Author: Tortuous Tales

Writer of fiction and non-fiction short stories and poems. Author of fantasy books for children and adults. Tortuous Tales is my space to create short stories and poems. Short stories of fantasy, science fiction, or memoir, and occasionally on the challenges of writing . And then, the odd poem. Welcome to Tortuous Tales.

How To Rule the World

20171219_214635

Thin, brown hair tops his head. On Jacob’s face rests his black-rimmed glasses allowing him to read the gospel on a sunny, fall day on a brown bench overlooking water. With a book placed in his hands he reads the lines with the utmost concentration. There are truths written in the book and if he follows each step, HE WILL RULE THE WORLD!  

Father is disappointed in him, mother too. He is twenty-four years old and is a failure in most aspects of his life both professionally and personally. An unfinished degree; a degree that is a blatant reminder of its incompletion in the way he left when he woke one morning in his fourth year and decided not to write the scheduled exam that day. He opted instead to pack his knapsack with clothes, and booked a last minute ticket to one of the oldest cities in Europe: London.

The cost for the ticket and the first few months of expenses was paid through a part time job that he held while attending University. His parents funded his tuition and living expenses, and his part-time job was his “play” money. Turns out, he was good at penny-pinching and had socked away quite a bit in the “play fund.”

His parents didn’t seem to mind footing the bill for his education given that he ranked in the 95th percentile on the Law School Admissions Test, and had an overall GPA of 3.8. The combination of the impressive LSAT score and GPA meant he had his pick of law schools.

A genius, his mother beamed at him with pride.

He was the genius who carelessly walked away from it all.

A phone call this morning with Mom, she asked again, did you plan to leave all along? To just quit?

The answer comes swiftly to him as she’s asked the same question so many times: No, I didn’t. I just didn’t know if I wanted to become a lawyer anymore. Or, if I ever did. He says as his voice trails off in remorse.

It occurs to him suddenly, she might not have known that last part. He never mentioned it before.

It’s what you always talked about Jacob! We just supported you in what we thought you wanted to do! She says in a shrill voice with exasperation.

Mom’s working day would have just ended. She works as an Executive Assistant at the General Hospital. He can see her standing in the kitchen as he remembers her when he lived at home. She would be wearing high heels, a skirt, and a blouse as she clutches her cell phone to her ear with arms folded in front of her, defensively. The blazer she wore to work would be flung aside on a nearby couch. The knife she used to dice vegetables until Jacob called, lies on the cutting board. It sits there ready for her to resume the preparation of dinner once their call is over. She loved onion and garlic and threw it in most foods and for that reason, the combination of the aroma of these two vegetables would linger in the air of his childhood home.

I know. I know… He says in short spurts with an edge of frustration.

The late autumn sun is cool and with the breeze, it gives him a chill as he wonders: why did I want to become a lawyer?

Mom is right. He was the first one who talked about law school.

Why?

He knows the answer, but is too embarrassed to admit it.

He knew it would make his parents happy. And he always tried to make them happy. But after he left, he wanted to do things differently.

And he did. 

London. Five feet six inches, short, blonde, bob haircut, blue-eyed Elsie breathed into his ear the first night he arrived in the city as he stumbled his way into Adventure Bar.

Elsie.

Sure, he had been with other women. There was Victoria, his long-time girlfriend during University. He saw Victoria in first year astronomy class. Vibrant red hair, freckles dotted her nose, green eyes, and a voluptuous figure. Their first time in his dorm room he remembers well; he grabbed her breasts as his lips opened and his tongue searched for hers.  Initially, he couldn’t get enough of her; legs tightened around him encouraging him to finish. The warmth of Victoria’s breath on him as moans escaped over his lips, drenched in sweat, and he was left satisfied.

But she was less satisfied, and he knew it. In their second year they began arguing over little things: movies, dinner locations, and how often they should get together.  As Victoria became unhappy, she piled on some weight. Her curvy figure became a little heavier as his wandering eye watched other women, comparing.

And he told her. Was it a jerk move? Of course it was. Eventually, sex diminished and was assigned to the Saturday night chore list:

  • Do laundry.
  • Have sex.

In their fourth year, Victoria dropped twenty pounds. While his eyes continued to drift and he flirted with other women, she found a new guy. The guy was his best friend, Gavin. Embarrassingly, as he danced and mingled with other women at Dance Bar 21, Gavin and Victoria snuggled close together in a corner booth one night. He watched them as they talked and laughed into the early morning hours.

He noticed it, but he thought she would never leave him.

He was wrong.

