California, maybe. Live by the beach in a stylish condo with a balcony. There would be lots of internship opportunities. I would pay off my loans and hire an investment banker who could help me manage my money. I could buy all the clothes I wanted and my $3,000 dream dog. My friends and family could all go on a month-long sailing vacation. We could all live the lives we’d never dared to imagine. My brother and his fiancé could have a fairytale wedding and the most fantastic honeymoon. They could go wherever they wanted, do whatever they wanted, for however long they desired.

                It was these fantasies that led me to dig my newly manicured nails into piles and piles of dirty, wet trash. I never realized how much stuff we threw away. Toothbrush boxes and toilet paper rolls. Coupons from Dominos and KFC, expired cheese. Half-eaten pieces of pizza brought home from work at the end of the night. So much waste, I began to feel bad.

                I found my ticket in the second bag of trash I opened, halfway down. It was smeared with grape jelly and crumpled, but the barcode was still intact. My numbers, 04-17-24-31-44 and the Megaball 20 were clear as day. I sighed with relief. My millions hadn’t been lost after all.

                After I cleaned up I went back to the store, ticket in hand. The cahier with the sad smile was still there. Nobody was in the store and he looked bored. Well, I was about to make his day a lot more interesting.

                He ran the ticket through his machine but no bells chimes, there was no music. “Not a winner,” he said as he threw it in the trash.

Prompt 1 Week 13: The things I see as I walk down the street that's like heaven to me....

                I don’t know what heaven is like. Haven’t been there and don’t plan on it for a long time but I know it is a perfect place, a reward for navigating through life’s hardships, for having faith, and for being virtuous. Everyone’s heaven must be different, made up of people they’ve loved and lost and their favorite things. Things that put big smiles on their faces. There is no pain or tears.

                My heaven would be warm; a land of perpetual sunshine but my skin would never burn. I could soak up its rays for hours every day without worrying about skin cancer or wrinkles. In my heaven nobody cares what you look like; I don’t spend time worrying about my skin-care regime or makeup. I don’t have to do my hair. It doesn’t matter what I wear and I’m always comfortable.

                I’d catch up with my grandmother who I haven’t seen seventeen years. We’d play cribbage (she’d have to teach me again; I haven’t played since she passed) and she’d be impressed that she passed her culinary skills on to me. I’d tell her all about my life on earth (even my mistakes). In my heaven, lies don’t exist. She’d introduce me to her father, a man I never met. It would be like we had never been apart. She’d be close with Shane; they play poker together. He’ll be a more gracious loser, even letting Nana win

                In my heaven you can eat whatever you want without worrying about whether or not it’s good or bad for you because there, nothing will cause heart disease or breast cancer. Pulled pork sandwiches with spicy slaw and nachos, strawberry and spinach salad with grilled chicken, it doesn’t matter. Whatever you like.

                Fragrant flowers grow freely in vibrant pink and lavender, white and marigold. The trees are tall, their green leaves bright and saturated with life. There are no allergies and all my animals will be there. Nadia, Nana’s loyal Husky and Millie, her fat, happy pug. Sasha will be gone by then and Peekah too. In heaven they don’t hiss viciously at each other. Saba, Nellie, the hamster that died on my tenth birthday. They’ll all be there, roaming around in nature without fear of being attacked, getting along.

                There is no stress, a permanent vacation. In my heaven, I’ll never want anything, knowing I have everything I need.

                Heaven will have to wait many years (I hope), so for now, I have to look for slivers of heaven on earth. Sometimes it’s hard to see. I’ll be the first to admit that when I’m stressed out and frazzled, too busy to eat, I forget there is so much to be grateful for. So many beautiful things.

                The other night I was driving on the interstate. It was about 11 PM and my craving for Pat’s Pizza and Buffalo wings sent me on the trek to Orono. I’d gotten my food and on the way back I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the sky. It was raining, more of a drizzle, and the distant streetlights of Bangor illuminated the clouds hanging low in the sky. They were deep purple, a musky orange. Dark and bright at the same time and for that drive, the cold rain and the pitch dark were warm and comforting above the silent interstate. Heaven on earth.

Theme Week 12: Risks, juxtapostion, and humor

                A simple question: what’s your favorite color? I hadn’t been asked that since I was a kid, had to think for a minute. “Yellow. Or green.” I pause. “I wear mostly black though.” I feel like a liar, like I’m making something up about myself. Yellow is pretty, the color of sun and happiness. Beautiful, but if you walked into my house or peeked inside of my closet, you wouldn’t know the color even existed. Green is calm, my favorite color for home décor. But black is a staple of my wardrobe, my favorite nail polish color, and the right amount of coal eyeliner makes my eyes look amazing. It should be the winner hands down but only comes as an afterthought.

