Dreams... part 5

The next few weeks were full of dreams I couldn’t control. Repeating dreams of the same person again and again until the portrait of their life appeared in the newspaper. I decided Laurens sister ahd been a fluke and simply decided to get on with my life of the living, after all what was the point of dwelling on the dying.

I continued being the good student for my mom, getting good grades, turning in all my homework, making lots of new friends. The days didn’t seem too out of the ordinary, my brother was still the same tease and he seemed to have a following from the neighborhood. There was always a trail of kids close to his age trailing him vying for his attention. I rarely paid much attention to them until one caught my eye looking familiar and that same panic rose in my chest. Did I know him from a dream?

I listened to the noise of by brothers tribe trying to decipher the familiar childs name, and memorizing his face. While I was fairly certain he was not the focus of a recent drem I knew I had seen him somewhere. Then it clicked. He had been in the hospital room when a loved one passed. He was the young boy being comforted. As I listened I heard him tell of what his mom used to do… it had sounded past tense. I felt the moisture filling my eyelids at the memory of this poor boy watching his mother pass.

That night I could sleep, the idea of watching someone lose a loved one was too much… I decided to look up online if there were any others like me. There were the few pschic hotline links, and the occasional dream come true stories. But none that I could tell with the same symptoms I had.

I was not sure what to do with myself and this problem. I had enough of my own pronlems to deal with I did not want to deal with others problems as well. I slipped downstairs and took one of my fathers sleeping pills hopeing they would knock me out enough I wouldn’t remember my dreams

I awoke the next morning more dragging and not quite able to get moving, I did however find I could not recall any images from my subconscience .

I took a mug and filled it with coffee from my dad’s pot, and slipped out the door, late hoping my mom wouldn’t notice. I walked to school quickly when I realized I hadn’t finished my homework. I opened my locker to put the mug I was still holding in there, but just as I finished unlocking it, I was slammed into the door, shutting it, and dropped my mug. It shattered in every direction. I turned ready to yell, but before I could get a word out my attacker was spewing an apology.

“I am so sorry… we were messing around and, I am sorry. Let me get this for you…” He trailed off as he bent down picking up the remains of my mug, I was glad I had drained most of the brown liquid so it couldn’t splash up and stain my clothes.

“It’s alright, I’ll get it…” I muttered, with no intention of picking up something that obviously was not my fault.

“I got it. Sorry again. Hey I’ve seen you around, but I have never had the chance to introduce myself. I am Tod, and you are?”

“Cici.” I couldn’t help but grin, and I felt the blood flood my cheeks. “I just moved here a couple months ago. Nice to meet ya, I’ll see you around.” I turned back toward my locker hoping the conversation was done, just because I didn’t know what else to say. After a moment I decided I could justify a peek, he was walking away, but it must have been slowly because he hadn’t gotten very far.

I found myself daydreaming about him the rest of the day. He had a letter jacket on, and I pictured him one of the star football players, just the way he strutted away, and sounded so certain of himself. His hair had been a wavy dark blond, his broad shoulders filling out his jacket, and I had to look up to see his eyes. I continued to think of him through lunch, when Isaw him with some blond girl, they were holding hands. I pushed him out of my thoughts and refocused my attentions on schoolwork.

Dreams... part 4

When I arrived in gym class, I barely began running when Lauren turned up, she was in her gym clothes too, and began running with me.
“I figured we could both start training for soccer,” she said before joining me and running in silence. I didn’t know what to say for her, and the excuse of being out of breath was already there. The gym coach entered, and they walked over to the other students and sat in their assigned arrangements.
I was rather relived that she didn’t treat me as an oddity after the incident with her sister. During gym we once again lifted weights. Lauren joined me, “so are you ok to come over to my place tonight?” I lightly held the bar as she pressed it, her breath blowing out with every lift.
“I was planning on it. That’s 6...” There had been a hint of doubt in her voice.
With a sigh she continued, “ I invited Jane over as well, I figured the more people, the less work.”
“Sounds great, er... 15" she got up and we traded places, I added a five pound weight on either side of my bar.

English class was a simple review of the Shakespeare we were to have read, Romeo and Juliet, a typical tragedy. I simply supplied my veiws when asked and got through the class easily. Then it was lunch.
Lauren had found me after class and took me to sit with her at her table. I had thought after our classes together that the evenat the previous day were not to extraordinary to them, a toddler climbed, and their were probably several times throughout the day in which someone snagged her from immediate danger. But for me it was a kind of breakthrough, there was some hope to my dreams, not just a tragic ending. But I was wrong, at lunch she told her friends of my odd behavior, and asked how I knew to follow her.
“I just thought she was cute, and I love children...” I trailed off, it was I lie. I had only babysat a couple times, and I was not very good at it. I lost patience quickly.
I quickly ate lunch and left, but to my disappointment, Lauren followed as well. “I am sorry I brought that up, but it was just too odd. It was like you knew what would be happening, I just don’t understand how...”
I debated how to answer that, not sure if she would believe me, after all I hardly knew her yet. I decided to stick with the earlier excuse... at least until I knew whther or not I could trust her, and if she would even believe me. “I just thought she cute, and I have always been good with kids, I didn’t mean to stress you or your mother, or make a mess. “

I didn’t want to continue defending my strange behavior, so I changed the subject. “I forgot about an appointment I have today after school, so I can’t make it to get that paper going.” I could see the disappointment in her face, “ I will send my notes with you though. I will make it next time, promise.”

“But we planned this yesterday, what is going on now?” she pestered.

I thought quick, my conversation with my mom gave me an excuse. “ My mom set up an appointment to interview at the hospital, as a candy stripper. I want to look into the medical field.”

With that we split ways and went to our next class. Before school got out I poked my notes into her locker so I didn’t have to face her again.