The ultimate comeuppance came on Valentine’s Day – when she sobbed and said: we’re not right for each other. At the time, he didn’t understand why she was crying. She was ending it, not him. The answer so elusive before is clear to him now. It was despite all of his neglect and unkind words, she loved him.

Yes, she was better than him. Happily married for a year now, Gavin told him they are expecting their first child. He’s still friends with them.

Shortly after Elsie and Jacob meet they take the adventure back to his hotel room. What a night it was. Elsie’s soft, red lips on his mouth as she worked her way down his neck; moving down lower still to his chest, abdomen, thighs.  Lips that moved lower still. Elsie was his first one night stand.

What an adventure it was.

Jacob snaps himself back to reality. A small half-smile crosses his lips, eyebrows raised, and he realizes that the solution to, How to Rule the World, is not to spend your days fantasizing about women you’ve been with, or women you may want to be with.  Sex, is the downfall to ruling the world.

As he cracks the spine and turns the page he reads these words….

***

Introduction

If you purchased this book you are on a wayward spiral to nowhere. I am here to help.  Owning the world will take some time.  But if you read each chapter and follow each step, world dominance will be yours.

First off, let’s debunk some myths. There are at least a half dozen websites and books that will offer self-help advice. They would advise you to do some, if not all, of the following:

  • Do something you love because money will follow. (Who hasn’t heard that one? )
  • Be hard working.
  • Be Diligent.
  • Be a Leader.
  • Be Action-Oriented.
  • Be POSITIVE. NOT NEGATIVE.
  • Be Honest.
  • Be Modest.

The list goes on and on. But, you get the idea. Ultimately, if you are an all-around good person then, good things will follow.

I am here to tell you – its rubbish. Don’t believe a word of it.  The best thing you can do for yourself is to make YOU the top priority. This will sometimes be to the detriment of family and friends. But, those people are a means to an end. USE THEM.  When they stop being useful it’s time to find new family and friends.

And never, EVER, should you give too much time, money, and commitment to anyone as this will slow you down in your quest to rule the world. It’s a cold world out there baby, and you’re the only one who will take care of you.  Family and friends will be the debris left on the path to ruling the world. Debris is a natural by-product of such a large quest.

Now, I want to provide the following outline of topics to be covered in each chapter. This will give you an understanding of how this book is organized. Please feel free to grab a pen and make notes in the margins. Or, you could buy some of that 3-hole lined paper that we used in high school. Then, you can put all your hand written notes in a binder, flagging the ones that are the most important to you.

I think I just dated myself. Or, you can use one of those fancy laptop, iPad, iPod, tablet thingy’s to take notes. Whatever, you want.

Ok, here is what will be covered:

  • The Art of Manipulation
  • YOU FIRST. Then, use, use, use them….
  • How to be a Successful Arrogant Man/Woman (This is a gender-neutral book.)
  • Buffering Yourself Against the Fall-Out (Should one eventually occur)
  • Disclaimer

Ok, so you now have the general outline of the topics covered in each section. There is one last point I want to make before we get started. I would ask that you NOT apply any of the principles to your life until you’ve read the COMPLETE book. That is – READ THE COMPLETE BOOK. You will not be successful in ruling the world until you’ve read everything from start to finish.

Did Gru from Despicable Me start off with only a half a plan to steal the moon? No, I didn’t think so.

Oh wait. That’s the movie where Gru ends up taking care of those three little girls and becomes a father, right?

He’s a bad example.

Darth Vader. YES! He’s a good example! He built the Death Star!

No, wait…he’s the dark, robotic guy that pretends to be all evil until the end of the trilogy and then he becomes a big mushy pushover.

Don’t use him either.

The Emperor in Star Wars. There’s a guy who built a plan and implemented it completely! Sort of. It didn’t end well for him. But then, he didn’t have this book. So, PLEASE READ THE COMPLETE BOOK.

And, we’re off…..

Chapter 1 – The Art Of Manipulation

Manipulation should be taught to all children at an early age. (Parents, are you listening?) You can be the parents of the Supreme Ruler of the World. But, you’re responsible for coaching them on the best methods to manipulate. It is a necessary skill that can be taught to toddlers, used by your child throughout their school years, when they are teenagers, and finally as full-fledged serpentine adults. Parents, this will truly benefit you in the long run.

Ok, so how do you manipulate people? Here’s an example. Kids, listen up.  (Parents – now would be a good time to whip up breakfast, lunch, or dinner for your mini Dr. Evil child. A.K.A. I NEED YOU TO STOP READING HERE. THANKS.)

