Showing posts from September, 2018


It was the right time to leave. That was quickly becoming clear to me.
I lay flat, my breasts pressed uncomfortably against the hardwood floor, my head bumping against a plastic storage bin, listening to them argue.
Enough. I slithered out from under the bed and sprang up, stark naked.
At my sudden appearance, the two of them screamed louder than teenagers at a haunted house. It was clear who was the monster in this scenario. I fought down the ludicrous giggle that threatened to burst forth, averted my eyes, and started snatching my clothes up off the floor.
I had thought Jake was single. Suddenly I felt silly. His apartment was much too clean to be a bachelor pad. Those hair products jumbled in a drawer? Not merely kept for when his sister visited.
The girlfriend, having taken in all of me, raged at Jake with re-energized fury.
As I bolted from the room, I realized where I’d seen the other woman before. It was Greta from Human Resources. Well, well. Apparently Playboy Jake was d…

Get Out

It was the right time to leave.
The poison allowed no reprieve.
The cockroaches fled
From under the bed.
"Good riddance!" yelled Linda and Steve.

Writing Prompts:
(1) Must begin with "It was the right time to leave"
(2) Narrator's point of view: the monster under the bed
Poets: Write a poem using the opening line somewhere in the poem

The Plunge

It was the last pool day of the summer.
She stood on the high diving board, twelve feet in the air. She was three and a half feet tall.
Arms crossed in front of her chest, she peered down at the water far below.
Looking over her shoulder, she saw me, standing on the deck below, giving her a huge grin and two thumbs up. Then she looked down at the water.
She turned around and started moving back toward the ladder.
She’d gone through this same routine a few times already that summer. I didn’t mind. I always told her it was okay, she’d jump when she was ready.
But today, something was different.
* * *
For years I’ve gone back and forth on the idea of setting up a public website to showcase some of my writing. I had a blog, years ago, where I wrote about nerdy grammar topics in a lighthearted way. It was totally fun.
So what was holding me back now?
Duh. Fear of failure! I’m not so unique in that regard.
But lately I’ve been reading some things that changed my perspective.
Like Thomas…

The Tobin

Garrett wasn’t what Susan expected. Obviously. Humans are hilarious if you ask me. They think they’re so in control of themselves, but their faces show everything. It’s one of my greatest sources of entertainment. That, and the way they behave on boats after a few Coronas.

Ninety meters below us, the Mystic River glittered. Susan clung to my railing and looked Garrett up and down. She’d expected Death. Her face said it all: Since when does Death wear jeans and work boots?

Well, I got news for ya, sweetheart. Death doesn’t come unless you actually jump off. Believe me, I know.

Garrett knew her, though. I’d heard him talking to the other guys from the MDOT crew.

They were all standing around, looking up, when Garrett arrived. Even McCarthy. If Slave Driver McCarthy was standing around, you knew something was wrong.

Garrett squinted into the sunlight.

“Shit,” he said. “SHIT.”

“Garry? Whaddya know her or something?” His buddy, Rick.

“Yeah, man.” Garrett exhaled, wiped a hand over his face…

As One Does

She wasn’t surprised the pencils were missing. And the fine paper that she used for writing. And the makeup brushes, and the jeweled combs, and the pot of pale powder. Her Majesty sighed.

Priscilla had been at this dressing table moments before, and Priscilla never did have any scruples about taking what wasn’t hers.

As if she were the queen. Ugh… Priscilla was so common. No amount of cosmetics or costume could cover that up.

Her Majesty beheld herself in the looking glass, applying blusher. Just under the cheekbones, never over.

She could hear the announcements being made.

(“Ladies and Gentlemen… The Duchess Miranda!”) Music. Applause from the assembled multitudes.

Corseted, she sat straight as an elm, fixing her hairpiece.

Two hundred years ago, she would have had servants for this.

And if any servant had dared to remove the Queen’s belongings… Well. Fools like that got what was coming to them.

But one had to suffer fools, didn’t one?

Not everyone could be royalty, after all.

And jus…

Two Days Shy

Because, at 2 days shy of 42, it's about time I did this.