Pages of Paige

“Write the best story that you can, and write it as straight as you can.” Ernest Hemingway

I kind of like Ernest Hemingway, so I take his advice as often as possible. That’s what I tried to do when I created Paige and the rest of her story in Dear Stephanie. I tried to write it as straight as I could. And I think I did.

If you’re in the mood for a read that will take you on a shockwave ride of emotions, get your copy today. It’s live, and I’m very proud, but don’t take my word for it.

Here’s what people are saying about my newly released debut novel:

LizziDear Stephanie is a tale of a woman’s battle against mental illness and her own efforts to self-sabotage her entire existence. In spite of her privileges and mind-games, Paige’s story is one of connection and relationship and self. It’s a tale of maybe true love and definitely true love, and loss, and hope, and wonder, and deep, indescribable pain.

It made me laugh.

It made me cry.

It made me angry.

BethDear Stephanie breaks molds.

The realities of the main character – Paige Preston- and her struggles with mental illness and drug abuse are not prettied up, and no bush is beat around. You start out not really liking her, until you do, mostly because she starts to resemble you, with vulnerabilities and fragility. She is human. She is broken.

Castle handles this subject matter with realism and care, never glorifying or exaggerating, which I find admirable. I was genuinely swept away in the story. I laughed out loud, I teared up, I worried, and I felt. You really can’t ask for more than that.

HelenaI was moved to both laughter and tears by this book, which I read all at one sitting, never tiring of the wonderful prose — Castle’s character, Paige Preston, was a delightful narrator, speaking to her audience in a voice that was real and believable.
I’d recommend it to anyone who likes character driven stories and appreciates good writing.

DanaFrom the first chapter, I was hit by the hot mess that is Paige. I often decide immediately whether I like a character, but Paige reveals herself over the course of the novel, and my investment in her grew as I read. She is real, flawed, and heartbreakingly human, and her story stayed with me for days after finishing the book. Even now, over a week after I read it, I am still thinking about it. For me, that is the sign of a good book. It seeps into your pores and settles in.

Chrissy: In my head, I was Stephanie. Paige was writing to me.

She’s confident. Demanding. Beautiful. Flawless. But NOT without flaw. Because no one is. Depression is real, and this character exudes everything and nothing all at once. 

So much happens in so few pages, that I can’t even begin to spoil this for you. I didn’t devour this novel, so much as I was consumed by this novel. I couldn’t put it down (even at work, I kept sneaking a page here and there – sorry boss!).

ReneePaige Preston is ALL THAT – just ask her.

She is every man’s wet dream.

She is also completely hollow and bitterly cold inside, or so it seems.

But sometimes you have to give people a chance to show you who they are.

LisaCastle creates a character who is so substantive, so engaging, that you can’t help but be drawn to her, despite her many flaws and violent demons. You will find yourself breathless several times throughout the tale, right up to the very last unbelievable word.

AndraDear Stephanie is a departure from my usual reading routine, an example of trying something new to shake up a reading rut. At first, I disliked Paige Preston so much I wanted to stop reading. I’m weary of books constructed around unlikeable, unreliable narrators. But Paige wove her spell. She is a well-crafted, deep and disturbed character, manipulative enough to charm even me. 🙂 You won’t be sorry you gave Paige a try.

Dear Stephanie Final eBook cover Laura

Paige Preston wants to end her life. After an unsuccessful attempt, she lands herself in mandatory therapy with a sexy psychiatrist. When he and an even more alluring friend begin to help her break down the walls she’s spent a lifetime building, Paige begins to see something bigger than herself. Is it enough to pull her out of her dark world and help her finally feel like a human? Or will letting someone in be the final step toward her demise?

Dear Stephanie is a sinfully addictive walk through a world of beauty, affluence, and incidental love that effortlessly moves the reader between laughter, tears, heartache, and hope with the turn of every “Paige.”

So, what are you waiting for? Read the book (click here for kindle or paper back), and then let’s have a book club discussion. I can’t wait to hear what you think. Oh, and if you want to win a signed paperback, comment here. If you want a double chance, share something on Social Media with the hashtag #DearStephanie. Thanks for playing!

Thank you to all of the people who have read my book and left reviews. I am forever in your debt, and I cannot even begin to tell you how grateful I am for all of you.