On my way home a I called the local hospital and got information on candy stripping. They said I could come in anytime to apply. I borrowed the catr when I got home and went straight away. I knew there was nothing I could do for the lady in the white room, but I had to know that she existed… before she became a page in the obituaries.

I pulled in to Valley Hospital and went to the information desk. I never did like hospitals, they called the department they told them why I was here. I hurried up, trying to get a view of each room. The rooms all looked like the one in my dream… White. Sterile White.

I slowed my pace, a little setr off by the familiarity of the the rroms. When I heard a loud beeping. Startled I looked up just in ytime to see a rush of Doctors and nurses push past me. I still am not sure why, but I followed them instead of going to the room I was direscted to.

There they were, all of them. Just like in my dream. The nurses and doctors were performing CPR, the young woman trying to comfort the younger gentlemen. And the older man, pushed away by a nurse from the hand of his dying loved one. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t look away. I felt helpless. I knew this was going to happen, but there was nothing I could have done to prevent it. So why was I seeing these things.

UI didn’t go to the rrom for an interview. Instead I went home, numb. Not wanting to dream again. The fear of seeing it come true. It was a great feeling, saving Laurens sister from a disater… but watching by helpless, but knowing what was to come was such an awful feeling. I decided I was better not knowing, and went to bed, hoping it would be a dreamless night.

Dreams... part 3

I took my time walking home. Trying to remember how many nights I had dreamed about that girl, Lauren’s sister. I knew for certain last night, and the night previous. But I had been trying so hard to tune them out; I couldn’t be sure much past last week. The last dream I recalled before the girl’s was the old man who died in the fire, he had fallen asleep smoking a cigar. But that seemed like at least a week ago.
This was the first time I had seen someone I knew in a dream. It scared me a little, almost like a power I didn’t know how to control. I wondered how many other times I could have prevented the fate of the subjects of my nightmares, and simply failed to see how.
The warm air seemed too thick, I felt like I was breathing fog. The dense heat seemed to be making my breathing difficult. I looked up at the nearest house, relived to see I was almost home at last. I wanted to go straight to bed, but I had already avoided my mother’s breakfast, there was no getting out of dinner too. I hurried in, poked Jake as I ran upstairs to my room. Jake simply yelled to mom that I was home.
Shortly after mom entered the room. “How was school? Anything exciting happen?”
I thought about trying to tell her about my dreams again, but fearing that she would dismiss it again, I decided against it. “Well we have an assignment due in English on Jane Austen that we are to work on in partners. So I am working with this girl named Lauren. She doesn’t live too far from here. Maybe you know her parents.”
She was looking into my face, but I continued to look down and play with a tie on the quilt my grandmother had made for me. “Her last name is Robertson or Roberson, and she lives just over on Lilac Lane.” I pretended to notice dirty laundry and got up to clean my room. My mom has this penetrating glare, almost like she is willing you to tell her your darkest secrets. I have luckily learned to avoid looking at her, and she has learned when to back off. “So what’s for dinner? I am starving.” I lied, but it would change the subject, and divert her stare.
“Chicken Enchiladas, I better go check them before they burn. Dinner should be ready in about 5.” And with that she was gone.
I laid back down on my bed trying to think of all the other dreams I have had in the past, focusing on the people. There was a blonde lady about 40 who had been shot at the convienence store where she worked. Then the man, older, he had been in the hospital for sometime though. She recalled the house fire once more and crept downstairs where her father kept the newspaper he was finished reading. She pulled out the section with obituaries and scanned them for any familiar faces. To her mild relief she didn’t see any. So she went into the kitchen to eat.
Dinner was uneventful, but seemed to be taking much longer than usual. “So Jake, anything interesting happen to you at school today?” mom attempted to start a conversation.
I tuned out, thinking about who I would dream about tonight. I was mixed up about it a little. On one hand, if I knew them, would there be another chance to save them? But if I didn’t know them, it made it easier to just let it happen.
“Cici? Something on your mind?” My dad always asked with concern, but I knew he could never do anything about it. Mom however would find a way to get involved if she set her mind to it. It was the believing me part I knew she would have a hard time with.
“No I am just tired?” I lied, it was actually the first time in recent years I really felt wide awake.
“Is your homework finished?” mom had to chime in; she always was the more responsible one.
“Yep, I finished it at Laurens house remember?” Lie number two.
I finished eating and hurried up to my room, got ready for bed, but just laid there, awake starring at the ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep. It was the first time sleep didn’t come easily for me, so I tried once again to recall as many people I had dreamt about over the last few months.
The night’s dreams where somewhat uneventful once again. It was a sterile white room. My first thought was heaven, until I heard the monitors beeping in the corner. There was a middle age women lying still in the middle, it was her body that was controlling the beeping of the monitors. There were people around her, an older man with graying hair, but still fairly handsome, sat close at her side holding her hand, talking to her gently. Further back a young lady wiped her saltwater stained face with a paper tissue, her nose and eyes red and irritated, she patted the young man next to her, holding him close, not saying a word. The young man was trying to be tough, but you could see the strain as he fought back the tears that wouldn’t come.
I awoke envisioning the woman in the bed, I wanted a clear picture in my mind so I could find her, knowing I would not be able to save her, it was a medical issue, not an accident, and I was not a doctor.
I showered, dressed in my gym clothes and went down to breakfast. I ate slowly glancing at the newspaper sections as dad discarded them. I snatched up the obituaries, and looked casually for the familiar face. Then realized it was far too soon. She may not have even passed away yet.
“What would I have to do to be a candy striper?” perhaps if I was right there in the hospital I would be able to do something to help people I see. Mom was looking at me strange, “I heard it looks good on college applications” I quickly added. She always was looking out for my college education, and was impressed when I was too.
“What’s a candy striper?” Jake looked like he was hiding something, he only ever seemed interested when he was trying to distract from something he was doing wrong.
“A volunteer to talk to patients and help people who are in the hospital for long periods of time.” She answered Jake looking at me the whole time; it was that stare of hers at work. “So what made you consider doing that?”
“I just thought it would be something to do after school, my homework load isn’t too bad here, and I thought this would be a good chance to look at a medical career.” I concentrated on quickly finishing my breakfast and getting out of there. I could feel my mother stare all the way to school.

