They see me every day.

I greet them at morning carpool; happily pluck their pigtailed, sticky faced tots from the constant stream of automatic minivan doors.

Open, pluck, close, next. Familiarity begets confidence.

 I am the hero of recess; I bring out the bags of dodge balls and jump ropes for the students to play with.

Run, jump, chase, catch. They remind me of Pomeranians at the pet shop.

I say goodbye in the afternoon. I place them back into the stream of minivans; I tuck them safely into their car seats. 

Open, tuck, close, wave. I even chat with their distracted mothers.

They don’t see everything.

My closet is at the end of the hall, where it’s cold and quiet. The administrator says it’s my office. I have mops and buckets and bags of playthings hanging where a window should be.

Brown desk, chair, walls, carpet. Sometimes I disappear into the building.

No one is watching me select from the gaggle, the quietest of the shy ones. My sneer is on the inside, hidden deep within my putrid soul.

Confusion, pain, shame, hush. This is our secret. No one would believe you anyway. You're invisible like me.

You see me every day.

You see what you want to see.

Look closer.

“Perfect! Everything is just perfect!” Maria slammed her handbag onto the kitchen counter, causing the metal logo to clank on the tiles. “Your stupid father is late, I can’t find my damned keys and your brother just shat on the floor!” An anxious toddler remained frozen in the corner, squatting over his recent production. Maria’s eyes narrowed to slits as she returned her glare to the teenager opposite her at the counter. They were late for therapy, again.

The surly teen simply rolled her eyes then shuffled to the fridge to procure a soda. With her emerald eyes still locked onto her mother’s face, she drank the entire can in eight loud gulps. A perfunctory belch followed, igniting a blotchy carmine flush on Maria’s neck and décolletage. “I’m going to change your brother. You – get in the car” she hissed. When the girl didn’t move she launched a coffee mug at the wall and screamed, “Do it now!”.

Maria, focused on manipulating toddler legs and pelvis into a Pull-Up, didn’t hear her husband enter the kitchen. She didn’t hear the teenager relay the details of her mother’s meltdown and the keys that were sitting “Right there in the fruit bowl, Dad. I swear”. The percussion of size eleven oxfords on polished hardwoods, down the hall to the right, was muffled by the ear piercing squeals of triumph from a freshly powdered toddler. Maria raised a threatening hand, daring the boy to further defy her.

“… the hell is your problem?” Maria’s husband boomed from just inside the door frame. Sputters of saliva accented his greeting, landing on the hairs of his beard and goatee. A vein was visibly throbbing on his forehead. David had grown weary of Maria’s fits. He no longer cared to discover the particulars of his wife’s need for therapy. Why didn’t anyone care about his need for a dinner from somewhere other than the microwave?

David shoved past Maria.  In one motion, his hands slid under the squirmy toddler and lifted him from his the changing table. Maria stood still. As her husband exited the room, he snarled over his shoulder “I’m done with this. I’ll take Christina to therapy. You  …” he paused, rocking backwards to the door so Maria could just make out the perfectly starched collar of his pinstriped shirt. “Pack a few bags. Go to your mother’s, go stay with one of your friends; I don’t give a shit what you do. I’ll call my lawyer first thing tomorrow”.

Maria could hear his oxfords on the hardwood now, and cringed at the thought of having to buff out the scuffmarks again. Why couldn’t he ever give her a break? She did everything for David; scheduling his clients, maintaining the books, keeping up appearances. And those kids! They were so demanding, so needy. Maria was sure that David was brainwashing them. The very notion made her skin hot.

David and the children returned to a dark house. “Crazy bitch shut off the heater”, he muttered as he flicked on the lights. He reset the thermostat and made hot cocoa on the stove while the plump toddler snored on the couch. Christina joined him in the breakfast room, now void of any evidence of rogue excrement. “Do you think Mom’s gonna be alright? I mean, I don’t care. I hate her.” his daughter’s voice fell flat. He watched as she drew in deep breaths of chocolaty steam. David said nothing.

He found Maria the next morning, slumped over his desk. She had ransacked the office. Empty bottles of xanax, lithium and risperidone were scattered on the blotter. A decanter of his favorite cabernet lay in her lap, with a portion of its contents emptied on the tufted rug beneath her.

David surveyed the damage. Maria’s college diploma hung lopsided on the wall to her left. A recent family portrait hung behind her head, its shattered glass now decorating Maria’s raven hair like a broken halo. In her right hand was a photo he snapped on their honeymoon in India, just before a local boy ran off with her handbag.

They were happy once. These images were proof of a wife and future that didn’t include psychiatric interventions and pharmaceutical cocktails. He thumbed through the ripped photos on the floor, the shock of reality enveloping him like quicksand. Through the clarity of retrospect, the obvious conclusion surfaced: things don’t always turn out as planned.

This week's prompt is death. In 500 words or less, someone - or something - has to die. 


Want to know more about the talent behind tipsylit.com OR what this prompted thing is all about? Just click the image to the left!

