Higher, On the up side It’s a downward spiral. Running faster and faster, Spinning out so final. Lower, On the down side It’s an upward spiral. Around and round slowly, Dazedly going viral.
This isn’t the first time I’ve flown before, nor will it be the last. This is the first time I will be away from my family and friends for an extended period of time though, and any thought at all of everyone I’m leaving behind ties the knots in my gut up tighter. I used to love being alone, having some peace and quiet away from my family, tucked away in my bedroom. Sometimes all I’d do is lie on my back and stare at my walls, wondering where the next poster would go, or how I was going to get the next bottle cap to add to the collection stuck in my ceiling. Other times I would open my closet doors and pretend I had dozens of glamorous, silky dresses topping an impressive, spiky-heeled shoe collection, and wonder where I would go wearing such things. My room was my sanctuary, my escape into seclusion and privacy. But where I’m going now, where can I go for privacy there? In every generation in my family going back to before the 1700’s, there has been someone, some cousin or great-uncle or even great-great-grandfather who served in the United States military. I have great-greats who served in Korea and WWI, a grandfather who was a boiler technician in the Navy, a grandfather who made Officer by the end of WWII, and my father: A Marine. I survived middle school holding on to the plan, the dream, that one day I too would serve the U.S. as active duty military and carry on the family tradition. Being the only child on my dad’s side of my family, it was inconceivable to me that I wouldn’t join up; enlist. The obstacle of junior high and high school seemed like such a small blip on my life’s map; almost inconsequential compared to what was to come: Boot camp. Today I’m flying there, to boot camp, to turn in my civilian clothes and my first name in exchange for a uniform and my last four. Today I will be introduced to my future. As I sit on the large yet compact airliner watching the other kids from San Diego talk animatedly among themselves, I can’t help but notice how unconcerned they all seem; how relaxed. It’s all I can do to not give in to the tremors and keep my eyes from rolling in panic. Who was I kidding? I don’t want to be away from my family, to escape college and maturity. I don’t want to avoid adulthood by escaping to the ranks no matter how fiscally fucked I am without the military’s pay and benefits. I think, for such a brief moment it barely makes it to the long-term memory banks, that I am so out of my league boot camp will only be my failure. This one brief moment of long-sight that has me staring down a tunnel straight to a very probable outcome nearly breaks me. “I’m not worried about Navy boot camp. I did some time with the Job Corps, and I tell you what…” That opening line comes from a kid named Sterling. He’s one of the other recruits from San Diego. The only thing that marks him Not San Diegan is that he’s pale as pale can get, and wears a new hemp necklace. A piece of insight here: All hemp necklaces are new in the beginning, but anyone who is anyone knows to wear it everywhere at all times; in the shower, in the pool, at the beach, to bed, to school, to work- everywhere. It’s the fastest way to wear it in and avoid the new hemp necklace look. I shake my head at Sterling’s attempts at bragging his bravery, shaking away my momentary panic and loss of confidence. If anyone is going to break, it’ll be Sterling. And who was I kidding anyways? Of course I’ll make it through boot camp. I am my father’s daughter, and my dad is tough. Boy scout, Eagle scout, Marine, prior Marine; professional hiker, camper, outdoors man, and handy-man. All this, and to top it off- he’s my dad, my blood. I’m tough. Everything seems to blur together; the rest of the flight, the collection of our group at the U.S.O. office, the shuffling on to the bus that takes us to boot camp. It’s almost as if someone has taken control of my brain and body and given me a front row seat to the show. But I’m not interested and my attention wanders. It’s cold on the bus, and it’s the first thing I notice since blocking out Sterling’s bragging. Then I notice snow drifts alongside the bus as it turns onto a highway on-ramp. Snow? How could there be snow? It was just 70 degrees before our flight. It’s the beginning of spring for crap sakes, how could there be snow? It doesn’t scare me, but it worries me. I’ve heard of people being made to wait outside in unfavorable weather conditions for hours before being formed into their squads. I guess I’ve watched too many movies. But I snug down in my seat on the bus, cross my arms over my stomach and curl in on myself for extra warmth. People all along the outer-most seats start closing their windows, slamming them shut tight against the blizzard we’re driving through. “If your window was open when you boarded the bus, and you have since closed it, OPEN IT BACK UP!” the driver shouts at the top of his lungs and nearly everyone jumps at the sudden amplitude. A chorus of sliding and slamming rings out and we are all freezing, once again. The girl beside me scoots closer and I don’t say anything but scoot closer to her, too, hoping to share some body heat. I’m beginning to think that survival mode would be wise to engage, but suddenly lights appear ahead and the bus slows to a stop. A guard climbs on to the bus just enough to see over the railing at all us newbies and demands we show him our ID’s. It’s mostly driver’s licenses I see go up, but some are holding social security cards, and only three are holding up green little rectangles I assume to be their legal citizenship cards. The guard takes his time, appearing oblivious to our collective teeth chatter and shivering, and after a long five minutes disembarks and waves the bus through the security gate. “Welcome to NRTC, folks!” The driver shouts, and quicker than I thought possible we’ve arrived and the door opens again, this time to allow someone in a crisp tan uniform on board. The man is tall, not muscular but not thin, with a light brown mustache and large blue eyes. I’m half-way to smiling, thinking the man may be a few years younger than my dad but still good looking, when he opens his mouth and issues forth a stream of shouted orders. “ON YOUR FEET! GRAB YOUR BAGS!! OUT THE DOOR! GO! GO! GO!” He’s moved far enough into the driver’s personal bubble to allow us to scramble, panicked and shaking on our feet, past him and off the bus into the frigid snowy night. There were no other directions he gave us but to exit the bus with our bags, so I stood off to the side to allow the other passengers their exit. Some had begun walking toward the building about twenty yards from where we are parked. Flood lights ring the roof, turning the short, squat brick building into our beacon, promising warmth and comfort from the constant fall of snow and biting cold winds. “WHERE ARE YOU GOING? DID I SAY “GO TO THE LIGHT”? NO, I DID NOT! GET BACK HERE AND FORM UP!” People are