Dreams...part 2

Monday morning and the alarm was blaring, my most recent dream fresh on my mind. A young child, only 3 or 4, climbed up a book shelf, and it tipped. I was glad I usually woke up before I saw too many details of the tragedy, especially when it came to kids. I showered and got dressed for the day. The clean smell of the laundry seemed to comfort me, helping me feel a little better about my previous dream.
When I went down for breakfast mom was feeding my brother Jake breakfast. “Morning, Cici. Want some pancakes?” Mom was always an overachiever, making big breakfasts, and making certain that we had every opportunity available to us. Her face and hair already done, she looked more like my sister than my mother.
“I’m not hungry” I looked up at mom, concern crossing her face. “I’ll eat a good lunch, promise!” I grabbed my bag and headed out the door.
I had only lived in Arizona a couple months, and it still didn’t feel like home. The other students were nice enough, but I hadn’t made any real friends. They all seemed to keep to them selves and travel around in their own private communities. Year round summer was still an adjustment after Utah’s obvious changes in seasons. I had been angry with my parents at first over the move, but I was also old enough to realize it was a great opportunity for my father. My mom no longer worked, which was why she seemed too overdue it lately, and with the move I was able to increase my summer wardrobe out of necessity.
After the first day I walked to school, I was one of the few seniors who didn’t have a car, and walking was better than a mom who dropped you off. As I approached my gym class, the worst class to have first, I noticed one of the girls in my English class pointing in my direction. Trying not to take notice I simply walked faster. I learned it was easier to come already in my gym clothes and change after, one less change in the day I figured. I had always been fairly athletic, not the team captain of anything, but I did earn our team a few soccer trophies. I went into the gymnasium and ran a few laps before the first bell rang, when I joined the rest of my class coming out of the locker room. After enduring the lecture on weight lifting safety we paired up with a partner for spotting. I had helped my dad lift weights back home, but never did it my self, I preferred running, but I would go to the gym with dad, and help spot him after I ran my laps.
“Got a partner yet?” I jerked my head around to see who had asked me, slightly surprised to see the girl who had earlier been pointing and laughing at me.
“Nope, need one?” I walked toward the nearest vacant bench and began adding small weights on either end. “I’m Cici” I know I had heard her name in class before, but it never mattered until now, I hoped she would tell me her name.
“Lauren, Want to go first?” She stepped behind the bars I had just weighted, “So how long have you been in AZ?”
“A couple months” I sat on the seat, hoping I didn’t add too much weight for myself, I never did have great upper body strength. As I pushed up the bars I grunted, avoiding eye contact with Lauren. I would have felt better had I known why she had pointed at me.
As if reading my thoughts she spoke in between reps. “I am sorry if I made you uncomfortable this morning, Abby just laughed at you wearing Gym clothes to school, but now I see why.”
I tried to appear unaffected by this comment but it still bothered me, but not as much as the fact that I seemed to know her, from somewhere else. The rest of class we just talked about different classes, and she realized we had English next period together as well.
Lauren and I walked to class together; I changed out of my gym clothes quickly so I could blend. Lauren had been the closest thing to a friend I had.
English was boring as ever, I had read the assigned reading the year before back in Utah, but I didn’t bother telling the teacher, I just figured it would be less homework. I looked around the room, to see where Lauren was sitting; she was to the right and behind me.
“What to you think Austen means by this, Celine?”
I jumped snapping my head to the teacher. “Perhaps she is simply expressing the dire circumstances of single women in her time.”
“Very good”. I tried to suppress a grin; with Austen she was generally making some statement about the state of affairs for women in that time. “This week I want you to work in partners and expand on this”. With the plan of partners I sunk into my chair. I never did like partner work, especially when you don’t know anyone.
Lauren tapped my shoulder and her hand shot into the air. “Can I work with Cici?”
“You may choose on your own, or if you find you haven’t got a partner I will place you in a group.”
“Come home with me tonight and we can get it done.” It seemed more of an order than a request, but a friend was something I felt I was lacking, and didn’t want to turn down.
After school, Lauren found me. I had spent the last couple periods looking to see if she was in my other classes too, she just seemed too familiar.
As we walked home she filled me in on all the different people to know and avoid at the school. There were boys who had been wearing school tees; they were the basketball team, trying to promote team spirit for the first game. Then the cheerleaders were the ones in red, they always seemed to match for one cause or another. I had never been much of the cheering type, but I took mental notes in case I ever needed to know school pride information.
“So when are the soccer try-outs?” she stopped walking when I asked that. “You play soccer too? Oh we are going to have a great team this year, our freshman are better than ever so we have a good team to fall back on if needed. We lost last year simply because our goalkeeper last year got injured early on.”
We got to her house, a house I knew I had been in before. I knew where to hang my bag and take off my shoes; I even knew that her mom had just made cookies, chocolate oatmeal. Puzzled I asked to use the phone to let my mom know where I was. That is when it hit me how I knew where we were. As I walked to the phone I saw her, the little girl I dreamed about last night. “Who is that?” I asked without thinking and followed her into the den. I had never made myself so at home in a new friends house, but I knew what was going to happen, I was drawn to watching this child. As I followed her into the den she was already by that familiar bookcase, climbing towards the top shelf with movies. Before I knew it I was running towards the bookcase reaching for her. As I approached the case slowly seemed to pull away from the wall. I grabbed under her arms just as the movies clattered onto the hard floor seconds before the loud thud of the case.
Lauren and her mother rushed in seconds after I had pulled the girl from the tipping bookcase, screaming she reached for her mother.
“Oh, my , What happened? How did you get her?” Lauren’s mother was crying now too. Lauren just stood there starring at me. She was the only one who saw my curious behavior as I entered her house for the first time, but knowing where everything was.
But it was then I looked around and realized what had really just happened. I had entered my dream, the one from the night before. There would be no news story no tragedy of a girl killed by a falling bookcase. It was there I had seen Lauren so intimately in her own home. I had seen her mother push her strand of hair out of her face the night before, only moments before racing to the aid of her injured 3 year old.
“I better get home, can we do this tomorrow, then I can warn my mother where I will be, I bet she is worried about me.”
Lauren just stood there. “Thank you, but how did you know to follow her? There wasn’t even a phone in there. I was taking you into the kitchen, and then you were gone. “Suddenly she seemed to come back to the present, but she looked at me a little differently, like she wasn’t sure if she could trust me. “Sure tomorrow then. See you tomorrow.”