A Stalker, But No Ninja

Aussa Lorens is a bonafide Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy, and I may or may not have a huge cyber crush on her.  I’ve had a long spell of writer’s block, and in a recent conversation, I mentioned rather casually that I once had a stalker, which led to her insisting that I blog about it, so here it is….my stalker story. Continue reading

Meka Leka Hiney

I’m kind of a big deal.  Actually it’s the exact opposite of that.   I received a nomination for the “coveted” Liebster award (it doesn’t matter how) from this crazy lady/awesome blogger, Joy at Comfy Town Chronicles, who makes me spew wine (or coffee depending on the time of day) every time I read her blog, .  Thanks, Joy.  You rock!  Go check her out.  But swallow before you read unless you like to spit.  Then by all means, spit.

She said she was too lazy to Google what the Liebster is all about, but I’m not, so I will.  Hold on a sec.  Ok, here’s what I found.  These are the rules.

1. Post the award on your blog.

Liebster award

Ok – done.

2. Thank the blogger who presented this award and link back to their blog.  Thanks, Joy, for letting me nominate myself. 

3. Write 11 random facts about yourself. I’ll get to that.

4. Nominate 11 bloggers who you feel deserve this award and who have less than 200 followers.  Hmmm.. How do I know if they have less than 200 followers?  I have less than 200 followers, but I’m not normal. I’ll find as many as possible.

5. Answer 11 questions posted by the presenter and ask your nominees 11 questions.

11 Facts about Moi:

  1.  I keep hot tamales in my underwear drawer.  I mean panty drawer.  (Haha to those who squirm at that word.)  Shut up.  I don’t like to share.
  2. I sound just like Katy Perry when I sing…in my car…or my shower.
  3. This is more of a confession.  I am addicted to the shows The Bachelor and The Bachelorette.  I watch every season because I’m a sucker for true love.  Pfft.  I like to watch a good cat fight over a mediocre looking dude who wouldn’t snag these girls in real life, but they paw all over him because he is “The Bachelor.”  A few season ago, I joined a Bachelor Pool, kind of like a Fantasy Football League or a bracket for March Madness.  It is So.Much.Fun.  I’m pretty sure Chris Harrison wants to hang out  with us at our pool party. Every Tuesday, (because the show airs on Monday nights) I get an email/blog post from Hellabuzzed who writes a hilarious recap of the show from a straight dude’s point of view.  If you watch the show, you need to read these recaps.
  4. My blog is a secret from the majority of my real life people.  I’ve only shared it with a hand full of my close friends.  Is that weird?
  5. When people say, “to be honest” or “honestly”, I immediately think that they’re lying.
  6. My dishwasher quit working on Christmas day, and I still don’t have a new one because I absolutely HATE shopping.  (It can’t be repaired.  I tried that.)  I finally broke down and ordered one online this weekend, but then they called and said it was out of stock.  I’m officially screwed, and I have dish pan hands.
  7. I hate the word facetious.  Just say sarcastic, for crying out loud.
  8. I have dyed my hair almost every color.  I asked my hairdresser to put lilac low lights in my hair over a year ago, but he won’t do it.  I keep bugging him, but I don’t think I’ll win.  Once he died my bangs the color that we now refer to as “rainbow bright red.”  It was fun.  I’m keeping it blonde now though because I don’t want to confuse my mom since she has dementia.
  9. I am addicted to sunglasses.  I HAVE to wear them outside, even when it’s cloudy and not just because they hide my face. They are always on my eyes or pushed up on my head.  All.Day.Long.  I hate squinting.  When I leave a theater, I feel like a vampire meeting the sun, so sunglasses are essential.
  10. I listen to music all of the time.  I play music when I get ready.  Music is playing when I’m in my car.  I listen to music when I clean and cook.  I really only turn it off for important things like homework, dinner, and when I sit down to watch T.V., but I would be willing to bet a song is playing in my head.  When I hear a really good song, I get obsessed with it and have to listen to it ALL THE TIME, but I
  11. Never really listen to the words unless someone specifically tells me to listen to the words.  I’m more interested in the different songs that each instrument plays.  If you really listen, you can pick out each sound, and you might just find it as beautiful as I do.

Below is my current obsession.  Listen to the different melody from each guitar.  (12.  The squeaking sound that is made by the movement of a guitarist’s fingers when he slides them over the neck to change chords makes my mouth water.  Hubba hubba.)

Joy came up with some very interesting/funny questions.  Here’s what I had to say:

1What can I legally write off as a home daycare provider? KIDDING.  (But not really if you know.)