bewildered. “Form up”? What does that mean? Of course, those of us who’ve seen enough movies involving boot camp or the military in general know that “form up” means to get into rows and lines. But that isn’t all of us and the majority bumbles around aimlessly, hoping their feet figure out what their brain can’t and gets them to the right spot. The man in tan who shouted us from the bus, is now standing at the half-way point between the bus and the building with two others in black uniforms. He’s holding his hand to his forehead as if he couldn’t be more stressed about the new load of people the bus just brought; as if the hairball a cat could cough up and the kibbles a dog could puke up are worth more than us, the bunch still trying to figure out what “form up” looks like. I have a bad moment where I am nearly consumed with the urge to laugh, hysterically, until I can’t breathe. I want to laugh so bad my eyes tear up, my mouth twists up, and I nearly snort from the pressure building behind my sinuses. If only I could laugh! After five or so minutes it becomes painfully obvious no one knows what “form up” looks like and the two in black uniforms take pity on us, usher us inside the short, squat beacon building. The inside is khaki on khaki with a little tan and beige mixed in; khaki walls, khaki ceiling, beige base boards, tan tile, tan grout. The blandness somehow manages to sink into a form of background noise while simultaneously making me ill. The near-complete lack of color does something funny to my head, gives me a sense of finality, a signal that this is really happening, more so than the flight or bus ride here has accomplished. The near-monochromatic attack of khaki and tan innards of the building say “You are here to stay” and “There’s no going back”. The room they place us in, full of desk-chairs, drinking fountains, pillars with 7ft tall rulers glued to them, and chalk boards running from wall to wall, all begs for color, for something other than tan, khaki, beige, or brown. After all are called out and assigned into small groups- men with other men, women with other women- we are made to circulate the stations. The first station for my group is the urinalysis station. If we can’t provide a urine sample on command, we are made to drink from the fountains and walk circles around the perimeter of the room. Don’t disturb the other stations, stick to the walls, and when you’re ready to pee, raise your hand and someone in uniform will assist you. After I pee, assisted, in a room with toilets lining the walls and no stall doors to block the sight of twenty other women being assisted, I’m assigned to the medical station. Here I have to describe the appearance and location of all prominent and or distinctive marks, freckles, moles, scars, and or tattoos. I have to provide a family medical history and am asked if I am allergic to any medications, plants, or foods. No, no, and no, I smile. “Don’t smile,”...
I have no more tears to cry, Because I think I've cried them all. All the years we've spent apart, Baby; The further and further I fall. I spend a lot of time, thinking of you, And how things could be... And wish that any time with him, would have been you with me. I'm thankful for every day I have with my son, Honey; And I'm glad he is who he is. But wish that some times he could be yours, instead of his. There's nothing I can do or say to rewind time, Dear, Though there's days I think that if I could, you would still be mine. I love him for the child that he gave me, But that doesn't stop the love I have for you, to still be. I wish... I wish I knew the future, Sugar; And how things would end up. But every possible outcome I think of... It's just not enough. Since I was eighteen, you've been my only love. I don't know what else to say, Darling; Maybe because there's nothing else to speak of.
So I'm supposed to have a rough draft of a research paper either nearly finished, or already finished and in the process of refining by 2pm CST today. Do I have a rough draft? No. But I have my outline and a general idea of what I want my point to be. See, originally it was going to be a paper on the difference between corporal punishment, child abuse and how parents cross the line. But I figured that topic to be too broad. But the difference between a spanking and a Spanking is so objective, such a grey area, I found it hard to even begin my argument. So I changed the terms and approached one side of the argument: Discipline, Punishment, and where parents should draw the line. I know, it still sounds vague, but the point I want to make is that discipline should be the main tool for raising a child, punishment used sparingly and only for serious offenses, and why it should be this way. Still subjective, still one sided, and I still have no idea how I'm going to get this rough draft cranked out in time to make my class. My struggles with my educational progression aside, does anyone have any input on this topic? I'm kind of in a soap-box mood...
“Bubble bubble, troll- ” The little girl paused in stirring her make-believe witches brew. “Ohh… Double toil…” She started only to have her new friend, Star, correct her again. “Double bubbles- Ok, ok, sorry! Double, double toil and trouble,” she nodded her head to emphasize each word. “Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” She went back to stirring the imaginary stew in the rusty bucket, laughing at the silly words. Star said all young witches made Eye of Newt, and everyone who was anyone knew the proper spell. “Ok, I got it. Double, double toil and trouble… Fire burn and cauldron bubble.” Just then the door at the bottom of the stairs opened. “Teresa! What are you doing all the way up here, kid?” Her sisters’ voice got louder as she climbed the stairs. Teresa jumped up and closed the doors to the armoire where she and Star had been playing. Clasping her hands behind her back, Teresa assumed a look of perfect wide-eyed innocence as her sister, Melody, reached the last few stairs. “Hey, this is cool!” Her big sister looked around, taking in the various piles of long-forgotten junk and furniture. “I can’t believe someone would leave all this cool junk behind. Anyway, lunch is ready. Mom said you need to wash your hands before you eat. She must’ve known you were going to get into something dirty…” Melody pointedly looked at Teresa’s hands and knees then turned to leave. “But next time,” she said over her shoulder, “Tell someone when you’re going to be up here, at least until mom cleans it.” She rubbed her arms. The tiny hairs had been standing on end since entering the attic making her skin feel prickly and tight. “There could be rodents or something.” When they left the attic together, Teresa waved goodbye to Star before firmly closing and locking the door at the bottom. Later that night after Melody made sure Teresa was asleep, she tip-toed from her bedroom. She was going to be so glad when Teresa could finally sleep through the night in her own bed. Moving slowly, she crept down the hall to the guest bathroom. Since the day they’d moved in she’d desperately wanted to bathe in the guest bathroom’s claw foot bathtub. It was pearly white and huge, and with a few candles placed around the room, the tub filled with steamy water and soapy bubbles, it appealed to every aspect of Melody’s fifteen year old romantic heart. Hanging her robe on the stand-up mirror in the corner, she slipped into the steamy water, sighing with absolute bliss as she submerged. Putting her headphones on, she leaned back and focused on relaxing. She wanted to feel like a glob of warmed jell-o by the time she got out. The water was icy, her skin pale and mottled with dark blue veins. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. Something was holding her down, keeping her from escaping the slushy water. Where her body touched the tub she burned. Melody tried to speak but only managed a faint exhalation, her breath freezing in the air as it passed her lips. “What’s going on? Someone please help me! HELP ME!” She meant to shout, but got little more than a strangled gurgle. She wanted to scream, to kick and flail her limbs free of the now frozen bathwater. She was stuck in a tub-shaped block of ice, her shivering heightening the streaks of pain shooting through her body. Her heart slowed to an achy “Bah-bump……bah-bump”, so slow it seemed impossible for her to still be alive. The veins in her arms and legs began to blacken, spreading slowly to her fingers and feet. Tears froze before they could leave her eyes, fusing her lids shut. A voice whispered, feathering her frostbitten ear, “You’re next”. Melody woke with such a start, water splashed onto the tile floor and her iPod fell in. Clutching her chest, she tried to get her breathing under control. The heat of the bathwater was at once startlingly welcome and intensely painful. The bleak cold of her nightmare translated to her waking reality and her body felt iced to the marrow of her bones. Frantically turning the faucet knobs, she scooted to the end of the tub and sat directly under the rush of hot water. She couldn’t warm up fast enough, doubting her body would ever return to its natural ninety-eight degrees again. When she felt sufficiently warmed, she donned her robe and ran down the hall to her room. Flipping the closet light switch on, she dug through the semi-unpacked boxes for her sweats. “What’s going on?” Teresa asked through a big yawn, sitting up in bed. “Nothing, I ‘m just sick, I think I have a cold. Go back to sleep.” She said as she slipped on thick gray socks. “Did you have the freezing dream too?” She didn’t look up, didn’t want to confirm that her baby sister had experienced the same horrible dream. Without another word, she turned out the light and left the room to find where her mom had stashed the hot cocoa. “But mom, everyone’s going to be at the Halloween dance tonight! Why can’t I go?” Melody was mentally screaming, willing her mom to change her mind and let her stay out for the night. Although she hadn’t had any more nightmares since the awful “freezing dream”, she’d done her best to stay out of the house as often as possible. “Because, Mel, you’re never home. I want you here to answer the door, hand out candy, and be a good house sitter.” Melody felt anxiety unfurl in her stomach and inch its way into her chest. She set the grocery bags on the counter with a loud thump. “What do you mean? Where’re you going? Where’s Teresa going? Why can’t I go to the dance if she’s not even going to be here?” “She’s staying with that Brittney girl down the street, and I’m going to be at Georgette’s till midnight.” Her mom paused in unloading the groceries, “I swear, for a teenager, you’re awfully unwilling to be home without supervision. When I was your age I was planning a party before my parents could finish the words ‘Weekend vacation’. What’s with you?” Her mom fisted a hand on her hip. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just thought I’d take Teresa trick or treating. I guess I can relax with some horror movies… and popcorn.” She attempted a smile but felt her face form a grimace. Her mom shook her head at her and turned to put milk in the fridge. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you’re scared of being alone.” “Pfft.” Melody scoffed. Her mom had been right about the planning part, but it wasn’t a party she had in mind. She wasn’t planning on being home at all. She just had to find a way to stay out until her mom got home and wondered if the little Brittney girl had an older sibling she could hang out with. A few hours later Melody learned Brittney was an only child and her parents didn’t think it appropriate for her to spend time with the two younger girls. They’d told her just as polite as punch that children should associate with others their own age, implying Melody was too old to hang out with the nine year olds. “Never mind one of them is my own little sister,” she muttered darkly. After being turned away from Brittney’s house, Melody stomped back home and went straight to the detached garage. She would camp out in the backyard if she had to. After rummaging through all the boxes in the garage, she couldn’t find a single piece of camping equipment, and none of the boxes yielded anything she could turn into a fort. Not happy at the prospect of sleeping in the filthy, cramped garage, she trudged back toward the house. The porch light flickered as she approached. Melody stopped and looked up to see each light in the house take turns flickering. “Oh my GOD could you be more cliché?!” she screamed at the house, shaking her fists in the air. “What happened to you? Did you die of fright from an 80’s B-rate movie?” She shouted up at the roof, imagining she was yelling at whatever was in the attic. “Get some new material for crap sakes!” Feeling too angry to worry about her all-consuming fear of being alone in the house, she stomped up and all but kicked the back door down. It swung open and smacked back against the wall. She stood in the doorway, her hands clenching and unclenching. “I’m not afraid of you.” She blustered, and closed the door behind her. Fear returned, instantly making her hands cold and clammy and her mouth run dry. She turned her back to the dining room to open the door, one hand on the knob, when she heard it. It was a noise she’d never heard before. It was revealing, and it was damning. It told her she had been right all along; it told her she was shit out of luck. A skin-tightening shiver raced up her spine. The fine hairs all over her body stood up and attempted to march off her skin. She took a deep breath. “It’s not real, it’s not there, nothing is there, everything is normal, I’m ok, I’m ok, I’m ok…” Her attempt at bolstering her nerves didn’t work. She thought she heard a little girl’s giggle. It made her skin crawl. “What’s your name?” “Star,” whispered a girlish voice. “What do you want?” She found she was frozen again, her feet rooted to the floor. She was just as cold, just as icy as she had been in her nightmare. She watched as the skin of her arms paled and turned blue. A frost-blackened hand gripped her ankles, and she felt a scream bubble up and lodge in her throat. “You.”