Xmas

Intro: I was depressed last Christmas (big surprise) but I wanted to write about it... so this is what I wrote about. I want to edit it and try to submit it to one of the magazines that publish Christmas stories each year... but it is a little personal so I am not sure if I am ready to yet...



I started this year off like I did any year at the holiday season. Planning gifts to who, watching the ads for good deals on the items my children where most likely to ask for, watching for stores that did lay a way. But there were a few extra stressors that had added to the usual holiday stress. It would be the first holiday since I lost my mother. My mother was one who knew how to do the holidays. It was always our window you looked through into the best holiday party. Our perfect tree surrounded with the perfect amount of gifts. Every neighbor, teacher, friend was not forgotten. Even as a grandmother she would make certain that her grandkids had the perfect Christmas... even if she had to help us pile it under the tree. We had our traditions that she would not let go forgotten, and would give us an extra bonus if it was needed. Now Dad was great too, never missed an event, and has taken off work to be at every elementary grandparents day, but I don’t think he will ever truly know how much time and money went into my mothers holidays.

I had already been preparing my self mentally for my kids sake as well as my brothers and sisters sake. I knew the first year would be hard, but come it would. I just didn’t realize that it would be met with other challenges as well.

It was a hard year for the economy. My husband had been at a job he enjoyed and was good at as a mechanic for the past year, and I had been substitute teaching since I had my youngest child 8 years ago. This year my husbands company filed for bankruptcy after not making payroll 2 months in a row. My job was steady, but it only just covered our house and car payments plus utilities. It was then I began resenting the holidays.

The week before Thanksgiving I was trying to plan how it would work. I sat gazing out the window as it began to snow. Thoughts of a previous Christmas came back to me. It was only a couple years before. It had been a true Christmas miracle. My husband had quit his job and decided to try a new business. It had been going well... but with the holidays it seemed everyone was trying avoid unnecessary expenses. We were working once again about the holidays. Late one night only a week before Christmas there was a knock at the door. Te kids were still up and beat me there. But no one was there. Only a small pile of gifts. The Santa Clause Movie, a sign with a single word and a small package. The kids were excited and looked around trying to see who had left it, while my husband and opened the package. It was a gift card to the local department store, for a thousand dollars. I began crying uncontrollably my husband were speechless. My children popped in the movie unaware of the miraculous gift. We had a great Christmas that year I thought to myself as I turned and looked at the sign we had received that year. Believe.
Why was such a simple instruction so hard to follow? Believe. I stood up and began to get back to planning our Thanksgiving dinner. We were all meeting at my dad’s for the big meal. I was grateful my husband had taken the time to learn to cook from my mom since I never had the desire. She had been a great cook. Stomach aches of goodies were always waiting for us at home over the holidays. Cranberry bread, toffee, fudge shortbread. I had learned to make shortbread, it was the easiest. Thanksgiving came and went. We all ate too much the cousins played and we reflected on my mom’s life, and how ours would be different without her. Once again after surviving yet another holiday without her I felt more prepared to attack the next one.

The first week of December my husband met me for lunch, nothing out of the ordinary, but he was quiet. He had donated blood at a drive a couple weeks before. They had found some abnormalities and sent it in for further testing. They found signs of cancer and wanted him to come in for further testing. The rest our evening was too quiet. My mother had passed so quickly from her cancer it was the worry neither of us dared voice.

That night I sat and reflected once again on past Holidays. The year I had been pregnant with my youngest we had just moved and my husband had started a new job. My mom had started me collecting Barbies when I was younger and had kept every single box, hoping they may be worth something one day. My husband had collect baseball cards since his youth and had quite a collection of baseball memorabilia. Our girls and oldest son were the appropriate ages for these 2 new hobbies and we wrapped our special possessions for their new owners. I am certain that those barbies mint in box were not nearly worth the hours of smiles and joy they gave my girls. Nor will those baseball cards ever be able to cover our retirement, but they certainly gave my son his love of baseball.

With my husband being ill, and my mom being gone I learned to paint my face with a smile every morning for my children regardless of the battle going on in my head. As a mother I knew I had to provide my children with some kind of material Christmas. But as a wife I had larger concerns engulfing my thoughts. My husband too sick to look for a job, our budget to stretched to Christmas shop, I got another job.