Well if you work from home, you can write off a portion of almost everything.  You take your square footage of your say “office” the portion of the house that you use the most for your work, and you divide that by the total square footage to determine the percentage of space you use, so if it’s like 20%, then you can write off 20% of utilities, gas, water, electricity, all of that.  And then there are entertainment write offs…and food write offs.  If you advertise your business anywhere on your vehicle, you can write off at least a portion of your payment.  If you use Turbo Tax, it will walk you through it step by step.  It’s a lot of leg work to get all of the totals, but my husband works from home, so we’ve been writing off shit for years.

2.  What’s your favorite rock and why?

Rock & Roll.  Because it’s much more interesting than river walks or lava rocks or granite or anything else. I took Geology in college.  Ask me what I remember…not a damn thing.  But I got an A!!

3Number 2 was a joke, but I’m curious to see what answers I’ll get. Also to see if people read and answer, or read all the questions first. Plus, I could stand to learn a thing or 2. I don’t know any kind of rock other than “river” because they’re all over the Pinterest. They look smooth.

This is not a question, so I’ll just agree.  River rocks do look smooth, and they feel smooth, too.  I have some in my backyard.  The people who lived here before us put them there.

4.  If you could change the end of any movie or book, what would it be, how would you change it?

SPOILER ALERT!!!!  Too many to name.  Most recently, I’d change the end of The Fault in Our Stars b/c it made me cry, and I don’t cry.  It was that good.  Movie:  I’d change the end of Drive Me Crazy, and instead of Sabrina the Teenage Witch waiting in the treehouse for my boyfriend, Adrian Grenier, I’d be waiting…naked.

5. Have you ever had to stifle a giggle at a funeral or other inappropriate place? How did you do it?

OMG – too many times to even try to name them all. Remember, I’m a preacher’s kid.  My bestie’s dad was hilarious, and he would always make fun of these two women who would get up and sing every Sunday in church, so anytime they started walking up to the stage, I would do everything I could to avoid eye contact with him, but he was like a train wreck.  I couldn’t look away.  Most of the time, I was sitting at the piano, waiting to accompany the terrible that came from their vocal chords, knowing what was coming, and as soon as I would look at him, I’d do that laugh where you blow air out of your mouth in short breaths until you blow fart through your lips and eventually double over laughing while holding your belly.

Another time, same friend and I were at a different church, a Pentecostal church, you know the kind, holy rollers on speed.  A really tiny lady stood up right next to my BFF and started speaking in tongues.  I looked over at my friend and whispered, “Meka Leka Hi, Meka Hiney Ho, and the two of us burst out laughing, uncontrollably, hyperventilating laughter, and we could not stop.   My dad never asked me to go back to that church again.

6.  And do tell, in the previous question: What was SO FREAKING FUNNY?

When the fat lady sings, tongues, and Jambi.

7.  Did your father or any other relative walk around the house in their underwear

Walking around in one’s underwear was strictly prohibited in my home.  My Dad was a complete psycho about it.  Didn’t want baby girl to see his or my brothers’ junk.  I’m not mad about it.

8.  Am I the only person who didn’t have such a relative? My friend Jennifer’s father told her she had the “brains of a soda cracker” (yes he used the plural) for bringing friends over when he was walking around in his underwear. I see people talk about it in books and whatnot, but that was the only time I’d ever seen it. (He was wearing Walter Whiteys *patent pending on that phrase* and a white Tshirt if you’re wondering. I know I would be.)

My friend’s dad always sat in his Walter Whities and wife beater, cigarette hanging from his mouth, can of beer in his hand.  Think Rodney Dangerfield in Natural Born Killers. 

9.   Do you kind of wish society was less uptight about things like walking around in underwear? Why or why not?

I totally do.  I think Muricans are too uptight about nudity in general.  I mean, it’s all so effing taboo.  They’re boobs.  Everyone has them.  It’s a package.  Nobody needs to look at it, but they mostly all look the same.  Get a grip, people.  I think this answers the question.

 10.  Why do I keep answering my own questions? In your professional opinion.

Well, since you asked for my professional opinion, you bring up some very interesting and thought provoking topics; therefore, you are justified in wanting to answer the questions after presenting them.  It’s natural to ponder them yourself.  Your answers are important.  And maybe you’re a bit of a narcissist.  I’m the pot, dude, so it’s ok if I say that. 