Kids, here we go. If your parents demand that you clean your room and you are blessed with a little brother or sister, you can take full advantage of your over-eager younger sibling who idolizes YOU for no other reason except YOU were born first. (Sorry, second, third, fourth child etc. – life has dealt you crappy cards in your attempt to rule the world. You were born later. It’s tough out there. I can’t help everyone. You’ll have to figure out how to manipulate your older sibling(s) on your own.)

Anyways, to YOU the first born, here are a few ideas:

  • Tell little Timmy or Suzie that you are going to study group to work on a school project that is due tomorrow. Throw your hands up in the air, stomp your feet and say, Mom and Dad are being COMPLETELY unreasonable on insisting that I clean my room first before I leave! It’s a project! It’s not like I’m going to a movie! I’m going to fail! (It doesn’t matter that you’re in kindergarten and you don’t know what a study group is. If you don’t know, pipsqueak doesn’t know either.)

When little Timmy/Suzie offers to clean your room – go to that movie instead. You receive extra points if you conveniently leave your allowance money behind thereby, the chump parents of your friends have to pay your way. Everyone else wants to see the movie too. What are the parents going to do? Not take you? You’re only a kid! It’s not your fault Mom didn’t give you money. Someone else will pay. I promise. (Did you see that? That was 2 manipulations for the price of one.)

  • Oh god, my stomach! My tooth! I am so sick and Mom and Dad STILL want me to clean my room! Who makes a sick kid clean their room? 

Here are a few other ideas for illnesses that you can tell little Timmy or Suzie:

  1. I’ve had diarrhea for three hours. (Trust me on this – no one’s going to check.)
  2. I’ve had a headache since last Tuesday. (There’s no verifiable way to validate this statement.)
  3. I stubbed my toe.
  4. I have a hang nail.
  5. Just pick something already!

Add tears, people are suckers! Then, you are permitted to sprawl out on the couch, order some delicious buttery and salty popcorn, and secretly begin hatching your next diabolical plan.

Now, some people would suggest that you just beat up Timmy or Suzie to make them clean your room. But, alas, that is truly diabolical. You don’t want to be a thug. And here’s why. Being a thug requires work. You will expend great energy in physically throwing punches, keeping someone in a headlock and then subsequently, plotting how NOT to get caught by your parents/teachers/police officers.

Being a thug is a huge waste of energy and time. Besides, with a little brother or sister, if you start early you will be able to manipulate them for life. As well, being a brute is not a transferable skill in the workplace. It will get you fired, arrested, or both.

Never underestimate the importance of brain power versus physical power.  Your brain will help you think of new and interesting ways to manipulate people. I believe that potential candidates in job interviews should be tested on the ability to manipulate other people as I’m certain it will do wonders for a company’s profits. A company made up of people who are the Jedi Masters of Manipulation are guaranteed to increase profits for the business.

I can see it now. A customer says, “I can’t believe you ran out of cream! What kind of an incompetent run coffee shop runs out of cream?”

The Cashier says, “Oh, are you certain that’s what’s really bothering you? It sounds pretty ridiculous to be so angry because we ran out of cream five days ago, and we still don’t have any?”

Customer: “Well, I did find out that I have to spend $2,000 to fix my fence because the 110 kilometer winds we had last weekend ripped a section of it apart.”

Cashier: “That’s terrible! You poor man! (Or, you poor woman!) But, we just serve coffee and donuts. Maybe you want a donut to go along with your coffee to cheer you up?”

Customer: “Actually, a donut would be nice.”

Cashier: “Ok. Let me add that to your order. That will be $8.”

Customer: “But, what about the fact that you haven’t had any cream for five days?”

Cashier: “We have milk. You can put that in your coffee. And with the donut now, it’s loaded with fat. You can’t afford to put cream in your coffee and have a donut today, or for the rest of the month. You’re in really good shape, and I wouldn’t want to ruin that.”

Cashier is assigned double points as the man no longer cares that he doesn’t have cream for his coffee, she sold him a donut, and he now believes he’s got the same body as Superman. (Or ladies, Superwoman! Or, Wonder Woman! Now that I think about it, some women might want to have the same body as Superman. Whoever’s body you admire most is the one you have. You have a phenomenal SUPER HERO body. Go Girl!)

My body is more in keeping with Baymax myself; and I like it that way. But, I digress….

Now, if manipulation is done well and over many years, you have a very good chance of controlling other people. How? Because, if you are VERY GOOD at manipulation, people will never know that they were/are manipulated. They will constantly be doing things for you and will not have a clue as to the reason why.

When you start manipulating people early in life it means patterns are established in terms of how one person interacts with another person. (You can probably also call this behaviour).   If someone starts by being your sucker (oops, I mean helpful sibling!) it will be very difficult for them to break the learned pattern unless they have a lot of money and can afford counselling to realize:

1) They have been manipulated in the past.