It was in a home furnishing store, and I enjoyed it, I did however feel like I was missing out on my time with my kids, but it was a needed sacrifice at the time. On quiet days I found my mind wishing for the better years of Christmas we had. Like the first year I discovered lay-a-way. I was finished before November. Every child had exactly what the wanted and I had plenty of money for eery last minute thing that came up. Or the year where we had a friend who owned a small toy store able to give us a great price on large toys we never would have been able to get otherwise. It was then I realized that materialistic Christmas side was winning the war in my head. The year my husband had returned home from the army, to me his pregnant wife. Issues with his pay making it home to me cut Christmas shopping down drastically. A member of our church knew my predicament and had a young man in the church wanting to do a service project. He had earned money and wanted to do a “sub for santa” I could not believe a teenager good be so generous at this time of year, and decided then that I was going to be certain to raise our son that generous.

The flow of traffic increased and I got back to work, my last thoughts wondering if my I had raised my children to be generous. I didn’t realize I would get my answer after work. My daughter had been babysitting that evening and we returned home nearly the same time. After putting the younger two children to bed my oldest daughter pulled out her money for her babysitting job and gave it to me. “To help with Christmas” she said with a smile. “Goodnight” I was speechless. I had tried not to involve my kids in my stress, they needed time to be kids right? But I guess they are smarter than we think, because she knew, knew without me saying anything. That night the first big snow hit. My youngest son woke excited for it, so did my oldest son. My youngest couldn’t find his snow clothes fast enough, neither could the oldest. They both disappeared for a couple hours outside and both returned covered in snow and cold. After warming them up with hot chocolate my oldest son pulled me aside, “Hey I earned 45$ shoveling snow, use it for what ever you still need for Christmas. I just need a little more towards Dad’s present.”

In the week before Christmas we were in and out of doctors offices, biopsies, blood work, lab tests all became a blur. Because regardless of all the signs that had been flashed in my face about the true meaning of Christmas, I was still trapped in the commercial world of Christmas. I fought with my husband, I yelled at my Children, I think I even pushed the dog away, stubborn blind me missed how much my friends, family, even people I hardly knew cared about me. I worried that I was becoming another charity case, someone who always had to rely on others to help her out. Instead I finally realized that my favorite part of the holidays, were everyone’s favorite part too. I loved planning what I would get family and friends, I couldn’t help but smile bigger when I was able to drop a handful of change in the bell ringers jar. I had almost more fun shopping for an unknown 4 year old girl off a Christmas tree than I did for my own 12 year old girl. And while I was not able to help contribute financially to others Christmas, in a small way I helped them feel the spirit of the holidays, even if it was just accepting help.

After the final follow-up before my husband was to start the treatment for the cancer we returned home before my children were out of school. Sitting on our porch were 5 large garbage bags full. Presents for each of my children were loaded in those bags. Things they had asked for, things they would like, more than I could have hoped to been able to provide. Because with my extra job, I had no time, with my husband being sick he had no time. We had enough income to cover our basics and a little more. But I realized I had enough friends to cover all my shortcomings, and I hope I can return the favor if ever needed.


I feel like this Christmas, while tough, it has opened my eyes to how wonderful people are, how generous my kids are, how selfish I had been. I got through our first Christmas without mom with a constant waterfall in my eyes, but I think she was there. She helped me be open to help. My husband starts treatment for his cancer the beginning of the year, and it is treatable, the Doctors are all optimistic. I am still working hard and my husband starts a new job after the new year, while his business while small is slowly building. I still like nothing more than sitting by the fire sipping hot chocolate and admiring my sign from the angel I will never know. I believe.

Why I Write...

Intro: We had to write an essay telling why we write, and while I could come up with the standard answers, to express myself, etc. I had never really given it much thought until this assignment. I felt like I found myself as a writer through this assignment.





Writing to me is a type of release, a way to let go of feelings, thoughts, and frustrations I may feel with things going on in my life at the time. To me it is a safe expression of my thoughts, disguised in fiction. Giving me a chance to express my views uninterrupted, and completely. I can question ways of life, or someone’s actions, without intruding on them, and without them interrupting me. I can explore aspects of life that are foreign to me. Discover more about myself through how I see things in my writing.
Through writing we leave our mark in life, whether it is just for the enjoyment of our family and friends to pass around, or perhaps we may be skilled enough to be published for a much larger audience, who familiarize themselves and can relate to our writing.
I can then go back and recall how I felt with each sample of writing. Reading what I have written helps me examine different feelings without always acting on those emotions. That is one of the reasons we read other writers stories, so we can learn form their experiences without having to go through it our self.
Through writing we don’t have to have gone through the life as a woman in Jane Austen’s time. We can read about how she felt as she expressed it in her writings. We don’t have to be a detective to try to solve a murder. We can empathize with the loss of a loved one through someone’s writing before we have to experience it for oneself. We can learn so much about our self from what we read. What we choose to read, and how we respond is what enhances our personality. In the same way that knowing what a person reads gives you a little bit of an insight into who that person may be. For example, someone who is a great Emily Bronte fan gives you an idea of a romantic, classic person. While an eager Stephen King fan creates an image of a completely different person. Literature tells a story, not only in itself, but through who reads it, and how we study it. We could study Jane Austen for how it still applies in today’s society, or as a clue into life in the eighteenth century woman. We still study Shakespeare for a variety of reasons, for his language skills, for his diversity, able to create tragic plays, as well as comedic. But I think one think we admire all these writers for is their longevity, the way they have made a mark in the world. While writing is major form of creative expression, deep down every writer would love a chance to leave behind something of their creative work.
In learning to improve my writing, I hope to be able to make it not only bearable for those I ask to read it, but enjoyable. I love being able to express my thoughts not only well but in a way that makes your eye eager to move across the page, and swallowing the words with ease, not struggling to digest their meaning. I think while improving your writing you are able to interpret what you read with a much greater ease and understanding. In taking a fiction writing class, I have already noticed that improvement. You can see in your works where you need to improve, as well as what should be left unchanged. You are able to translate your thoughts onto the paper into a work of art. I have always loved the beauty of carefully chosen words as they decorate the page, inviting one into the writers mind.
I think the biggest part of being a writer is the willingness. The willingness to open up that which is so personal, on many levels, to a larger audience. To be able push the boundaries of writing and leave the mark of your words, and beliefs on those blank and inviting pages is one of the most terrifying ideas to me. You open yourself up to criticism and put-downs that even the toughest of people wouldn’t be able to stand up to. And yet we as writers are up to the challenge, and face it bravely. Writers have throughout time have had to overcome rejection after rejection. Because rarely can someone simply happen to be good at writing. I think it takes practice, and perseverance to become a great writer, why should it be any different from any other career?
The purpose of great literature is to explore the use of language to communicate ones thoughts and views on a subject. So I write as a form of communicating my views. I write to express my thoughts. I write as a release, a release of emotions that seem to build up, to the point that it is too much to keep it in, and to speak them would simply jumble them into a point of confusion. Writing gives me the opportunity to separate my thoughts before communicating them to my readers.