 11.  What is your most irrational fear? Or pet peeve if you don’t have any fears.

  Fear:  Suffocating.  I swear. The worst thing in the world would be to die because I CAN’T BREATH.  

Pet peeve:  It’s simple and a lesson in grammar. Your is the possessive form of you.  You’re is a contraction for you are.  Its is the possessive form of it.  It’s is a contraction for it is.  There is a place.  Their is the possessive form for they.  They’re is the contraction of they are. Lose means unable to find.  Loose means it is not securely fastened.  Where indicates a place.  Were is the past tense for are.  AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY, A LOT IS TWO WORDS AND CANNOT IS ONE!!!!!  But it’s really no big deal.

12.  Have you ever had an epiphany? Or do you think that’s just a word people throw around to make the rest of feel like they’re smart or inspired?

My epiphany is that social media has brought out the stupid in most people. I am amazed at the inability of most to string two sentences together.  Don’t even get me started on punctuation.

My nominees:   Drum roll please…

1. Beth at Writer B is Me, hilarious, uncensored, thought provoking, and she wants to sleep with me.  You win, Bethie.  Come on over!!!  (and I know you probably have more than 200 followers, but you’ll always be #1 for awards for me…no matter what the rules are.)

2.  Hellabuzzed because haters gotta hate, and his hating makes me laugh.

3.  Lizzi, at Considerings because she’s everything that is *sparklybeautifulgoodness*, and her guest post got me the most views I’ve ever had.

4.  Laura who writes at History of a Woman and not just because she likes to fall asleep to the sound of gun shots.  She’s a super cool chick, and I really enjoy her writing, and I may or may not have total blog envy with how beautiful her blog is.

5.  Sharn at Spankalicious.  She’s funny, hot, and you never know what to expect when you click on her posts.  I love a good enigma.

6.  Adrea in Wonderland who writes about online dating.  She gives each guy a smurf name, and The Smurfs was my favorite cartoon growing up, so that’s how I relate to her.

7.  Jana at Stop Me If I Told You who always has hilarious posts.  Plus she’s a loyal reader, and when she comments, it usually has something interesting that she found from doing research on some little piece of what I wrote.  I love her.

And these people probably have more than 200 followers and also have probably received the Liebster in the past.

8.  Dana at Kiss My List because she always has something interesting to say, and she wants to take me on a vacation.   Plus, her blog just got a nice makeover, and it looks fabulous!

9. Phil:  The Regular Guy NYC because he says I’m hot, and flattery will get you everywhere with me…even awards.

10.  Don at Don of All Trades.  He can make me laugh one day and then sob into my sleeve the next.  I’ve loved Don since that night we had a party at my blog.

11. Mike and Phoenix at Past My Curfew.  What’s not to love about Mike?  He is a great writer, makes me actually want to try and cook something, always supports me, and has this cutie little Golden Retriever that I love.

And I’m throwing in a bonus because I just love her so much:  Sandy at Mother of Imperfection.  Sandy Why yi yi Oh Sandy…she’s just golden and in my opinion all things *perfection*.

One more bonus even though she’s probably way too busy responding to the 900 comments she gets on each post to ever play along, but I just can’t leave out one of my absolute favorite bloggers who is feisty and hot and addicted to Nutella:  Aussa, the infamous Hacker Ninja Hooker Spy

Thought provoking, prolific, questions to ponder and then answer.

1.  Who is number one on your exemption list?  (An exemption list is a list of people who are not in your every day life (celebrities, authors, sports figures) who you’re allowed to sleep with should the opportunity arise…no pun intended *snickering like a teenage boy*)  Mine is Adrian Grenier.  No surprise there.  I have about 599 people on my list.

2.  What is your favorite smell and why?

3.  What book can you read over and over again.  If you’re not into books, what movie never gets old?

4.  What is the story behind your blog name?

5.  What is your favorite song and why?

6.  What is your least favorites song, the one that makes your put your fingers in your ears and say “lalalalala”?

7.  What’s the best book you’ve read lately?  (I’m reading God Shaped Hole, and it is brilliant.)

8.  What did the last text you sent say?  Word for word. (K does not count.  If “K” was your last text, then I want to know what your second to last text said.)

9.  What gives you the heebie jeebies?  It doesn’t have to be scary.  It can also be gross.  I hate nose hair.  That’s a heebie jeebie thing for me.