The drive in to work was almost pleasant this morning. There was very little traffic, only two red lights, and the security guard at the entrance blessed me. I was an entire forty-five minutes early to work- forty five minutes earlier than when I normally got to work. My dogs decided they needed to be let out at 5am; and entire thrity minutes earlier than what my alarm was set for. And that's how my day started... I get to my office door, only to find someone had changed the key lock combination and hadn't informed me. I call my supervisor and he blusters apologetically and gives me the new combination. My computer boots up faster than usual, and before I know it, I've been sucked into my editing project for English class. I feel as if time is flying by and surely when I look at the clock it will be time for a mid-morning break. How wrong was I? Very. Only one hour had passed. Everyone else in the office had just arrived. My eyes begin to feel heavy as I cycle through my most favored web sites. Google Facebook Writingforums Karenmoning youtube Slacker Rinse, dry, and repeat. I've already been at work for two hours and feel as if I've slogged through ten. I finished writing my short story assignment, editing my process analysis project, checked Facebook so thoroughly I feel slightly stalker-ish. I already listened to three of my favorite songs on the randomly selected music channel on Slacker.com. There's nothing left for me to do in the office. I need to run errands to start the proper paperwork process in preparation for getting out of the Military. I can't be saddled to this chair all day like I normally am. But no one is available to take over the desk and watch the phones. No one's here to take messages and email important notices. It's just me for the next two or three hours. And I have another 6 hours to go before I may leave. On the upside? My Mother-in-law is in town, staying with us for the next four days. Oh wait, that's not an upside. I apologize for the fib. I'm in hell.
I hade a bizarre dream last night (Saturday night). I was driving a car down a dark street, approaching a three-way intersection. I flipped the left turn-signal and came to a stop, checking both ways before completing the left turn. The next thing I know I'm in an enormous gymnasium standing at the edge of a pool, posed to dive. The walls were blinding white. There was a crowd of people behind me, and a 16 year old looking girl next to me, posed to dive too. I told her she didn't stand a chance at beating me to the other side. She sneered and told me to prepare to drown in her wake. A silent shot went off and we both dived in, swimming with everything we had. I reached the other side first, jumped out and rang the bell first. The room hushed, a voice came from somewhere overhead. The girl was escorted from the room by two big men in all white, and I was pointed to a table where an older woman sat. She looked 50-ish, with short graying brown hair and a round face, aged by happiness, not by grief like so many older people. She had a notebook, a tablet, a cup of pens and a bell in front of her. She didn't say anything to me, just sat looking straight ahead. I turned to watch the next couple of people take the plunge and compete to the other side. Two women jumped in, but it was what looked to be a streak of sunshine swimming beside a streak of night under the turning water. I cheered for the streak of gold, somehow knowing it was important for her to win. I needed her to win. Both jumped from the pool at the same time, a penguin and a shining orb of pure sunlight. I heard the old woman behind me mutter a familiar name. I whirled to face her. "Say that again." I demanded. "Both move on, both go to the other side." "But why? They finished at the same time, it was a tie!" Somehow I knew the 'other side' meant 'gone forever'. I didn't want the sunshine to go. I thought I might know her. I wasn't sure though. The old woman nodded as if I'd spoken aloud. "Theresa. The sunshine was Theresa." I felt as if someone had punched me in the gut. The air whooshed from my lungs, leaving me feeling deflated. A tight, hot pressure built in my chest. I thought my heart was breaking apart, sinking from it's spot behind my ribs to my gut. I couldn't relax my face from it's expression of extreme grief. It hurt so bad. "No, please. She's... Theresa's never hurt anyone. Why her?!" I was shouting. The old woman simply shrugged. "It was her time to fight for her life, and she didn't fight hard enough." I looked at my feet, bare and pedicured. When had I gotten a pedicure? "Right before your car accident." the old woman answered though I hadn't spoken aloud. Just then Theresa walked up to me, everything about her golden and happy, like a bright aphrodisiac, an aura of bliss and happiness. I shook her by the shoulders. "You can/t be happy about this! You just got married! You're too young! Too beautiful to die..." I couldn't talk, air refused to fill my lungs and I was experiencing that wrenching pain in my chest again. Tears blurred my vision. She looked at me, a bright smile radiating joy. "If it's my time, it's my time Marranda. I'm not going to question higher judgement." Tears shined in her eyes and spilled, leaving trails of gold down her cheeks. It was so hard to breath. I've never felt such grief, such concentrated agony before. The tears hadn't stopped pouring from my eyes. "You can't go. You're Julie's rock. What'll she do without you there?" Suddenly all my thoughts turned to Julie. Was she in the car with Theresa when she'd wrecked? Did Theresa even wreck her car? How did she end up here in the first place? WHERE was 'here'?? I looked around again. The swimming pool was long and narrow, only ten feet wide. The masses of people waiting for their turn to swim for their lives, to return to their realities; was devastating. All those people... I saw flashes of images. Impressions of being surrounded by people, and food, of concrete and street lamps disoriented me. "Give this to Julie. Tell her I love her, and not to worry. I'll be her little girls' guardian." She winked. "My Tony's strong. I'm not worried. For once I'm not scared of the unknown." She handed me two sheets of paper, one had a short note on it, only ten lines long. The other was covered in lists of addresses, passwords and email addresses; phone numbers and little side notes. I was still crying, and when I looked up at Theresa I felt another wave of tears roll down my face. "That's for you." "What?" Theresa shrugged. I looked to the old woman who also shrugged, and looked up. Theresa and I looked up at the same time. The ceiling clouded and opened to show a scene from what looked like a security camera. Our friends Julie and Jessie were in front of a computer, one reading over the others' shoulder. Both began to cry, then Julie, ever the realist, dried her eyes and sniffled. "We'll find the bastard that did this Jess, and we'll kill him. How dare anyone steal our sunshine girl from us." Her tears hadn't stopped but her expression was clear and determined. Jessie remained silent. I looked at Theresa, then the paper in my hands, the old woman, then back to Theresa. "You know how you died? You were... You were murdered." Theresa shook her head at me, refusing to answer. "Just follow your instincts. They've always been good. Always right." A cloud appeared behind her, and Theresa began to fade into it until she was gone altogether. I stood, silently raging until it occurred to me that though I'd swam and finished my race first, and others had swam and moved on, but I still remained. Why me? I looked at the old woman. "Because you were chosen." I laughed at her. "So what, now you're Obi Wan or something? Am I going to have super powers and be invincible now? Am I going to go back to my body, my life, and become one of those crazy "I saw angles and heaven" people?" The woman creeped me out. Without the amber glow that Theresa threw off, the old woman went from someone I'd imagine to be a favorite grandma, to sinister and shady. I re-read Theresa's note to Julie and mourned all over again, and so thoroughly