Dreams... part 1

Intro: I have been working on this novel for almost 3 years now. I am pretty sure where I want it to go and how I want it to finish. I just need time to work on it, and maybe some encouragement to finish it. Because I am truly motivated my friends opinions I would like to start posting chapters on here as I complete them, and get your feedback on them. I am trying to finish up a little more on this story then I will begin to post it. I you read it will you just post a comment, good or bad, just so I know what interest, if any there is.





Rain, again. It was the middle of July and it was raining for the third day in a row and not a quick summer shower, pouring buckets of rain, like it would in early spring. The streets were soaked; the gutters had rivers flowing in them. Some of the neighborhood boys had made boats out of newspaper and were racing them on either side of the street, splashing water into the paper ships- their captains ranting incoherent slurs. She was driving, not intending to splash the young sea men. She shrugged and mouthed an unheard apology, then turned to smile admiring the young toddler in the back seat. Attempting to watch both the road and the child. In the rear view mirror. She refocused her attention to the road, when the cell phone rang She jumped as she reached to answer it. A quick glance at the ID told her what she already knew. “I am on my way!” she exclaimed. “I doubt you’re the last one.” She replied after a brief pause. “It took longer than I planned. You won’t be late, see you in a min…WHOA!” the phone fell just out of reach under her pedals. A car had pulled out cutting her off and in the wet rain she skidded to a halt as she checked the rear view again for the condition of the child. After catching her breath she bent down for the phone hearing the muffled panic on the other end. “I am ok, just slick roads is ahhh—“she dropped the phone again. She had neglected to check the road in the mirror she had so carefully been watching the child in, a semi truck was sliding directly into her van, and the screech of the brakes drown out by the pounding of the rain. And her pounding heart. As it hit a small explosion startled me awake.
I screamed until my mother ran in- I was 7, it was the first nightmare I remembered. I remembered it because later that day I was watching TV with my father and the news anchor told about a wreck in the rain that very day, as they showed the picture of the women killed in a tragic car accident with her child, I knew her. It was the lady from my dream.
Dreams are funny things. Once in a while they are silly with fantastic things happening to you, and you wake laughing wondering where the bizarre images came from. Other times they wake you in a cold sweat, unsure whether or not it was real. Mine however are real. They remind me of the soap operas my mother used to watch, every episode ending with a cliffhanger. My dreams however don’t always “return after these messages” It is as if someone has changed the channel. Starting on a new series, with new characters. It was that night at age seven I realized they were real. To avoid the terror I felt when I realized what I had dreamed had become a reality, mom made me stop watching the news with my dad. I don’t think she ever believed why it made me so upset, she was just tired of trying to calm me down for bed each night. I realized at some point there was not anything I could do about it, and just tried to forget the dreams in the morning.

Poem

Sitting here, late at night
wondering what I want to write.
I have tried but cannot sleep
In my head these words all creep
Dancing in my thoughts and dreams
ready to burst from the seams
Decorating every page
as I let them leave their cage
My mind has finally set them free
So others now these words can see
I write these letters in my head
Hoping they reflect the things I've read
So readers can learn more of me
And see the carefree words I see

Time

Inttro: So this story had been an assignment I kept putting off til it was the morning it was due. I was tired of hearing the clock tick... so I wrote about it. Nothing else seemed to come, until I let in a little truth to the writing. Then it came in a flood... small hints of my real life mixed with complete fiction. I wrote this a little more than a moth before my own mother had passed... not even knowing she had been sick. After I wrote it, my mother was diagnosed with leukemia and we lost her 4 days later. With much more truth to this story, I had to edit it and finish it for a school assignment... I did very minimal, and it was the hardest editing I have ever done. I am quite pleased with this story, and really like it. I just find it so odd how I somehow knew wat was to happen, before it did. I did however talk to my mother, not as often as I would have liked, but I did talk to her, unlike in my story. But if you do read this, please remember it is fiction.