10.  Do close talkers bother you as much as they do me?  If so, why?

11.  What are you wearing?  I’m not even kidding.

Nominees:  Do what you will with this award, but for the record, I really enjoyed reading Joy’s post and then writing this.  I hope you have fun with it, too.

 

The Wasted Minstrel

When I very humbly requested Lizzi of Considerings to guest post for me, and she immediately said, “Yes,” I jumped up and down, clapping my hands.  I may have even performed a cartwheel.  Excitement?  No.  Elation.

Lizzi has a way with words, to completely understate her talent.  As my eyes travel through her stories, her fingers reach out from my screen and wrap themselves around my heart, yanking it, tugging it, and turning it to putty in her palm.  She makes me laugh.  She makes me think.  She more often than not makes me cry, and I never cry.  She is brilliant.  A Writer.  A wordsmith, and she’s here today with  Part Deux to Shadows and Stardust.  Make sure and click the link to read Part One, a beautiful story inspired by yours truly.  To be called a muse by one of the most beautiful writers I’ve ever laid my eyes on,  both humbled me and made my heart grow at least three sizes.  So, please welcome my dear friend, Lizzi,  whose words will sink into your soul.  Then get ready to want more.  She’s good like that.

********************************

The town’s main street was thronged with people, huddled like penguins inside their winter coats; braced against the cold but determined in their quest to purchase. They were bedecked in bags, like peculiar woolly bumblebees, each surrounded by an ethereal cloud of their own steam – breath puffing words into visible clouds as they hurried past.

I was honeybagged myself, straining against the weight of New Things. The once-straight handles twisted and turned, cutting the circulation off in my fingers and combining with the chill air to freeze them into reddened claws – travesties of the hands that once were.

I navigated my way out of the main streams of people, cutting across others, ducking behind groups of chattering teenagers, taking big steps and little ones, my feet mindfully stepping the complex dance of Saturday At The Shops – avoiding dreamy couples, Stormtrooper mothers and cantankerous old women wielding their roll-along shopping trollies like tartan-coated weapons.

Seeking shelter in an eddy by a side-route off the main street, I found space to pause, down bags and rub some life back into my twisted hands. Leaning back against the building, I watched the crowds as they flowed past, marveling at their individuality and simultaneous mass-anonymity, wondering what their stories might be.

Hands warmer, I turned to gather up my bags once more when an alcove doorway caught my eye – fifty yards back from the river of humanity, it wasn’t so much the door which caught my attention as it was the small movement of a fabric-coated lump stuffed into the bottom of it – someone was there.

Like I’d been run through with a trident of guilt, compassion and the urge to DO something, a great pain welled up in me and I stood, transfixed, before moving towards the bundled person. I could see a pair of battered, tough boots poking out from under one end of what turned out to be a filthy camping blanket. A fluffy hat at the top end gave no clue as to what sort of person lay beneath.

Drawing by Lizzi Rogers

Drawing by Lizzi Rogers

I crouched down and hoped that none of the expensive-shop shopping bags were on display as I reached out and gently patted the crusted edge of the blanket “Hey – are you alright? Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Yeah”, came back an obstinate, female voice “You can fuck the hell off.”

The blanket shook and the hat bobbled upwards as the owner’s face came into view in a fury of movement “Who even asked you to…”

Her voice trailed off, and the retort I had been about to utter froze on my lips and disappeared as though dropped off a cliff.

Our eyes locked, and the thrall of horror at seeing a homeless person trying to survive the inclement weather turned to raging, devastating pain as I realised that this homeless person was known to me. I recoiled, my hand flying to my mouth in dismay and her name bursting out with the same lack of control as the time I’d first spoken to her:

“Bravo!”- it had exploded, unbidden from my lips as the echoes of her last crescendo faded and the bar seemed to shimmer in delighted silence in recognition that a masterpiece had just been played within its walls. She had sworn at me then, too, and our eyes had met, sparkling with delight at the soul-thrilling music she’d been able to coax from the old piano. We’d talked and worked together, and later she had played again.

I had returned to that bar many times to hear her play – turning up near closing time as she volunteered to stay behind again and wipe the place down once the drunks and revelers had all been kicked out. We spent several glorious months in this way – her playing and me clearing the glasses and sweeping the floors, our souls dancing with the notes as she gave them life with her magical, talented hands.

Suddenly, one day, she was gone. No explanation. Just gone. It had been five years, and I still missed our evenings of splendour; never since had I experienced such exquisite playing as that which she had wrought for me…

“Anitra?!”