it caused me to wake up from the dream. * I was gasping for air, the crushing sensation of grief from the dream transferred into my waking reality. It hurt so bad! I was still in the position I'd fallen asleep in. I rolled to my side and found a big tear-soaked spot on my pillow. I wiped my face, my fingers came away wet and cold. Apparently I'd been crying in my sleep for a long time. As soon as I'd discovered that, I was being sucked back into another dream. It was as if my brief time awake correlated to the passage of time in my dream. * I was driving again, but this time Julie was in the passenger seat beside me. I looked at her, feeling an odd sense of urgency, like I couldn't drive fast enough, get us to where we needed to be quick enough. She didn't look at me. I began to cry again. "I'm so sorry about Theresa, Julie! I cheered her on! I didn't know it was going to be something that decided her fate." Julie turned to me. "I don't know why you keep saying you saw her move on, Marranda. She was murdered, a whole day AFTER you got in your car wreck. She wasn't swimming, and neither were you. Stop with the delusions." Grief had made Julie bitter, and I understood. I reached into my back pocket and took out the note Theresa had given me to give to Julie. I handed it to her. She read it in silence. "Where did you get this?" "She gave it to me, after I watched her swim the mile." "Was it really a mile?" Julie asked. "I don't know. It felt like a mile when I swam it." We were both quiet for a minute. "Why you? Why her?" "I don't know, Julie." She sighed after a minute. "I miss my sunshine girl."
Honestly, no one ever knowns when they're going to face the possibility of death, let alone face it twice. While on my first deployment in 2006, my ship visited Split, Croatia. It was our first port, and it would be the first foreign country I’d ever set foot in. A couple of friends and I signed up for a tour to Krka National Park because it was advertised you could jump from a twenty-foot waterfall into a “bottomless” pool, and swim in the mountain spring-fed waters of River Krka. The bus that took us to the waterfall had a tour guide who spent the time describing the countryside, and the local history. River Krka spanned from south Bosnia to the Adriatic Sea; it was home to over two hundred species of birds, and seven natural waterfalls. After our trip it would also be the home to my favorite black Converse shoes. We reached our destination after the bus dropped us off by hiking twenty minutes down a steep hillside. Along the way, old women wearing Babushkas sold various homemade trinkets and goods; among which was a homemade red wine that I'd bought several bottles of. When we got to the river, it was as if we’d stepped into a dreamscape. The water was every hue of teal, aqua, cobalt, and turquoise. The trees were lush, and heavily leaved in shades of dark and bright green. My friend Brad and I instantly opted for swimming. I changed into my bathing suit but kept my shoes on because the last thing I needed was a foot injury. What I didn’t know at the time was that the riverbed was formed of sandstone, which is never truly jagged. Together, Brad and I slowly waded into the swift current of the river. Something else we failed to notice was that we had gotten in the water at the furthest point possible, which made it more of an adventure than necessary to get to the waterfall. Halfway to the waterfall the bottom dropped out to create the “bottomless” pool. Everyone was jumping in from atop the fall where a rock jutted out, nature's diving board. Between the edge where Brad and I stood chest deep in frigid water, and the waterfall, was a sun rock. Some people sunbathed, while others used it as a temporary resting place. I have a fear of deep water, and it's amplified if I can’t see the bottom. From where I stood, I saw the water change from bright aqua to the color of sunshine through cobalt glass, the rocks beneath seemed to disappear the darker the water got. I began to feel anxious. The thought of some creature, undiscovered by man, swimming around down there had my heart pounding in my throat. At that moment I removed my shoes, tied the laces together and draped them around my neck, tucking one under each arm. In a surge of bravery, I kicked out and swam as hard as I could for the sun rock. I felt that if I made it there, I could conquer my fear and could celebrate by jumping off the waterfall... Or maybe just encourage others to jump. It took a lot of effort to get to the rock, but before I passed that last arm-length distance to grab a hold, I heard a strangled gurgling behind me. Instead of anchoring myself before turning, I just turned. The current pushed me right into Brad, whose eyes were wide with panic. When our bodies collided, he grabbed onto me and pushed me under. He was struggling to keep from drowning and his self-preservation instincts had kicked in. But for me, the one being held underwater, my instincts were useless against him. I was scared witless. I kicked with everything I had just so he couldn’t push me down further and was quickly losing air. I tried prying his hands off, but it was like a vice grip, so I waved frantically, trying to get someone’s attention. There were all those people around us! How come no one saw Brad’s terror, or my hands thrashing wildly? Suddenly he was gone, and I broke the surface gasping. The darkness at the edges of my vision receded and I saw someone had finally swum out to help. When the guy got Brad to the rock, he returned for me. On my assisted swim to the rock I learned our rescuer’s name was Brisco. He was a Search and Rescue swimmer from our ship. After a brief reprieve, Brad wanted to continue to the ledge behind the waterfall. We made a deal that if he made it to the ledge behind the fall without being rescued by Brisco again, I would swim to the ledge too. It turned out the current between the rock and the fall wasn’t as strong as it was getting to the rock. Brad got to the ledge without incident. The swim to the waterfall was easy until I got directly under the falling water. It made swimming side-stroke necessary to keep my head above water. Reaching out to Brad, our hands were inches apart when I heard someone shout “I’ll save you!” I looked up and saw a very large man with his arms stretched wide, running right for me. He hadn’t counted on the impact of the falling water to affect his trajectory and so instead of landing beside me, he landed on top of me. Air punched from my lungs and I flipped backward. The weight of my shoes disappeared as I struggled to untangle myself from him. I was still underwater and upside down, trying to get right side up. We managed to separate just as we bumped into the sun rock. I was flung around to the far-side of it when I finally got upright and was able to breathe. I was furious. Because of him, I’d nearly drown, again. Because of him, I lost my favorite pair of Converse shoes. They were my concert shoes, my everyday shoes; they were worn, scuffed, and loved shoes. They were priceless to me for the memories I’d made wearing them; then worth even more because I’d survived nearly drowning twice in one hour. But this would-be savior had nearly killed me, and left me barefoot in the process. When I decided that yelling at him wouldn’t do any good, I turned and swam for shore. I was tired of near-death experiences, sick of choking on mountain spring water. The beauty of the waterfall and the crystalline waters no longer held awe for me. The water took on a sinister glare, and the trees seemed to laugh at me. All I wanted to do was dry off and pop open a bottle of Babushka wine and drown in something other than water. Red wine and sunshine was all I wanted after that. And anyways, it wasn’t every day I was given a second chance, twice in a row. Every now and then I still wonder if my shoes were ever found. Where they found and taken home? Were they thrown away, mistaken for trash and not the treasure I saw them as? I hope not. I hope they were found, and whoever had them also found humor in finding the perfect sized shoes in River Krka.