The clock echoed, tick tock. It seemed to be growing much louder every minute. The letter had to be finished soon, and I had not even started. I sank deep into the cushions of the couch, a fixture like a decorative pillow. The remains of last nights fast food still tempted my nose to get up, do something else. Tick, tock. The clock was the unwelcome reminder that time was running out, the image of an hourglass flashed into my mind but I refused to look up at the telling face.
I had been given ample time, and yet my body sat tense waiting for news that may never come. I knew it needed to be done, but instead I sat, writing and rewriting, not liking anything that decorated the page.
The idea of not doing it had crossed my mind many times but now it seemed to come back even more insistently, but I knew I would feel better if I would just write it.
Tick tock.
Why had this letter been so hard to write? I had known since I told she was no longer welcome at my house I was going to write it. It was time to give her my reasons. I had made my choices. She needed to trust my judgement, and trust how she had raised me. But if I wanted to write it, it had to be now.
“Wow, have you been working on this all night?” He was usually encouraging, except when it took time away from him and his plans.
“Yes, but I think I am finally able to say what I need to” I quickly erased the tear that had slipped out of the corner of my eye, hoping he didn’t notice, but of course he had.
“Is it really that hard?” he laughed at his joke, the forced laugh, the one that he did to make certain I knew he was teasing. He had always tried to make light of the situation, it was after all he who had been accused.
Then came the downpour. My emotions were never far, especially when I wanted them to be. I tried to wipe them away and just keep up with my letter, but it was too late, he now felt the need to play the sympathetic husband, a role he never did well, but he always tried to. He sat down and reached his arm around me.
The grandfather clock chimed. I could see it startled him, but just enough to give him an excuse to finish his pampering and go back to what he was previously doing, forcing me to get back to the letter.
I had been feeling the need to write her for a while now, I still didn’t care to talk to her, but I needed to write her. Make her understand.
It had been seven years since had talked to my mother. It had been my choice to stop communication, a decision I had regretted many times. Looking back it was the right choice, for myself and my family.
But now she was dying, the woman who I had once been so close to, sharing everything personal. She was there for the birth of all my children, helping out every chance she could . . . til she betrayed me.
I can still recall the day, spring saturated the air, working hard to do devour the frost bitten ground. We had been at the park, the first trip of the year. The kids were bundled, but layers kept appearing at my feet, the children insisting it was warm now. It was then my mother had chosen to tell me what she had done.
It had been the week previous, the knock on the door. The strangers, wanting to question my children, alone. Then the flood of questions. What had happened? Do we fight in front of the kids? How often are there arguments? As the questions sprayed me unexpectedly, my thoughts raced to find someone who would call. She had never crossed my mind.
I hadn’t even brought it up with her, embarrassed that someone would think that of my husband.
“I just wanted to make sure they were ok. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
Still seven years later I couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t have come to me first. But it had been long enough and I needed to have some closure.
The clock chimed again, and still I hadn’t written much more than the beginning. “Mom, I feel like I need to let you know why your actions had hurt me, so that we can start talking once again.” I reread it, deleteing more once again. How do you apologize for something you don’t regret? I knew I needed to, if something happened before I could apologize, I would never forgive myself.
I looked at the coffee table, and got up to clear the table tossing the remains of last nights dinner. It could have waited, but it gave me the necessary moment to reorganize my thoughts.
I went back to the imprint I had left in the couch, just as I was about to replace it I heard the kids stirring. I didn’t want them to see what I was working on. I never had told them the reason we avoided visiting grandma.
“Hurry up and get ready for school, you don’t want to be late!” I changed the screen on the computer. As I hurried my kids along, I got myself ready for the day, another stall tactic. I showered washing away the wasted night, preparing for a fresh start at the letter.
The children were out the door, I waved them on their way. As I came back into the house my husband was getting ready to leave, he leaned over and kissed my forehead. “Don’t over think it, the right things to say will come, and she will understand?”
I just smiled at him, words were unable to form as I pushed the tears back as best I could.
He left. The door clinked shut just as the clock chimed, and I became aware once again of the continuous ticking.
Tick, tock.
I sat down preparing once again to take on the letter. As the page returned, I felt my hands glide over the keys. The words seemed to finally have found me.
I stood up and called the hospital to verify the room number. The tick from the clock seemed to drown out the elevator music on the other end of the line. At some point I think I counted 57 ticks. The voice on the other line shook a little with hesitation. I hung up the phone, and once again occupied the well-worn sofa. I had been too late. She had passed late last night. Random tears escaped from the creases in my tired eyes.
I don’t remember hearing the clock.

Bully

Intro:This story was written from an event with my son. It had happened as it did in the story, he being the one called on to fight. But in the twist, he had made the kid cry. I couldn’t understand why someone would choose to just fight, neither did he. So I wrote down what had happened from my son’s POV. But I still didn’t like it. I wanted to know more why, and that is when the other POV came into the story.





I hadn’t been in a fight before junior high, not a real one anyway. But even then I never intended on it. I was accustomed to being mistaken for an older student, and it never bothered me, I think it saved me from getting picked on up until now. It was a bit of a struggle trying to make it to each class. Through the swarm of students, you couldn’t help but hit or be hit by someone or something.

Tony said to just pick someone, just random, someone easy going, not for a popular crowd, after all that is who you are trying to impress. Don’t pick on someone that other people always pick on, then you just come off as a bully. “But I’m just tired of being the one picked on, just teah me some moves.”
Then he gave me that lecture about dog eat dog, and told me to just do what he says. “Pick someone you can take on in a fight, Act like he started it, then he will be the one to back down. The best opportunity would be during a class change, in the hall no on knows who bumped who, and you could throw the blame on whoever.” So I did what he said I had to do. Tony said it was how he got through school, act tough once with one of the bigger guys and they will know you demand respect. Tony never did graduate, but no one ever picked on him.
He was taller than some most of the kids our age, but lurpy. I thought I could stand up to him if I had too, so I called him out. I was tired of still being called shrimp or riff raff, and being kicked, or pushed every chance they got. It was like some joke to pick on the small kid. So I asked Tony how he made it through school, without getting harassed. Tough Voice he said, if I wanted to be tough, I had to be intimidating, or they won’t take you seriously. He just brushed my shoulder. “What is your problem?” I stared down at the back of his head. There was no reaction. Tony used to call out names to cars that pissed him off, “You think you’re special? Tough? I could take you Easy…PUSSY!” So I called him out, I hoped he would just back down, thinking I was tough. But my stomach ached as I saw him close up now. Would I be able to take him in a fight? I was scared.