Her blonde hair, now freed from its cover in her thrashing, was lank and dull. Her skin was grey and marked with sores and scars, as though the moon had been stretched over her sharp cheekbones. Her eyes were still a gorgeous, clear hazel, though they looked like deep wells of pain, waiting to pour out in anger and shame at the slightest provocation.

The moment lengthened, eyes still holding, hundreds of unspoken, frantic conversations passing between us as my throat choked-up, and the weight of emotion made it hard to breathe.

Finally, sotto voce, I whispered, her name imbued with the hurt of every lost evening and all the unheard notes, mantled with grief at finding her this way: “Oh, Anitra…”

We crumbled together, oblivious to the slowly-gathering audience in the shadows. I pulled her stinking, bird-light frame into my arms and held tight, even as she clung to me, mumbling into my shoulder that it was so, SO good to see a friendly face.

We clambered to our feet and hugged properly then, smiles and tears mingling, when suddenly I felt her stiffen, and heard her intake of breath as she pulled back, her face a mask of revulsion.

A gravelly male voice from across the road struck at us through the air “Ohhhh Annie – look what you’ve pulled in. Good girl! She looks like a rich one. Make sure you give that posh bitch your best licking – she’s gotta be worth a few quid. Don’t take less than £50, will you? I’ll be back for mine later.”

Transformed once more into a hard-faced street-walker, Anitra’s chin jutted and her eyes blazed as she snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me around to face the man, whose oiled hair and dark, greedy eyes raked over us both. The two louts who stood behind him were nudging one another and grinning, one making lewd gestures at us, poking his lapping tongue between the V of his fingers, and rubbing together the fingertips of the other hand in the universal sign for money.

“Oh Dominic”, she trilled, her voice light and dripping with false honey “sweetheart, I’m going up in the world, and with that, my prices. If you want this” – she grabbed her crotch and tilted her hips towards him aggressively – “you gotta pay me more. As of now.”

The oily man’s face registered a sneer of disgust as he turned, motioning for his cat-calling henchmen to follow him. By my side, the bravado gone, Anitra sagged against me and then pulled away roughly, her face burning red, unwilling to meet my gaze.

Hair curtained again around her, reminding me of our first meeting, her voice was equal parts ashamed and horrified as she blundered through an incoherent string of apologies, ending with a declaration to make herself scarce and never bother me again, and that she was sorry for everything, and for running away without telling me, and that life had been so harsh to her, and that she couldn’t, she just couldn’t…

I cut across her, mid-sentence “Can we just go for coffee or something? Somewhere warm? I’m freezing. And confused. So my treat, okay, but please let’s not stay here any more.”

She glanced at me then, and the wells of her eyes had been covered over – shuttered with a closed look she wore like armour.

“No. I don’t think so.”

Her voice shimmered down from frantic to automaton. Her joints tightened and the corners of her eyes looked pinched. She stared into the mid-distance for a moment before stooping to gather up her blankets from the floor, rolling them into a grimy ball, which she stuffed into a giant, tattered backpack.

“It’s been good to see you again, babe. Sorry I turned out like this. I wish things were different. In another world, we’d go for coffee and everything would be made better and the music might come back into my life. But seeing you was like a symphony, and it’s just reminded me how much I miss it. So no, we can’t go.”

She twisted away from me, striding towards the end of the street, pausing as I cried her name out, anguished this time, and ran to her, emptying my purse of all its paper money and stuffing it into her hand, arguing that she didn’t need to leave; promising her things could be better, if only she’d let me help her – please, please let me help her…

She stuffed the notes into her pocket, but didn’t turn. And without further word or look, strode off, rapidly disappearing into the still-teeming currents of the main street.

As fresh tears fell, tracking warm runnels down my freezing face, I vowed to myself on that desolate street that I would find a way to somehow bring the music back to her.

 

warning fiction

My Photo

I’m a deep thinker, truth-teller and seeker of Good Things. I’m also silly, irreverent and try to write as beautifully as possible. My thoughts are prolific and can be found at my blog, Considerings
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/ConsideringsTwitter: https://twitter.com/LRConsidererGoogle+:  https://plus.google.com/u/0/+LizziR/postsPintrest: http://www.pinterest.com/LizziConsiderer/

Our Great Big World

She woke early that day to make sure she packed everything.  A weekend away with the husband was just what she needed after an exasperating week alone with the kids having to taxi them to school, sports, practices, and lessons.  She couldn’t wait for her mother-in-law to arrive so that she could start her peaceful journey.  She loaded up her eReader with several of the top Indie books of the week and sat on the couch patiently waiting.