                Favorite movie? My mind goes blank and once again, I don’t know what to say. Gone with the Wind is a classic, I loved watching it with my grandmother as a child; she knew every word by heart. The Notebook made me cry every time, a great love story. I must have watched Rent fifty times; I can sing along to every song. Garden State is cute, Natalie Portman did a great job and Zach Braff wrote a surprisingly clever script. The soundtrack is first-class.  The holidays wouldn’t be complete without watching the original Miracle on 34^th Street. And how can I forget Almost Famous? That scene when everybody is singing “Tiny Dancer” on the bus has to make it a contender.

                TV Show? Beverly Hills 90210, of course. I DVR it every day. Love it even though I’ve seen every episode already. Or maybe Weeds. After all, I subscribe to Showtime just so I can watch it. That’s gotta  mean something….And how can I forget my guilty pleasure, Keeping up with the Kardashians? Every Sunday night, we have a date. Friends makes me laugh out loud every time I watch it, no matter how many times I’ve seen Ross and Rachel get together and break up then get together and break up... Certainly the best comedy ever, although the new show Two Broke Girls is hilarious too... The Food Network never disappoints either, no matter how many episodes of Diners, Drive-ins, and Dives I watch. I don’t know.

                Let’s talk about food. I love to eat, love how it brings people together. So what’s one food I can’t live without? Without a doubt, it’s nachos. Nachos covered in gooey cheese, refried beans, fresh salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. But I’m totally addicted to buffalo wings dipped in Marie’s super blue cheese dressing, I’m not sure I could give those up. And then there are these tomatoes I make. I bake them in olive oil with fresh garlic, oregano, basil, salt, pepper, and sugar at 250 for three hours. On a nice piece of ciabatta, they are perfect.

                Here’s a question I know the answer to. If I could go anywhere in the world, where would it be? Italy, of course. Good food, good wine, beautiful architecture. History. Although Australia seems so beautiful, so many cool animals, great accents, sun. I’ve always wanted to go to Vancouver too, every picture I’ve seen looks like heaven and it is my personal experience that Canadians are outgoing and open. The Swiss Alps, Nice, Paris, Russia. Well, I thought I knew…

Prompt 3 Week 12: I met the most amazing person last week....

                I met the most amazing person last week, a brand-new college graduate on the first leg of his journey to hike the Appalachian Trail. We met by accident and I’m sure he wishes he never met us at all, but hey, at least he has a good story to tell his friends when he goes home.

                It was two in the morning and I was upstairs in the guest bedroom sleeping on two mattresses thrown on the floor. I use the term guest bedroom loosely; it was more of a storage closet where we threw the things we didn’t want but held onto anyways, just in case “one day” we might need it. I never slept up there, but we had been fighting all week. It was time to make him feel bad.

                At two in the morning, just as I had fallen asleep, I heard the front door open. The screen door slammed and two pairs of footsteps pounded down the hall. Voices. I heard the deep grumble of his voice but the other one was unrecognizable, a man with a Midwest accent. A stranger. They were talking too loud for me to sleep and I couldn’t sustain my curiosity anymore, I had to find out who this was, for my own safety. He could seriously be anyone, knowing my boyfriend.

                I carefully made my way down the narrow staircase and was greeted by a young man, early twenties, clean-cut with a backpack. Not scary at all, harmless. I breathed a sigh of relief and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

                “This is Colin. He’s hiking the Appalachian Trail.”

                As it turned out, our new friend Colin had just graduated college and was going to spend his summer testing his physical and mental limits. He was young, naïve, and apparently senseless to go home with a complete stranger like my boyfriend who met him on a street corner by the bus station on his way to the bar. He told the kid to stay put and he’d be back for him and remarkably, Colin, who had nowhere else to go, waited almost two hours.

                I couldn’t believe it and even though Colin was nice enough, I still felt like it was out of line to bring home a complete stranger and offer him a place to stay for the evening. He could have been a serial killer and even though it was rude, I brought this up. Mind you, this wasn’t the first time an incident like this had happened.