2) They are able to identify new situations where you are manipulating them.

3) They are able to stop themselves from being manipulated again by you.

By then, they will have paid more money on counselling than it would have cost if they just let you use them. At the very least, isn’t it better that a family member benefits in taking a younger sibling’s money and time, versus that of an outsider, such as a counsellor?

Yes, I thought so too.

(PARENTS – SKIP THIS PART TOO!)

Now, manipulation and owning people – how does that help you rule the world? This is easy. Even if someone is considered above you such as a grandmother, father, mother, aunt or uncle you can still own them.  Here’s an example. If your father says you can’t go to the University of Windsor because you live in Ottawa and it has two completely acceptable Universities and living away will be too expensive, than counter his arguments. Provide him with real examples as to why the University of Windsor is the best University, like, EVER!!!

If you have no real reasons as to why the University of Windsor is superior to all other Universities, make shit up. Convincingly. Puff your chest out and flap your arms around for emphasis.

You can say, But Dad! Windsor has the best English Program! Did you know that Jane Austen went to Windsor University? Manipulation comes into play because he will want the best for his kid.   As well, if you lied to him before and never got caught, he will fall for the new lie too.   Guaranteed.  As well, once you are there, even if University is too expensive Dad will be on the hook. He would never drag you away from your education.

Your Dad won’t have a clue that Jane Austen wasn’t Canadian, continues to be a well-known British author who wrote Sense and Sensibility and Emma (to name just a couple of her books)  and sadly, died almost two hundred years ago.

It will work. Trust me.

Manipulation and lying are synonymous together. It’s like the Easter Bunny and chocolate. Santa Clause and presents. Bacon and eggs. You get my point.

Thanks for reading this chapter.

P.S. I know the real reason you want to go to Windsor is because you don’t want Mom and Dad to “pop in” for an unexpected visit and catch you blowing your tuition and rent money on alcohol-loaded-all-night-parties.

How do I know this?

Because.

I wrote the book.

***

Jacob thinks about his own life.

He wishes he told his parents that he had doubts about Law School. The doubts began in his third year when he felt an overwhelming sense of trepidation about pursuing a career as a lawyer after speaking with friends who were articling at law firms.

Stories told from his friends painted a dismal picture of what his future life would be like: long hours at work that would leave him with little time for family and friends. Divorce amongst the lawyers in the firms was rampant.

Then, there were the ethical dilemmas in law that would appear no matter what area of law he chose to practice in. Sure, lots of money and prestige came along with being labelled a “lawyer”, but he didn’t really care about the title.

All in all, he didn’t want that life. He wanted an easier life. A more adventurous life. Or, a creative life. As it turned out, he wanted any other life: except to be a lawyer.

But, he couldn’t watch the crushing disappointment in his parent’s faces when he told them he didn’t want to do it anymore. They were so proud as they bubbled with joy and announced to everyone that would hear it, how brilliant their son was, and how he was well on the road to becoming a successful lawyer.

It was a weasel-way; to cut and run with no explanation. Jacob only called his parents to tell them he had skipped his exams and was in London, when his plane landed on the tarmac. Safely on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean, his parents could do nothing else but hiss at him through the phone.

Then, there was Victoria. In the summer between second and third year he should have ended it.  He became less attentive, more argumentative, and knew they were drifting apart. He used her so he didn’t have to be alone, for sex, and his fear of ending their relationship.

Gavin is so much better to Victoria: stroking her hair without even thinking about it, wrapping his arms around her waist, and he constantly snuggles close to her whenever he can. But, more importantly, he always looks at her as if he is in awe; still, two years later. They taught him what love should look like.

Is he sorry? Sorry that he wasn’t brave enough to tell people the truth and deal with the aftermath of being honest. Instead, he slinked away as a snake hidden in long grass after devouring its prey. But as he sits on the bench overlooking the River Thames two years later, he’s only sorry about how he did things – not that he did them.

Jacob’s life is this impossible, reckless mess. But one day at a time, one step at a time, with the odd step backwards for self-reflection allows him to improve, change, and hopefully – become a better person.

CHAPTER 2

YOU FIRST Then, use, use, use them

What I Meant To Say

“Why did you say that?” He asks abruptly.

“Say what?” I ask casually as I flick my hair back in annoyance. I push my hip out a little and rest my hand on it.

I refuse to back down.

He’s not going to win this time.

My eyes skip across our shared home. Behind my husband is a photo of us at the San Diego zoo last year. His arm is lovingly draped over my shoulder. White toothy grins are splashed across our faces. In the photo we stand at the front, and in the background is a panda bear. He is reclined against a tree and leisurely chews on a stick.