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Everyone in New England remembers the blizzard of ’78. The news stations would light up at the slightest sign of winter precipitation. It was an opportunity to relive the blizzard of ’78 through choppy newsreel and commentary, while reminding locals to stockpile bread, milk and eggs. Me? I remember the blizzard of 2005.

We were stuck on A1 that cold, Connecticut night. The cable stopped working during second shift, leaving us with one working radio. It was a relic from the 70’s that somehow remained operational. Perhaps it was preserved by the staff of ’78.

Truth be told, I enjoyed my time on A1. My favorite patients were transferred directly across the hall from one another. Brother and sister – the Dynamic Dabrovski’s. After my last med pass, I’d head back down to the end of the hall to tuck them in. They held the same pose every night; wheelchairs carefully parked side by side, holding hands and whispering in a way only siblings can understand.

We already had three deaths that day, during the morning shift. According to nursing lore, we’d met our quota. Third shift during a blizzard was no time to be working in a nursing home. I could hear the CNA’s in the rec room, praying for an uneventful evening. I would too, if cleaning dead bodies was part of my job description.

I was on my thirteenth cup of coffee when the lights started. A chorus of groans arose from the rec room. The CNA’s were awake. “I’ll take 32A” I called over to them. “It’s Mr. Dabrovski”. I popped a chocolate Ensure and a plastic spoon from the fridge into my coat and started down the hall.

I found him slumped across the safety bars of his bed. His face was firmly planted between the upper corner of the bed and his one, precious pillow.  At once I was shouting for help, flicking on more lights and checking for vitals. No pulse, no breath – just a tight grip on the call button that wouldn’t shut off.

Across the hall, the other half of my dynamic duo was shouting “Poczekaj, poczekaj! PROSZCE!”

 “Don’t worry, Dabrovski! I’m coming!” I shouted back. Ten minutes passed before we gave up trying to resuscitate her brother. Another nurse informed me of her death back at our station, completely devoid of emotion, as if he were telling me we had run out of hand sanitizer.

“What was she saying … y’know … before she died?” he asked me.

“She was speaking Polish” was my heartbroken reply. “She said, "Wait, wait. Please”.

I believe the children are our future ...
Sorry, couldn't help myself.

For today’s prompt, tell us three things that you believe in your heart to be true. Tell us three things you believe in your heart to be false.



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I believe in soulmates, and the might of trusting intuition when you just know.

I believe in speaking for those who have lost their right to speak. Sharing our stories has an inherent boldness to it which ignites change, empathy and action.

I believe anyone can turn their life around in the span of two years with a good education.

I don't believe that people change. Who you are at your core is who you are. No amount of education, travel or life experience will fix it, though it will give the worst of us better window dressing.

I don't believe in the innate goodness of every human being. People are awful - some of them actually pride themselves on it! - that's just a fact of life. Work around it.

I don't believe that fear, shame, ridicule or lies are something that should be carried forward in life. They don't deserve the authority and power people give them.

How well do you know your neighbors? I couldn't tell you much about mine, though I've lived in the same space for 3 years. A good friend across town admitted that she wouldn't be able to identify her neighbors in a line up. I explored a bit of those feelings here ... along with a real-life incident that left me equal parts confused and enraged.

*submitting for tipsylit's prompted - week of March 14, 2014. Click the image to check out the fantastic people behind tipsylit, and the other entrants.

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BAM BAM BAM

“Unlock the door! Unlock the goddamned door! I swear to GOD, if you don’t …”

The neighbors were fighting again. 

He took the stairs two at a time to get away from her. The girl was quick – almost had her hand slammed in the driver’s side door before he slipped in. She spent a good hour pounding those angry Irish fists on the hood and the windows. The whole time her squeaky, high-pitched voice was demanding, “Unlock the door!” then, “Don’t leave!”

Shouting was returned from the inside the aging blue Jetta. One word: liar. The beating of his hands against the steering wheel matched the cadence of his defense.  Other neighbors were out on their decks speaking in low voices. “Maybe someone should go down there” said the Italian. “Calm her down so he can escape” said the elderly Czec downstairs. By the time we all got to the parking pad, she was lying behind the rear wheels.

 “I know you see me!” she shouted up at the sky. In the moonlight, she appeared almost ghoulish. Her doughy skin was host to an excessive amount of freckles that joined together like snakeskin. Attached to her scalp was a wild mess of ruddy curls that reminded me of pubic hair.  We looked over at the kid sitting in the car. He had stopped shouting. A swath of blonde covered his face. He was defeated.

“I’ll stay here all night!” she screamed.  

The rear lights flicked off. She smiled. “You can go now” she called. When we didn’t budge, she threw handfuls of gravel and asphalt back at us. No wonder they were constantly fighting. The girl was weapons-grade crazy.

The Italian was already on the payphone across the street. I stared at my neighbors, realizing I didn’t really know them. All I knew was the shouting. Turning away, I walked towards the Italian acting out obscene gestures towards the town police, still on the line. Let the cops sort it out.

SCREEEECH                     THWOMP  THWOMP

 I whipped around in disbelief as the Jetta advanced over the ragdoll body, then again in reverse. Just when I thought it was over, oh dear God, he’s slammed the accelerator again. His baritone “Aaarrrghhh!” nearly drowned out the crunching of gravel, asphalt and bones.