                A few months before, we had gone out and met an older woman standing in downtown Bangor. She was pulling a mid-size suitcase on wheels. It was raining and cold, a chilly mid-November evening before the chill of winter overtook the region. It turned out she had arrived on the bus from Nebraska where she gone to meet the man she had fallen in love with online. Grandmotherly and sweet, we brought her home with us. It seemed like right thing to do. It was cold and her bus didn’t leave until ten the next morning.

                We sat up with her talking. She was fascinating. Fifty-three years old, she had been a virgin before she made the trek to Nebraska. She was getting married to him the next spring and as she spoke, she reminded me of a gleeful schoolgirl after her first kiss. We were lucky with her but, nothing was stolen; we weren’t attacked in our sleep. But you can only be lucky so many times…

                “Don’t you think at all?” I asked.

                “It’s fine, he’s a nice kid.”

                “And how the hell would you know that? You knew him for what? Two minutes before you decided to invite him home? You’re so crazy….so inconsiderate.” I was enraged.

                “You’re so self-righteous, if you had been there, you would have done the same thing,” he said. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t.”         

                “You don’t know anything about what I would do,” I said, livid he had the nerve to argue back.

                This went on for a while, as Colin stood awkwardly in the corner, unsure whether or not to leave. He tried to pack up and go at one point, said he was sorry to intrude. “I didn’t mean to cause a problem, really….”he stammered.

                “You’re not the problem,” I said. “You’re fine. Smart. Sweet.” We had just heard all about his girlfriend back home in Chicago. They dated all through college. She was nervous about his adventure.

                “Why is it you are so nice to everybody but me?” my boyfriend asked.

                “Because, not everybody is as big an ass hole as you are,” I replied.

                That was it. I had gone too far. He started yelling, I had to go. This was over. I knew we were out of line as we stood in the dimly lit kitchen screaming at each other. This was not the time to get into it but there was not stopping it. He picked up a butter knife and threw it across the room. It didn’t even come near me, missing me by so much it didn’t seem like he was aiming for me at all. Silence. Everything stopped, nobody moved.

                “They said people from Maine would be crazy,” Colin said, with an unmistakable weariness in his voice.

                The next morning when I woke up, he was gone, the blankets I had gathered for his bed neatly folded and placed in a chair.

Prompt 2 Week 12: My Summer Vacation

                School had just ended for the summer and I should have been excited for long, lazy days in the sun and adventures with my friends but I wasn’t. Instead of hanging out every day with my best friend Katie who only lived five houses away, I was being sent to Kentucky to visit my father, the land of slow-speaking southerners and fried everything. So what if I was being judgmental? Even though I had never been there, I knew I would hate it. I was determined to hate it.

                My brother Zak and I stepped off the plane and our designated travelling companion (babysitter) guided us into the airport where our father was waiting, all smiles in his bright blue wind-pants and Wildcats tee, hat on backwards. Standing at most 5’ 7”, he looked like a wannabe baller without any game.

                “Hey baby,” he drawled, giving me a hug. “I missed you.”

                I cringed as his accent rang in my ears and quickly pulled away. “My name is Sam,” I said.

                “Well you’ll always be my baby,” he replied and I gave up, giving him a point this time. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it through the whole summer, especially if he continued to insist on giving insidious nicknames. I hated being called baby. He gave me a name for a reason, I felt like he should use it, but what did I know?

                Collecting our luggage took forever but nobody noticed except for me. My brother, for some unexplainable reason, loved Kentucky and chattered away about track, bragging about the school record he broke for fastest 100 meter sprint.  After our suitcases finally came out, Dad said “Ready?”

                “That’s not everything,” I said.

                He looked around, taking in my two huge green suitcases, Zak’s duffel bag, and our L.L. Bean backpacks. “There’s more?”

                “Just one more thing,” I said. “We can’t forget Millie.”

                “Millie?” he asked.

                “The. DOG.” Duh.

                His face said it all, and even at ten I was perceptive enough to know my mother hadn’t told him about the dog. I smiled brightly. “So cute! You’ll love her.”

                I was right. He did love her and Millie loved him. We lived in an apartment complex with a huge parking lot filled with cars and a grassy area with picnic tables. Each apartment had a sliding glass door in the rear bedroom that led to a small BBQ area and a small square of lawn. The grass was yellow and brittle, too spiky to walk on with bare feet. The excruciating heat from the sun beamed down on it every afternoon and between the hours of ten and seven it was best to stay inside or risk dying from heat stroke. I was a Maine girl and anything past sixty-five was hot, eighty was too hot and the heat of a Kentucky summer was unbearable. The thick humidity in the air clung to my lungs, stifling my breath. I couldn’t get enough water and thought people were crazy when they bundled up in sweatshirts and jeans at night.