Another photo of us on our wedding day is proudly displayed on our fireplace mantel. The sun was warm that day even though it rained on us. My mother said to me, people say if it rains on your wedding day, its lucky!

I huffed. I pushed my drenched veil back as black mascara ran down my face. I snapped at her, I think that’s something people made up recently, so when it rains on your wedding day, you don’t feel like your marriage is doomed from the start!

“Why did you say that?” He annoyingly asks a second time.

He shifts uneasily from one foot to the other while staring down at our ceramic tiles.

Nothing screams lack of confidence, than a person who refuses to make eye contact. It’s one of his less appealing habits that he displays from time to time. When we’re having a fight like this one and he does it – it will push me a little further to say things I don’t mean.

My face twists. Thanks to him, I’m certain every one of my wrinkles is visible. I probably look like a Bulldog.

“BECAUSE IT’S TRUE!” I explode with rage.

“So, what you’re saying…. is that because I don’t do the dishes, it means I don’t love you?” He asks incredulously.

His uneasiness has disappeared. His eyes stare at me. It’s as if he’s trying to break my will with that “look.” He’s challenging me.

Stubbornly, I refuse to budge.

“Yes!” I scream.

“And…I NEVER DO THE DISHES?” He asks in a raised voice as the words splinter apart near the end.

“YES!” I counter his dramatic tone.

Even as I answer the last question, I know it’s an exaggeration on the back of a small version of the truth. It’s like on our wedding day when I declared, our wedding is ruined! Look at my hair! And your suit! We look like drowned rats!

Our wedding wasn’t ruined. White linen was draped over the tables and chairs. Red rose petals were scattered across each one of the tables. The centerpiece was made up of a single red rose surrounded by baby’s breath. The rose produced a sweet smell whenever you came close to the table. Beside the vase, was a single candle that created an even more romantic and calm atmosphere.

My new husband at the time, stood before me. His black hair glimmered from the dampness as water droplets slipped down his forehead and cheeks. He took one hand and pushed his hair back. Then he said something, and I started laughing. Something about how he wished I had worn a white t-shirt….

“I have to go to work.” The same man announces as he grabs his lunch bag with one hand, and pushes his tie to the side with the other.

I stand there motionless.

I won’t move.

Not a muscle.

My mind scurries around grabbing together the facts as I know them to be true.

I want to say: I’m sorry. I exaggerated. But really, when you said you do JUST as much as I do, was that the truth?  I know you’re tired, and you’re working a lot. I know my job’s not going well. I know you’re worried about money. I know I’m worried about my sister.

Let’s start again.

Instead I say in a miserable, dismissive, I-don’t-care tone, “FINE.”

He’s standing at our front door. He places one hand on the doorknob and swings his head in my direction. His eyes linger on me for a few minutes too long.

I always give him a goodbye kiss.

Not today.

He won’t win.

The doorknob turns. He swings the door open, disappears through it, and slams it behind him.

Once the echo of uttered angry words stops, and the ringing sound of a slamming door ends, quiet descends.

In the kitchen, I stand, alone.

Evelyn, Why I Write

Dear Evelyn,

I want you to know that I heard all those things you said to me. You know, the nights I sat with one finger that hovered above the ENTER key as you whispered in my ear, it’s not good enough. You’re out of your league. What are you doing?

I heard you. And then, despite your never-ending taunts I pushed down on that key, and off my submission went to the literary journal.  As my chest tightened, and my breathing became shallow, I turned around to see if maybe you changed your mind after I submitted the story.  Maybe now that I pushed on that key, you thought it was ok, that I tried this “writing thing.”

Instead as I glimpsed over my shoulder, I saw this: your head bent forward while you placed one hand over your face, and shook your head from right to left, with a signal of, no.

It was a look of utter disappointment.

I gulped.

I sweated.

And then, I waited.

You told me not to say a word to anyone when I first began writing. The fictional people and places that I created in my mind would slowly transform and become real to me on my computer screen. But in the beginning, I was the only one that knew about them.

I built worlds. And I created characters.

For three years, no one knew except for my husband.  I want you to know that it was hard to lie to family and friends who asked me, “What are your plans for the weekend?”

I would casually answer, “Oh, maybe I’ll go to Starbucks and read a book.” But quietly in my mind I would scream, AND WORK ON SOME WRITING PROJECTS!

We both know it was important to me that I get published in a literary journal before I revealed my secret ambitions to anyone. Then one late Sunday night, after returning home after visiting family, I perused my email and saw a response from a literary journal. I scowled at the email.  Clicked on the message, and prepared to be rejected again.