So that short story I posted in GenFic a few weeks back, I finally got back from my English professor yesterday and although I hadn't expected any grammar corrections, I thought maybe I would get something marked off for structure or for having a run=on sentence or three. But lo and behold- a 12/10 was written in bright green at the top with an arrow ( <-- ), and the words "For being extra awesome! You are a talented writer!" I know it isn't much because it's still early in the semester and I have plenty more opportunities to change my professors mind, but hey, it's not every day I'm told I'm talented- about anything- and that just made my week! I don't want this to come off as bragging, that's not what I intentioned at all. I just wanted to share my joy and enthusiasm for a job well done. And had it not been for the corrections mentioned in my thread post on my short story, I would have surely gotten less than a perfect score. So thank you, Prettyprettyprettygood, Miss Jackson, Flowerfairy, Whizp, and jimr for all your input, opinions, suggestions and corrections. And here's what I turned in: Kitty Kitty’s Lunch “Hmm, I wonder what’s for lunch today,” the cat chuffed to itself as it lightly padded down the shingles of the roof to the edge of the gutter. It looked around, noting the layout of its surroundings. Children were playing in a nearby pool, the bright aqua water reflecting white-hot glints of light. The buzz of an air conditioning unit clicked on, the noise loud enough to momentarily silence the cicadas. A short moment later, the insects chirped and whirred, rejoining in their cacophony. A fence, less than a leap away from where the cat was perched, wobbled as something landed on it. The cat looked right, then left, quickly picking out what had disturbed the fence. A red and beige squirrel sat atop one of the fence posts, idly nibbling at the little morsel in its tiny hands. The cat’s pupils expanded in keen interest. “Bingo,” the cat softly chortled, black whiskers fanning out. Its hind legs bunched and released, leaping from gutter to fence with a smooth, graceful landing. The motion caused the squirrel to go still, the tip of its tail twitching slightly. “Decide quickly, tasty tree-climber; am I a threat? Will I eat you? Please think me harmless…” The cat’s orange tipped tail lowered as its shoulders see-sawed and its hind end wiggled, preparing to launch itself at the squirrel. The squirrel’s nose twitched at the air, the little bit of food in its paws forgotten, as the cat sat waiting, calculating. A man walking his dog approached, the leash jingling in time to the dog’s happy trot, its tongue lolling with saliva dripping from its mouth. The squirrel looked away from the cat, as if to say ‘You are no longer the bigger threat.’ Upon sighting the cat, the dog charged the fence, barking its strange language at them in excitement, sending the squirrel scurrying away in fright. “Damn it!” the cat hissed. It leapt across the fence line after the squirrel; up one tree and down another, from limb to limb, they jumped from branch to roof to branch again. It was a race, one in front of the other, both fighting for survival. The fluffy, rust colored tail of the squirrel bobbed frenetically, almost within clawing distance of the cat’s lethal paws. The cat strove for a faster pace, stretching its legs out, taking longer strides as it sprinted across and over, down and under, up and after the squirrel. Faster the squirrel went, ever faster the cat gained. One foot, ten inches, six inches, and- “Yeeeowwl!” the cat screeched, forced to skid to a halt on a tar-papered roof, the small grains digging into the cat’s paws. The squirrel, with its nimble acrobatics, sprang from roof to roof, one higher than the last, too far for the cat to follow. The cat, angry at its abrupt change of plans, paced at the edge, wondering if jumping after the squirrel would be worth the trouble. The cat’s sides heaved, out of breath from the high speed chase, its tail snapped to and fro in agitation. The squirrel blinked at the cat, and with the tip of its tail flapping as if to wave ‘goodbye’, disappeared into another tree. “Damned tree climber!” the cat growled before turning back the way it had come. Returning to the roof of the home where the chase had begun, the cat sat once more, waiting for lunch to creep, scuttle, or crawl by. Several minutes later, seeming to sunbathe, a noise caught the cat’s attention. It looked over the gutter’s edge in curiosity. A little girl dressed in yellow, stood looking up at the cat, holding out a small dish. The cat could smell, even from its high perch that she was offering tuna. “For me?” the cat warbled in question, slinking from roof to fence, landing on all fours a few feet from the little girl. The cat circled, and curling its tail around her ankle, bumped its head against her shin. “Hey there, Kitty Kitty, I brought you lunch!” The child placed the bowl of tuna on the ground with a flourish of her dimpled hand. The cat trotted to the dish and purred in exultant bliss, eating its favorite of all fish. The little girl petted its ears, running her hands along its sleek back. It curled its tail around her chubby little finger in response to the girl’s attentions. The cat purred louder, whiskered cheeks puffing in a kittenish smile. “Mmm, lunch… Finally!”