                Millie loved to run in the parking lot; the heat never bothered her. She ran in circles every morning before she settled down to do her business on the lawn. One day, Millie saw my father in the kitchen with her bag of pebbles. So excited, she ran at top speed into the glass door and her thick, little pug body bounced of the glass. From that day on, he loved that dog.

                My father worked every day and since it was too hot to go outside, I became a sports fanatic. The Olympics were on that year and they were in the United States. Atlanta. I was hooked, awed by the speed of the track and field athletes, mesmerized by the dangerous moves of the gymnasts. My brother and I fought over the television as we lounged in the air-conditioned apartment. Who knew I’d ever prefer to spend my summer vacation inside?

                No matter where we went, it seemed like every girl was blonde with tight curls and a face full of makeup. They wore dresses during the day; they were tan, and beautiful. It was like being face-to-face with real, live Barbie dolls every single day. I had never seen anything like it and I secretly made fun of them in my head, wondering how long it took them to make themselves look so perfect and I faithfully reported my adventures (if you consider sitting inside an apartment day after day and occasionally going to Kroger an adventure) in letters to Katie who always promptly responded with disbelief and sympathy for my waste of a vacation.

                Our biggest excitement that summer was Church Camp; shockingly, it was fun in a twilight zone sort of way. The people at camp were like aliens to me, the strict Catholic girl I was, who gave up chocolate for Lent and went to church on Christmas Eve and Easter. Wesleyans, they sang and danced and did arts and crafts. They rejoiced in their love for God and faithfully went to church not only on Sundays but on Wednesdays as well. They placed their entire well-being in His hands, content with whatever happened because “things always happen for a reason.” They were always happy and robot-like. I had never seen anything like it, never seen people so passionate about anything, much less God. They kind of creeped me out.       

                It was a whole other world down there, in the south where slimy okra was a dinnertime staple. I figured the heat must have made it difficult for people to think clearly, prohibiting them from speaking in grammatically correct sentences or moving faster than the turtle I rescued earlier that year. People were reserved, women upheld a feminine stereotype that was lost in the seventies, and the only thing that got them excited was God. Me, raised in a liberal family, Catholic, didn’t fit there. I couldn’t wait to go home, where people knew what a red hot dog was or even a whoopee pie, to normal temperatures that allowed me to go outside.

Prompt Week Twelve: 50 (plus one) ways to break up with somebody

Breaking up is hard to do. There never seems to be a “good time” and it’s so hard to find the right words. If you know it’s over but can’t figure out how to break it to him, try one of these tricks and he’ll probably be glad you ended it.

1)      Tell him you’ve had a religious awakening and are seriously considering becoming a nun.

2)      Make a date with him and send someone you think would be a better fit for him in your place. She can explain everything.

3)      Do it Berger style and break up with them on a post-it. And don’t bother wasting time feeling bad about. Carrie Bradshaw got through it, they will too.

4)      Smile sadly and explain how you need to focus on yourself.

5)      Tell him five times it’s not them, it’s you.

6)      Finish by saying you wish they were the one but they’re not.

7)      Don’t forget to say you hope you can still be friends.

8)      Send them a wedding invitation to celebrate your marriage to someone else.

9)      Write them a letter. Then send it to them in the mail.

10)   Pack up and move without telling them. They’ll figure it out eventually.

11)   Change your number.

12)   Have your best friend do the dirty deed for you.

13)   Throw a tantrum in a public place, advertising the fact that it’s over because he cheated on you when he didn’t.

14)   Say it’s not going to work out because your signs are incompatible.

15)   Send him a text message with the two words “It’s over.”

16)   Pack up all his stuff and have it by the door when he comes home from work.

17)   Go on vacation for a week and don’t call him.

18)   Meanwhile, post pictures of you with another person all over Facebook so he’s sure to see.

19)   Finally, when you get home, change your relationship status to “single.” Just to make it official.

20)   And of course, you can always say you’re too busy to have a relationship right now.

21)   Tell him you’re sorry, but your cat/dog /fish doesn’t like him so…..that’s it.

22)   When you have plans with him, ditch him. No phone call, no text, nothing.

23)   Make sure you do this every single time you’re supposed to get together.

24)   Tell him you’re not over your ex, even if you are.

25)   And of course, you can always say you wish you met him at a different time, that you’re just not ready for the type of relationship he is looking for.