In the background, you laughed at me.

But it wasn’t a rejection.  They were ACCEPTING it. My first online publication with a literary journal called Potluck Magazine, and a short story titled, “Do You See Me?” caused me to throw my hands over my mouth as tears gathered in my eyes, and I let out a scream. A reason finally to dance, I started to spin around in circles in my office as I threw my hands up in the air and did my own amended version of the Macarena.

My husband charged up the stairs believing I was facing another catastrophic moment in my life (I guess a happy scream and a sad one, sounds the same coming from me) and he pushed the door open and said, “What happened?”

I yelled, “They accepted my story!” and continued to do some form of an ostrich dance. My husband cautiously approached me with my arms flailing about, beamed at me, and said, “That’s wonderful,” and he wrapped his arms around me.

You were wrong, Evelyn. When I finally, very slowly, began to tell my family and friends, they were happy for me. They patted me on the back proudly, and offered their congratulations.

But we both know the truth, don’t we?

It was never you.

It was me. 

Me: You can’t write. You’re not good enough. Stop wasting your time. It’s impossibly difficult. Why do you even bother? You’ll never be successful at this, “writing thing.” IT’S A LONG SHOT.

I know all these things are true. But I have rebuttals. Everyone starts somewhere. I’ll keep working on it. If I don’t try, I’ll never know. In my head, there’s a constant battle between the two sides.

Just like me, my writing is a work in progress. Just like running, I’m slow at it, and take my time.

There’s a part of me that knows I should stay in the real world. The problem is the imaginary world is so much damn fun. Creating places and people, that are quirky and weird that do odd things; or sometimes I create fictional characters and situations inspired by my life events. Finally, there are the stories based on my life.

The other problem with giving up on writing – I LOVE IT! It’s given me a voice, an imagination, a life that I always felt was impossible.

I won’t lie to you Evelyn, writing is challenging. The creating is difficult, and creating a cohesive story where you don’t accidentally place a character in France, while they are simultaneously living in New York, requires a keen eye and the ability to critique your own work and laugh at your mistakes. It’s exhausting.

Then there’s the grammar portion. Sometimes this part of it is easy and the words flow like a river. Sometimes it’s as if someone has stolen my dictionary and thesaurus, and I’m stumbling around blindly with my mouth stitched closed.

But I work at it. I struggle through the writes, re-writes, the criticism, the bank account that suffers due to the overwhelming amount of paper I go through, printer cartridges, and general stationary.

Because every now and then, maybe I’ll write something that a reader sees and says, yeah, me too! And sometimes, people will just enjoy my stories about a Hero Mouse. If through my writing, there’s just one person who likes a story, or I connect with them on a personal level because of a common experience, it makes the long hours sitting at my computer tapping away – worth it.

Evelyn – that’s why I write.

I want to thank you for always being there. Because you weren’t the one discouraging me, it was me. But even that voice, that self-doubt, allows me to blossom as a writer. By reviewing my work, I’ll look at it critically and wonder: how can I make that sentence better? How will that be interpreted by readers? Am I communicating what I meant to?  

So maybe my lack of self-confidence can be a good thing – as long as it doesn’t stop me from hitting the send button.

Your friend always,

Penny

The Jolly To Do List

Mother Nature has missed my city with the deluge of white fluffy stuff that would put me in my ugly-Christmas-sweater-wearing-shopping-frenzy-spirit. For this reason, I am ridiculously behind in my Christmas tasks.

Therefore, on the eve of December 1st, I’ve decided to form a plan by making a list of things to accomplish over the next month. As a person who typically schedules too much, I hope I’ll be able to meet these objectives.