It's chewy And unlike chips, or bread, it retains its flavor. It's wonderful. I've recently rediscovered popcorn after a three year dry spell of it. I blame my husband for the last two years though. He hates popcorn, and therefore I never had the idea to buy it. What changed? A good friend, and close neighbor was eating it one day, and my 17 month old son walked up and asked for a piece. Turns out he takes after me in the food variety department- he loves it! So I finally broke down and bought a box of eight popcorn packets. I've noticed I'm the one eating it more often than my son, and even the bags I send him to daycare with don't get eaten often. If it weren't for my current, and very strict, diet, I would splurge on sour cream, ranch salad dressing, cottage cheese, and ricotta cheese too. All things my husband doesn't like to eat, let alone see in our refridgerator. Hmm... October 3rd can't come fast enough
So lately I've been itching to write. And by itching I mean almost literally. I have plot progress, and I want more, but I can't seem to grasp that next word, that next thing to take it further and make it better. My brain tingles with frustration, and my mouth works to try and form this word. But nothing comes forth, nothing makes sense enough, and so I sit, staring off into space, frustrated. I can see my character Sabby doing everything I want her to do, going with the story (for once in her miserably short life), and yet, I can't move her forward. It's as if she and all the other characters surrounding her are chess pieces that have been glued to the board by a mischevious child. The board being my brain, and the child being that illusivity, that fog keeping my brain from moving my characters forward. To this I give one big gusty exhale and flip the finger. Screw you, you odd fogginess that's attacking my brain. I've got a new weapon. A new pen. And I'm not afraid to use it! Today? I have yet to write anything new, but I have found something else to move forward. A different character, a pawn, if you will. And he will make things move forward, when trying to stick with Sabby's POV couldn't. So, in closing, and to give that foginess the last word, I say "Stuff that in your pipe and smmmoke it!" New pen to the rescue!
There have so few moments in my life I've felt genuine depression. Those of you reading this are probably thinking "Lucky you", right? Because I've just claimed to have such an undepressing life? Is 'undepressing' a word? Anyways. At the beginning of what should have been an awesome, weekend long bachelorette party of epic proportions, I learn a good friend of mine has passed away. We were not particularly close, we rarely spoke to each other since her mother died a year ago, and I haven't seen her in person since Halloween, 2008... Her name was Rachel Taylor C***, of Shelby, Alabama. She was a die-hard Alabama football fan. She served in the U.S. Navy and was the first-ever female SEAOPDET detachee out of Norfolk to deploy on the USS Enterprise. She was everyone's biggest critic. She was her friends' biggest supporter. She never judged a person by their words, actions, or appearance. You were who you were, and she loved you for it. She was tall, and whenever drunk enough, would proudly state she was Amazon, and who cares if she was into short dudes? She had an addiction problem. When she was enlisted, it was alcohol and prescription sleep-aids. When she was out of the Navy, it was pain killers and more alcohol. When she moved back to Alabama to be with her mother who was dying from cancer, it was cocaine and pain killers. After her mother's passing, it was heroin. Apparently it's the best pain killer. She was conscious when she over dosed on Friday afternoon, and called 911 for herself. The EMT's successfully got her to the hospital and recovered her from her over dose. A few moments (And by 'moments' I literally mean heartbeats), she had a heart attack and went into an unrecoverable coma. The boyfriend who had originally introduced her to heroin was with her at the time of her overdose. But according to the EMTs, no one else was with her when they reached her home. According to her one remaining relative, her aunt, Rachel's home looked to have been ransacked and burglarized. All electronics and valuables had been stolen. And the heroin providing boyfriend has yet to be found or contacted. Rachel's ex-husband signed a DNR, and at 13:42 on Friday, September 2nd, my dear-yet-distant and troubled friend Rachel C***, died. It's so final. And it's a general agreement that she did it on purpose. She never recovered from her Mother's passing. Her mother was the only one to never hold Rachel's problems against her. When her mother died, a large portion of who we all knew Rachel to be, died with her. I'm depressed because I would like to feel sadness for her. I would like to know that her passing meant something bigger than attempted suicide and ultimate fear of death. But I can't. I find I don't have it in me. I grieve, but not for Rachel. I grieve for her family, and the friends we both shared, who I'm closer to; for their loss. For their sadness, and agony. I grieve for them, because I can't grieve for her. Thus the depression. The conflicting emotions of pity, sadness, hurt, grief, anger, and frustration all mingling with the realization that none of those emotions are for her. In her new state of being, I hope she's reunited with her mother. I hope her death wasn't in vain on that count. And there comes a new emotion: Hope. I hope the bastard who got her hooked on heroin has an enormous wake-up call. Whether that wake-up call is his own over-dose, or recovering and staying clean- to forever go to meetings and agonize over the guilt of being responsible for the death of a beautiful person- I don't know. But either way, I believe in Karma. I believe in a form of afterlife, and I believe in eventual reincarnation. What i don't believe in, is a human's capacity to 'Change for the better', and i don't believe that even the lowest of human life is capable of good. I don't, and I hope that heroin shooting boyfriend of Rachels' gets his karma return.
No matter how many times I say 'Today will be a good day', it doesn't change the fact that this morning was horrible. And rushed. And I still have an English paper due, I'm at work, and there are all sorts of distractions I can't even think straight. Not to mention I had to amp up on starbucks with 5 shots of esspresso with cream and so my hands are so jittery I'm typing like a 10 year on their first typing test (yes, I was ten once, and taking an extra-curricular class in the library that taught typing and computer program use, and I remember how jittery I got when I had a typing test). Like that, but caffeinated. I'm freaking out! So.... Today will be a good day, today will be a good day, today will be a good day. Three times is a good enough amount of times to say something positive right?? Fate help me.