The blue sedan stopped inches away from me and purged its lone passenger. Buzzing street lights illuminated the Italian frozen in fear, payphone receiver still in hand. The blonde kid lit up a cigarette. He smoked it down to the filter before stamping it out into the gravel. We met each other’s gaze for a moment.

“She lied “he said soberly. “There was no baby”.  He shook his head as tears broke free to slide down his cheeks. He rubbed his eyes with his fists, unfussed by the sirens wailing down the road.

“What kind of sick, twisted fuck buys an urn and fills it with cigarette ashes?”

When I was very small, I was obsessed with the library at a local community college. The librarians kindly turned a blind eye to this awkward, bespectacled kid holing up in the children's corner. Before the first semester was over, I had read every single children's title those shelves held.  What to do next? No one expressly prohibited me from venturing further, so I shook off my fears of basements and microfiche storage rooms ... and began exploring.

The first week, I spent reading every title from the aisle labeled 800's: Literature & Rhetoric. When my parents came to collect me, I would produce an armful of plastic covered treasures to borrow until the following week. The head librarian would chuckle at my choices until she figured out my system. Up the left side of the aisle, down the right, memorizing my spot by the Dewey decimal system.

I became so skilled at remembering where things should be based on numbers and letters that I began volunteering to return carts of books around the first floor. Working up a sweat just to push that heavy laden cart was a perverse thrill to me. I would imagine the authors chatting amongst themselves about the scrawny child with too-big glasses and a Joan Jett haircut, determined to soak in every word - especially the ones she didn't quite comprehend.

The world outside the library was distorted. Growing up in the ghetto, you're not encouraged to dream big or make lofty goals. When you do, adults were at the ready to smack you back down to your proper place: reality. Little girls who like books more than people, and knowledge more than the acquisition of things are not well-liked in the ghetto. My father was too busy working to help me. My sister was too young to fight alongside me. My mother simply did not understand me (as was the case with most adults I interacted with).

The library was my sacred place, my sanctuary.  Nothing could hurt me in my sacred place. Nothing bad or uncomfortable could ever happen within the walls of my sanctuary. I was the closest thing to me in that space. I was the closest thing to free.

This week's tipsylit prompt is: "Write a story that focuses on color".

I'm a synesthete and I've been reading about the history of mental health in America. As I'm imagining what life was like in the 30's, 40's & 50's for the pediatric population, in popped the character, Ella, and her story. Whittling it down to <500 words was a beast!
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“Today’s piano lessons. Mimi says I can wear my Sunday shoes because Mother didn’t pack ‘nother pair”, Ella stared up at the old man, one hand placed defiantly on each hip. Papaw was waxing his Roadmaster, which was more boat than Buick. She admired her reflection on the exterior.  The glint of her gold shoe buckles in the hot Mississippi sun sparkled like Mimi’s earrings.  She would be a lady like Mimi one day, Ella thought. Her future tasted like mint juleps and finger sandwiches, audacious sun hats and society gossip.

For now, there were piano lessons. This was Ella’s favorite. She and Ms. Powell were squirreled away in the music room, hunched over the ivory and onyx like they were up to no good. Ella liked to smell the keys before playing, which rattled Mimi’s nerves. Ms. Powell didn’t mind. Her opinion was that while peculiar, the child was a prodigy. When people spoke of Ella’s schooling and talents, surely Ms. Powell would be at the center of their praises.

“Alright, sweet girl”, Mrs. Powell pantomimed the proper starting position. “Let’s try Schumann”.  Breath slowed and eyes closed, Ella gave herself permission to sense every vibration from her efforts. Staccatos burst about the room like fireworks. Legato cradled her in its lavender waves. Adagio lifted her back to reality with its gossamer turquoise. Ella opened her eyes to a very pleased Ms. Powell.

Mimi and Papaw weren’t so pleased when Ella relayed, again, how sounds had color and taste. Papaw wasted no time telephoning Ella’s father. “This is the work of the devil!” he whispered angrily into the phone.  “I cannot allow this to go on, son”. The word “son” tasted acidic to the grown man on the other end of the phone. He attributed this to indigestion.

Within days, the girl with the colorful mind was informed it was time to consult a doctor. The car-boat sailed the family north, until all that was visible through the glass pressed against Ella’s face was a long driveway flanked by Japanese magnolias. Pulling into the carport, Ella noticed the doctor out front, smoking his pipe. She looked up at Mother, eyes wide. Mother’s gaze was busy boring holes into the back of Daddy’s skull. “Now remember, this will just be a little visit. Think of it as a vacation, or an adventure. The doctor will take very good care of you, and when we see you next, you’ll be right as rain”, Mother explained.

Ella liked rain. Rain was a prism that tasted like lollipops.

***
Doctor’s Notes:       
Female patient, age 12. Committed at the request of her parents. Primary screening for chief complaint of abnormal behaviors; e.g. patient believes she has the ability to hear color and taste sound. Patient has undergone six consecutive years of rigorous treatment with no positive conclusion. Recommending transorbital lobotomy within the week.
28 June 1954