Over the crowd, after a particularly rough stretch some one called over the crowd. “What’s your PROBLEM?” It was the better part of a minute before I realized he was addressing me. “You think you’re special? Tough? I could take you Easy…Pussy!” He wasn’t scrawny, average, but with his mouth you would have thought he was a senior awaiting graduation, like no one could touch him.
My mom always said I was kind hearted – the idea of picking on another person never occurred to me. “L...l...look “I stuttered, “I’m gonna be late” I turned to hurry to class.
“We’ll finish this later” I heard the foreboding threat echoing down the hall. I couldn’t think of anything else for the rest of the day, finish what exactly?

He finally stopped and looked around for me, “Look… I’m gonna be late.” He turned, leaving like it was over. I looked around quick, checking if people were watching. Not really, I had to make a point.
“We’ll finish this later!” My insides felt like they would burst. If I could have gone home sick I would, but then when I returned tomorrow, I would still be pushed around. I regretted is already. I hurried to class. Mr. Longcastle was going on about the parts of a frog.
I pretended to take the notes like the rest of the class, but I was making my own instead. I listed off every fight movie I had seen. Rocky was on top. I could picture every swing, aimed just right, although you didn’t know how precise they were til the end of the fight. But they were able to keep fighting, even when they took a hit. After listing the movies, I made notes of how they punched, the street fights seemed the most effective, but they always had a knife handy. I made a note to grab the pocket knife Tony left in his dresser when I got home.
When the final bell rang, I asked some of the big guys I knew to help me out. I couldn’t really consider them friends, they had picked on me before, but they never missed a good fight.

I had glanced at the clock; I could hear the echo of every tick. I focused on my paper.
“Cliff Howard” I had managed nothing but my name.
Mrs. Norris looked at my paper. I hoped she would tell me to see her after class. “Better hurry if you don’t want homework.”
I did my best to get through a couple more of the math problems we were assigned. I even did one wrong so I could go to her for help, but I didn’t hear anything she told me. I just nodded and returned to my desk.
The bell rang- I slowly went through everything in my back pack, throwing out old papers, rearranging folders, until I was sure it could not be cleaned any better. I headed to my locker, making a point to stop by every locker I knew; I even waited by a couple hoping to find something to talk about. I considered bringing friends with me, but what if I had exaggerated the whole thing; after all I hadn’t done anything intentional.
I left the building dragging my toes, watching as new scuff marks appeared with every step. Then I noticed other pairs of feet approaching. I looked up at Marcus, wishing for an excuse to go back inside, when I was pushed from behind,
“What is your problem?” He had brought reinforcements, which pushed me again. He just smirked as he came up and pushed me again.
“You!”

They followed me to the place were we had seen many fights break out at the school. “If you wanna push him around a little, warm him up for me, I’d appreciate it” I joked, but not really.
There he was looking down as I got close he looked up.
“What is your Problem?”
I had no problem with him, but I couldn’t tell him that, how would I look in front of these people who came for a fight? I watched the big kids push him at me, ready to watch a fight.
“YOU”
As I went to step in, he swung. He wasn’t the lanky kid I had picked out earlier. He stepped in and grabbed me, I tried to get back, but I was too busy avoiding his knee. I thought I had caught my break when his grip loosened once more, my body hung limp while I caught my breath holding the aching left side. I took a deep breath when I felt a rock hit my jaw, I gasped in pain, backing up I tried to get away. Tony hadn’t prepared me for this.

Dad and I had always wrestled. He was an Army Brat, who had boxed around with his dad. He wanted me to always be ready for a fight if it arose. It was fun with him, he would tell me where to hit for the most impact, how to pin them most effectively, and most important, how to get out of any pin, ready to fight again. Dad always said he would support me if I fought, as long as I didn’t start it- but I had to finish it.
Marcus pushed me again, his cronies pushing me back at him.
I decided to utilize dad’s advice. Grabbing his shoulders, I bent him down aiming my knees for his kidney; Dad said that a hard knee to the kidney should drop him. Easing up on my grip I felt him hang lower, I swung my arm back upper cutting him in the jaw. His back-up group understood a fair fight. I began to wind up for another swing when I heard it- weeping.
I let go and backed away, he was holding his gut crying- I hadn’t wanted to injure anyone, hadn’t he started it?

I tried to think as I wiped what felt like blood pouring off my face, later I looked in the mirror and when there was no red to be found I realized they had been tears. I made myself look up to him, something to show him I wasn’t beaten. But then I saw the group I had brought with me leaving. I should have expected it, but it was still hard to see. I thought of my list of movies searching for a good come back line, one I could possibly recover with, even if not today.
“This isn’t over”
I thought about what I was going to tell mom had happened. I didn’t want to come to school tomorrow, but she would be suspicious when I say I am sick, after looking forward to today. Then I thought of Tony, how could I face him, I couldn’t even follow his simple advice. Would he laugh at me, or help me come up with another plan? I couldn’t leave it alone, not after my final comment.
“This isn’t over”

He backed towards the school, his allies scattered, some support group. Then I heard him, “This isn’t over!” At first I laughed to myself thinking I had won, but I had envisioned victory as feeling better than this, I ached. Sure I had teased and hurt my sister before, I had even given my Dad a bloody nose, but not like this. I had hurt him, made him cry in front of his friends, had it been a fair fight?
I worried about the consequences, would I be in the principal’s office by first period tomorrow? How would I be looked at by my friends now? I never wanted to be seen as a bully- But I wasn’t going to get picked on either.
I took my time getting home. I wasn’t sure how to tell Dad so I could ensure he would still back me up.
As I got home thinking at least it was over, when I remembered Marcus’s parting words. This isn’t over…