I admit I've been guilty of silently snickering at those who woe about losing their files, or those who have said "I can't believe I didn't back those files up!" to which I would think to myself "Pfft. Everyone knows you back-up your writing. Duh." Well, it's my turn to stare blankly, heart thumping painfully with the knowledge that now the shoe is on the other foot... or is it 'insert foot in mouth'? Every single scrap of writing I've done, all of my rants, my character obsessions, and original drafts, every revision I've ever done- gone. Of course I have my blog, and my home computer with other variations of the stuff, but the Original-originals were here, on my work computer. And now they aren't. Thursday I had not come to work as I was in class all day. So it was left up to my trainee to turn in our weekly updates to our civilian boss, Joe. I get in to work this morning and Joe instantly climbs on my back about the update not being sent and "you know how important that update is, Marranda, I can't believe it wasn't done yesterday." he says. Well, funny, because I wasn't here yesterday, and how would I know it wouldn't get done? Where was my trainee? Where was my supervisor, who also knows how to create the update? Why am I being blamed for this? So I log onto a different computer than I normally use (my regular computer was occupied at the time), and began generating the updates for Joe. Half-way through the updating, my regular computer becomes available, so I log-off and go to my desk and try logging onto my regular computer. No joy. I get a prompt telling me my login profile cannot be located and a temporary profile will be loaded in its place. Whhhaaaat??? I call the service help desk, trying to keep my panic down. Not only am I worried about my file with all my story stuff in it, I'm worried about all my work, everything I use on a regular basis to help those in need of submitting a trouble call, everything that allows me to give immediate and correct information. I'm thinking I'm royally screwed. Well, my login profile is found corrupt, and the technician on the phone manages to re-load it, but without my excel or word files. "Sorry ma'am, they just aren't retrieveable." Again; Whhhhaaaaat????? And then the panic sets in. I thank the sky I had the forethought to email myself my own 'final' drafts I completed on Tuesday. But what about all my other documents containing everything I've written from day one? Sure I have my character notebooks, where most of them have the first 400-500 words hand written, but all the progress documents? Half of them are gone. So no, not all my work has been erased, and I find myself very lucky for that. But it was a large hunk of my work that has gone MIA, and I'm so upset about it. Why, oh WHY didn't I use that jump drive??
Show me fractions and my brain runs away. Pfft. The scaredy cat. So today was the day of my first-ever college semester. I got up at 6am, showered and dressed for the day. I took my son to daycare, came home and woke my husband. I assembled 50 sheets of college ruled paper and a three-ring folder into my brand spankin' new, hot aqua binder. I made sure the husband was up and moving around, got the car ready, and got my husband to class on time. I came home, nervously paced the house for 45 minutes before getting back in the car and driving back to campus. My first class was basic arithmetic development skills. I was in the wrong room. Thankfully the instructor handed out the sylabus 15 minutes early or I would have fully believed that a young redheaded woman with spring green eyes was named Donald Young. I eventually find the classroom with the right instructor, who admitted to switching classrooms three times in the previous 20 minutes because of attendence issues with the other classes. Everything was fine until D. Hastings walked in and took the seat next to mine. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed to meeting new people, or even having a fellow student sit next to me. I am, however, very opposed to the type of person who nags and mumbles and has sidebar comments about everything. I am opposed to the type of person who, when instructed (in very slow, very precise and dumbed-down vocabulary) to do something, they ask everyone and anyone around them the same "I'm not an idiot but clearly trying to get out of doing this on my own" questions until someone finally caves and does their work for them. Hate is a strong word. So strong, that I rarely use it. Today being the exception, obviously. Because the two attributes in a person I could not dislike more, was embodied in D. Hastings, who I now, and with a grimness I rarely show, hate him. He makes me feel bad for him, makes me want to hit him, makes me feel I should help someone obviously struggling, and makes me want to hit him over the head with the computer keyboard. "Shut up already!" I want to shout at him. Because of him, I got three answers wrong in my homework assignment, because he was either bitching about how difficult it was to log-in to the assignment program, bitching about how the program kept kicking him out, or bitching because he doesn't know why the computer hates him. "Why do you think we have an instructor for a computer-based course?" I want to ask him. And I would wish he'd respond "So that if one of us has a question, we can raise our hand and ask." But no. I don't ask him why, and he doesn't respond with the answer, because I've already got D. Hastings figured out. And I'm already not looking forward to Thursdays class. My next class was English Comp 1, where my instructor cheerfully (not really) told us we would be learning grammar, spelling, and will be writing long-hand, with everything. My first thought was "Awesome! I'm good at writing, I've got this in the bag!" But then she asked us to write a 100-150 word paragraph about ourselves, to write legibly, and to use every other line to space our words apart for easier readability. Alright. So I take out a sheet of paper and want to begin madly writing whatever comes to mind, thinking I'll rewrite it nice and neat underneath the quickly scribbled paragraph. But do I? No. I do not. Instead of following through with this awesome plan, I... go blank.... I take that back. I actually panic, with thoughts like "Is she grading this? Do I need proper structure for everything I write? What DO I write? Will she get mad if I just ramble about everything besides myself and not give any kind of introduction about myself? Do I HAVE to write about myself? UGH!" And so I start my paragraph with "The last English class I took was in 2003." And that's it. I got that far, and then my brain went blank. I'd like to think I could attribute that uncharacteristic blankness to fear of the instructor. Fear from failing on my first written piece, even though it's only 150 words long. 150. When I'm typing on my story, I blink and I've already surpassed 500 words. (not bragging, just stating a some-times fact) But the 150 word requirement daunts me. Waves it's finger at me and says "You can't beat me." and proceeds to emmulate Bart Simpson and moon me. What's this? I can't come up with 150 measly little words? About myself? WTF is wrong with me?? So my next sentence is "Since then, I've joined the US Navy, been on two deployments, gotten married, and had a son." Awesome, right? Not. There's no flow. Two sentences and I'm ready to crumple the paper, and start over, write about how the ceiling tiles need to be replaced or something of the like. Or write about how my feet are dirty from walking around in 105 degree heat through grass and dirt and everything's clung to them to try to escape the heat. All I can do is shake my head at myself, and finish the 150 words, babbling about how I'm unaccustomed to the dexterity requirements of a pen or pencil, and "isn't that weird? Because I write in my journal at home all the time!" Thursday. I hope to goodness, fate, and the seven seas this Thursday will be better. And as for D. Hastings, well... I don't plan on sitting next to him again if I can help it...