If the above tips aren’t working for you or if you’re just the non-confrontational type and want to bypass taking any responsibility for “the end”, make it easy on yourself and make THEM break up with YOU. This way, you don’t have to hurt their feelings and you can continue living your passive-aggressive life. Here are some ideas to help you.

26)   If you’ve only been dating him for a short while talk non-stop about marriage and babies.

27)   When you know he’s coming over make sure you’re with somebody else. Naked.

28)   Preferably one of his friends.

29)   Nag incessantly about the things he does wrong, making him despise you.

30)   Force him to watch the Kardashians with you every single Sunday night. Even if they’re repeats.

31)   Followed by Ice Loves Coco.

32)   Tell him you love him when you’ve been on three dates.

33)   Buy him a whole new wardrobe and make him a hair appointment with your personal stylist.

34)   Stop showering.

35)   While you’re at it, stop shaving too.

36)   And using deodorant.

37)   Talk about how much you love his mom. Tell him you want to be just like her.

38)   Every night, wait until he falls asleep and start screaming like a crazy person, like you’re having a bad dream. After a week of sleepless, interrupted nights, he won’t be able to stand it anymore.

39)   Every chance you get, tell him how fat you are.

40)   Make sure he knows how important it is to you that he buys you expensive presents and make it clear this is the only thing you care about. If he’s lucky, he WILL break up with you.

41)   Cry. All the time.

42)   Flirt with the waiter incessantly while the two of you are on a romantic Valentine’s Day date.

43)   Talk about you ex. Every single day.

44)   Argue with every single thing he says, even when he’s right.

45)   When he tells you how much he loves you, look at him and tell him you know. The key is to never, ever say it back.

46)   Lie about everything. And make sure he finds out.

47)   Beat him at every video game he plays.

48)   Find out his greatest phobia and become a huge fan of whatever it is. Mice, snakes, cereal. Whatever.

49)   Tell him you can’t stand him mom.

50)   Did I mention to tell him how much you love babies? Stress how you can’t wait to have one, preferably in the next year.

If none of these suggestions are getting the job done, I have one last piece of advice:

51) Try telling the truth, sharing how you feel, and giving your partner the respect they deserve. I know, right? Crazy.

Prompt Week 11: He had the sense she was senseless, yet there was still so much he could see...

                I wasn’t sure why, but every time I saw him I was left with an odd feeling, like he could see right through me. I didn’t know his name; he was just a customer who stopped into the store occasionally on his way home from work. He’d walk in, jeans tattered and dirty like he had been working outside all day, his boots heavy on the linoleum floor. A six-pack of Moosehead was all he ever bought and as I rang him up we discussed the best ways to run a store. He owned one down the road, making me wonder why he ever stopped in at all.

                I was always pleasant, smiling and perky even though my life at home was crumbling a little more each day. Andy and I were at each other’s throats, not one day went by where we didn’t fight and as sad as it was, I looked forward to work. It was an escape from the tension that surrounded me, my attempt to live a normal life.

                He began to stop in more, each time leaving me more uneasy than the last as I wondered what he was looking at when he looked at me. I avoided his eyes when I gave him his change, sure if he saw mine he would be able to tell exactly what I was thinking. A different kind of tension stole the air and I could hardly breathe as I stood vulnerable to him without understanding why. He wasn’t attractive; his hair was always messy and his clothes were wrinkled and splashed with paint. He was tall and strong but he wasn’t chiseled and fit. He was average .

                When we talk about how we met, he always says he could sense my unhappiness, that my smile wasn’t real. He could tell how nervous he made me, always thought it was funny. He says he knew he met me for a reason, cliché, but not really because it’s the truth. Like a sappy love song, he knew me before he met me. He saw more in myself than I did.

Theme Week Eleven

                The thing about this town is that nothing ever changes. Not for the better, anyways. When new restaurants open downtown, boasting authentic Mexican food or unique sandwiches, it can be almost certain they’ll eventually close their doors and re-open as something new a few months later to a slow trickle of customers who try it out once and decide they like their usual place more. People who like what they already know. Here, chain restaurants like Longhorn Steakhouse or Bugaboo Creek rate as fine dining.

                But even as storefronts change signs, the people walking the streets remain the same. Stuck in their routine, they hurry to grab a coffee in the morning where the lady behind the counter knows their order by heart. She works every weekday morning until about noon, has for years and many of her customers have grown to consider her a friend. Not to mention she’s the only one who knows how to make their coffee right.