As soon as she heard the doorbell, she gathered her bags and sunglasses.  She kissed her son and her daughter, gave her mother-in-law an aggressive thankful hug and was on her way.    She drove to the airport with the sunroof open enjoying the warm spring air and the sunshine spraying in from the cloudless sky singing along with Bruno Mars about Young Wild Girls.

She made it through security seamlessly, heading straight for the bar near her departing gate.  She ordered a Bombay Sapphire and tonic and sipped it quietly anticipating seeing her husband after a week of his absence.  He was in California for a meeting at his corporate office and suggested she meet up with him for the weekend so that they could have a little much needed together time.  His work travelling had picked up speed the first quarter of the year, which resulted in their spending a lot of time apart.

She finished her drink, paid her tab, and headed to the gate just before the plane began boarding.  She boarded the plane along with the other people in the First Class group.  Having a traveling husband had its benefits, one being automatic upgrades.  She settled into her seat and sipped champagne, hoping that the seat next to hers would remain empty and buried her nose in her book, ignoring the crowds as each passenger made his way to his assigned seat.   Out of the corner of her eye, a passenger stopped on her row and started struggling with the overhead bin.  Her eyes traveled up, taking stock of her potential flight mate, clearly a man, youngish in Levi’s and a hooded sweatshirt.  She couldn’t see his face but noticed that he  had his ear buds in and would probably be unlikely to try to make the obligatory small talk fellow passengers always tend to make with one another.  She took a deep breath and turned her attention back to her book when she felt rather than saw him sit down in the seat next to hers.

“First class is the only way to travel.”   He said as he typed something on his phone.  Her ears perked at the familiar voice.

“Hey,” she said and turned her attention to him.

He studied her face for a minute as a wide smile took over his.  “What are you doing here?”  He asked.

“What are you doing here?” She matched his tone.

They both jumped from their seats and gave each other a quick hello hug and laughed at the coincidence that brought them not only to the same flight but to neighboring seats.  The flight attendant asked them to sit back down as the plane began preparing for takeoff.

They spent the entire flight talking, laughing, drinking the complimentary drinks, and getting to know each other in person after a year of being online buddies.  She asked him what he was listening to, which prompted a very lengthy game of “guess this tune.”  When one guessed an incorrect answer, they both had to drink.  They kept the flight attendants busy for the three hour flight, which seemed to go by in just 20 minutes.

When the plane finally landed, they departed at the gate, exchanged hugs and promised to actually get together again some time.  Just as he was walking away, she called out, “See.  It’s not such a big world after all.”

)

Warning:  This story is FICTION

 

Caught in a Landslide

Huz was watching something on the History channel or the National Geographic, something to which, I was paying no attention when he started asking me questions about my dad and his beliefs. For those who don’t know, my dad is a retired minister.

“Do you ever talk to your dad about this stuff?”

“What stuff?”

He started talking saying something about Genesis and creation versus evolution.  I resumed ignoring him again.  True story, I was reading iamthemilk  but outwardly, I said the obligatory, “mmm hmmm.  Oh?” and “Really?” nodding my head.  I rock fake listening.  I’m a preacher’s kid, remember?

“Do you know who said that?”  I snapped out of my blog trance and wondered  wtf he was talking about.

confused

In my head, I tried to decide if I should even ask or if I could fake it.  I thought back on the conversation.  What did he ask me? Something about the bible. Oh that’s right…do I know who said that?  Pfft.  Easy.

“Jesus,” I said with conviction because “Jesus” is a pretty good guess when we’re talking bible, right?  Just think about all of the red colored text.

“Dude, can you please put your computer away and listen to me?”  Huz said, completely exasperated by my sore attempt at faking it.

I  closed my laptop and rolled my eyes.  “Fine. Who said what?  I’m listening now.”

“’The bible tells us how to go to Heaven not how the Heavens go.’ That is a quote from Galileo.”

To which, I replied,  “(Galileo) Galileo. (Galileo) Galileo.  (Galileo) Figaro. Magnifico,” which made me laugh.  But not my husband.

shake-head

That’s just a typical conversation in our house.  What’s it like in yours?