  1. I will gain 5 pounds between December 1st to the 24th by gobbling up every icing-loaded snowman sugar cookie, cranberry bliss bar, gingerbread loaf, fruit cake (rum-infused or not) that my eyes even so much as glimpse. Hunger is irrelevant. After all, Christmas only comes once a year. I need to get my festive snacks while I can!
  2. Between December 25th through to the 31st the real challenge begins: I will gain an additional 5 pounds in one week by following the same pattern already outlined in #1, but add in drinking too much, indulging in WAY TOO MUCH creamy, butter-loaded potatoes; turkey, and forfeiting all scheduled workouts. (The gym is too crowded this time of year anyways.)
  3. I will exceed my Christmas budget by December 2nd and promptly throw my hands up and declare, “oopsy-daisy!” and continue to shop in haphazard way while declaring that the January Credit Card Gods will never catch up with me!
  4. I WILL NOT CREATE A CHRISTMAS BUDGET. As a matter of fact, I believe that Microsoft Excel will not allow me to name a file “Christmas Budget.” For this reason, I will never find the file again and it will be a waste of time. (TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE! There’s so much to do!)
  5. I will definitely wait till the very last minute to purchase all my presents.  Nothing is more AMAZING then scrambling to the mall and circling the parking lot for 45 minutes in search of one spot. Then, once a parking spot is found, another person steals it! As well, a bonus to this is standing in long line-ups to make my purchase and as soon as I get to the cash my credit card gets declined. (Not because the January Credit Card Gods have already caught up with me. No, it’s because the system crashes because everyone else is making last minute purchases on December 24th as well. JOY!)
  6. I’ll wait to wrap all my presents on December 24th so that way I’ll be up till midnight. The next day I will be sleep-deprived and blurry-eyed when I face the task of stuffing the turkey. But don’t worry, with how little I slept the night before, one glass of wine will make everything alright.
  7. I’ll overcook the turkey.
  8. I’ll make sure none of the other food comes off at the same time. This will guarantee the potatoes are so cold I can make a fork stand up in them and whatever insignificant vegetables I cooked as a side dish, have already started to form a layer of butter grease from sitting in the bowl too long. Nothing is more delicious. Cold vegetables, with cold butter grease. YUMMY!
  9. Write a letter of apology to Saint Nick and tell him that I REALLY do love Christmas despite this blog post. Like everything else in my life, I’m just poorly organized.
  10. I’ll tell myself that next Christmas will be different.

****

BONUS TO DO ITEM

  1. Hope Santa forgives me when I forget to leave him cookies. Every year. I do it every year.

 

Part II: The Ghost Of Cybill

Part II

“Mom, where do you want me to put this?” Logan asks his mother as he wipes the warm water from the serving plate that he pulled from the dishwasher.

“Ju-just, put it-it on the shelf.” She says from the couch in the living room. Her head nods to Logan in a spastic twitch. It’s involuntary. It’s a tremor of sorts.

Amanda’s hand rattles as she reaches for the brown coffee cup in front of her. The cup sits on a pine coffee table they purchased from a garage sale some years ago.

“Hello, Amanda.” Jocklyn has arrived and sits beside her. He smirks at the fragile woman on the couch and watches as the cup she holds swings out and a black tar substance that resembles coffee rushes out of it. With a swoop! The dark black liquid splashes onto her pants.

Amanda bolts up from the couch, pulls at her pants because of the scolding liquid, and mumbles, “Goddammit!”

“Mom, are you ok?” Logan runs into the living room in terror as he watches his mother.

“Better be careful Amanda. Wouldn’t want anything to happen to you. After all, you have a boy to take care of.” Jocklyn taunts her.

Amanda gives a sideways glare to Jocklyn. Then she raises her eyes to her son and says, “No-no, honey. I’m alright-right.” She gently touches her son’s face. Logan’s wide eyes stare back at her with droplets of tears that have gathered in them. His face is longer than usual and he’s pasty white.

When Logan was a child his eyes were always wide with wonderment at something new: a new bike, a new sport, or a new instrument to play. Amanda doesn’t recall when she last saw him passionately amazed by something.

His gaze now is only one of bewilderment for his mother’s ever-increasing anxiety levels. From his perspective, it must seem like she’s falling to pieces for no good reason. The home they just purchased is big and spacious, requires a little work, but it was a great find for them as they had very little money.

They didn’t hear the stories about the house until after they purchased it.

Every penny she has is wrapped up in this house.

There’s no way out.

“Ammmmanda….” She flicks her head in the direction of the sound. “How old is your son?” His words seethe with slippery darkness.

“What?” She whispers to Jocklyn.

Her son hasn’t seen the ghost yet. Jocklyn has spent his time only terrifying her, but now the spirit’s question worries her.  Amanda’s shoulders push back defensively. The fragile woman who was there a few minutes ago has left. Her eyes flicker at the ghost in anger. Her jaw locks. Protectively, she stands in front of her son.

“How old is your son?” He roars at her while he pokes at a coffee table lamp with a wooden base and a beige shade. The lamp teeters, but it doesn’t fall.

“I have a rule, you know. I don’t hurt kids that are less than sixteen years old. But once he turns sixteen -” He scowls at Amanda without finishing the sentence.

Amanda grabs her son’s arm and pushes him backwards towards the kitchen.

“Mom! Mom! What are you doing?” Logan shouts at her.

“Honey, get behind me!” She says with a growl in her voice. She slowly backs up to the kitchen. Carefully, she watches Jocklyn who’s in front of her and tightly holds her son’s hand from behind her. Her position ensures that if Jocklyn intends to harm Logan, he’ll have to go through her first.