                There are more people now than there used to be. More people walking around, broke and looking for a break that will never come. Too poor to own a car, too many years of bad luck and bad decisions to make a change now.

                I felt safe here when I was a kid. I walked the streets after dark, playing outside until the only light in the sky was the glimmer of the moon and the stars. Strangers didn’t scare me and I never remembered to lock the door. It’s different now and while walking at night, every person I pass seems like a threat as they mumble to themselves, their eyes darting every which way, paranoid. I stare at the ground and walk fast, cell phone in my hand. Last summer when I was bringing my trash cans to the side of the road, my neighbor come speeding towards me on his bike. Down the road his girlfriend called after him, screaming, “That’s my pillow! That’s MY pillow!!” She was enraged. He was leaving her, he explained. She was on Bath Salts and he “wouldn’t put up with that shit.” He loved her, he thought he was going to marry her, but not on those drugs. He said all of this as he scratched his arms and paced back and forth in my driveway. Every night I lock the door.

                Nothing ever changes around here, except the level of desperation in the faces of my neighbors, people who have given up on supporting themselves. They got lost along the way to drugs, alcohol. They were always here but there are more of them now. So nothing really ever changes, not for the better.

Prompt 3599, Week 11: He pondered how the people below him watched t.v. so deep into the early morning...

                It’s three in the morning and the music in the apartment next door is turned up just loud enough that I can hear it through the walls, keeping me from sleeping. Nothing new, and I lay here wishing I was one of those people who needed the television on while they fall asleep, the type of person who could sleep through anything. I’m not. I need my bedroom dark and it has to be completely quiet. I groan as I look at the clock and think of all the things I have to do tomorrow and am happy I already bought an energy drink for the morning.

                Tonight they’re playing a game. I can hear them cheer occasionally but usually they fight. None of them are good losers and for them, the video game is more than a game. It is their life. They talk about the characters they’ve created like they’re real people and sometimes they analyze Magic cards like they truly believe these Fantasy creatures really exist.

 The three of them cram into their tiny, one-bedroom apartment, rarely leaving except to walk to the store for cigarettes. They sleep all day and outside their door, they’ve posted a sign that gives strict instructions to leave them alone during the day. Nobody is allowed to knock between the hours of 8 am and 5 pm unless they are expecting you.  At night people walk from all over town and trudge up the stairs to buy bags of overpriced pot and the smell of marijuana burning lingers in the hall.

Sometimes when I see them outside our building they talk about finding jobs but there’s always a reason things don’t work out. The place isn’t hiring right now, they have too much experience to work somewhere, and my favorite: they can’t work because they have anger issues and have a hard time being around other people. One of them, the girl, claims she can’t work because of her height, she’s legally a Little Person, but it’s hard to see how her height restricts her. She seems to walk fine and she is 4 feet ten inches, not so short that she couldn’t do most things but  she seems content doing nothing at all.

Prompt Week Eleven: Uncle Henry's

This winter scene painting is an oil. size 11"x14". It was painted and signed by me as well. I'm young, but I can do amazing artwork! I also do custom paintings, and can paint on almost any surface! so please call or email or text.

                As a high school junior at Narraguagus High School, he can’t wait to graduate and get out of this boring state. He thrives in his art classes and has taken every one the high school offers. His teacher always asks him to display his work; she’s never had a student as talented as him but she’s secretly jealous of him. If she was that good, she would be an artist and not a teacher but some dreams don’t come true….

                His parents don’t get him; they don’t understand why he wants to get out of Cherryfield. To them, his interest in art is a waste of time. His dad wanted him to play football like he did and when he found out they were having a son sixteen years ago, he was ecstatic. He looked forward to teaching him how to throw a ball around and shoot a gun but by the time he was four it was obvious they wouldn’t be spending summer evenings playing ball in the backyard. He spent his time drawing with his crayons and creating sculptures out of play-do.

                They don’t support his college plans and say going to school for art is a waste of time. All they know is a simpler kind of life. His mom works at Wymans, the blueberry factory, during the summer and his father is a trapper. They both grew up in Cherryfield. High school sweethearts, they married as soon as they graduated and for their honeymoon, they went to New Hampshire and stayed in a rustic cabin nestled in the White Mountains. They don’t understand why the bright lights of New York attract their son and refuse to help out financially if he pursues a degree in art.

                Determined to prove them wrong, he decided to sell his art, get his name out there. Every penny is deposited into his savings account, though there aren’t many buyers. Undeterred, his passion never wavers, even though nobody but his art teacher understands and supports his dream.