“Is he sixteen?” Jocklyn whispers to Amanda from across the room. He grabs a ceramic coaster from the table and throws it up in the air.

From behind Amanda, Logan screams, “Mom! Oh my god, Mom! What the hell is that?”

“At least in the end, your son will know you weren’t crazy.” Jocklyn’s words drip with venomous disgust at them.

He rotates his right arm back as if he’s a pitcher in a baseball game and hurls the coaster at Amanda and Logan.

“Mom! Mom!” Logan screams from behind her as he sinks down to the floor and covers his face.

A white outline of a spirit’s hand grabs the coaster just before it hits Amanda’s face. A woman’s voice sweetly says, “Honey, I’m home.”

“You!” Jocklyn screams at her. “I killed you!”

“Yup!” Cybill’s eyes stare down at her enemy. Her chin is punched out at him, challenging him.

“I can take you again!” He screams at her as he runs towards Cybill.

Cybill turns to face Amanda and says, “Get back!”

Amanda grabs Logan by the elbow and drags him to his feet forcing him further into the kitchen.

“Mom, Mom!” Logan whimpers at his mother. “We have two ghosts in our house!”

“Yes! The man has been tormenting me since we moved in! But that one,” Amanda says peering around the doorway of the kitchen while pointing at Cybill adds, “I’ve never seen her before!”

“This is my house!” Cybill’s voice thunders at Jocklyn. “GET OUT!”

Undeterred, Jocklyn continues charging at her.

But before he reaches Cybill, Amanda sees the outline of a baseball bat that swings up and it strikes Jocklyn across the right side of his face. The power behind the swing sends Jocklyn spinning and he plunges to the floor.

Jocklyn glances behind him and stares at Cybill. He huffs in disgust and says, “Oh, yes. The bat…”

Jocklyn jumps to his feet and in very slow deliberate strides, stares down at Cybill like a panther might do when they approach their prey. Once he’s in front of her, Jocklyn reaches for the bat.

His hands slip through it.  

Jocklyn’s mouth gapes at Cybill as he mumbles, “What the hell?”

“I told you already. This is my house.” Then she spins around, points at Amanda and Logan and finishes, “And those people, are under my protection!”

Jocklyn reaches over at a familiar item he’s threatened the mother with before – the lamp – and lifts it into the air.

Cybill stands before Jocklyn and without moving a muscle, forces the lamp back down with her mind.

“Oh,” she says to no one. Her lower lip slips down as her eyebrows raise and she continues, “I didn’t know I could do that.”

Jocklyn grabs the coffee table.

It won’t move.

Then he reaches for books and magazines.

Nothing shifts even an inch.

Cybill quietly says, “It’s time to go. Let these people live their lives.” She says half-turning to the two terrified people that stand behind her.  “It’s time to go home, Jocklyn.”

Just then a small hand slips into Jocklyn’s and a quiet, angelic voice says, “Daddy, let’s go home.”

Jocklyn’s eyes peer down at the child. His head bows forward as he begins to sob.

The child clasps Jocklyn’s hand tighter, pulls at his shirt with the other hand, and says, “Daddy, don’t cry. It will be alright. We’re together again.”

Jocklyn uncontrollably sobs as his shoulders shake back and forth. After a few seconds, he scoops the child up into his arms, and buries his face into her shoulder.

Cybill gently touches Jocklyn’s arm and says, “Grace will show you the way.”

Jocklyn nods at his one-time enemy and places his daughter down. With big eyes, and a huge smile, she leads her father through a wall and they disappear.

Cybill turns to face the new homeowners whose heads glance over at her with consternation from the kitchen.

“Don’t be afraid,” she says. “I won’t harm you.”

Suddenly aware that she’s holding her ghost-baseball bat she adds, “I can only fight ghosts with this. Not people.”

Amanda and Logan slowly slink towards Cybill. Amanda says, “I have so many questions.”

Cybill smiles and says, “There’s nothing you need to know – except the house is yours now. But, could I ask a favor?”

“Anything.” Amanda says with new found determination in her voice. There’s still an unintentional nod of her head. But slightly relieved Jocklyn is gone, it’s lessened.

“Get rid of the wallpaper in the kitchen. That stuff’s terrible!” Cybill says as she picks up her baseball bat and heads to the wall that Grace and Jocklyn disappeared through.

“Ok.” Amanda answers with a quiet laugh.

Cybill twirls around one last time. Her eyes sweep across the room as she takes in every moment she had: happy moments in childhood, struggles through her teenage years, losses of loved ones, every wish she had for the future in the house, and at the end of her life – the overwhelming pain that ended her.

With a final nod to life, and a shrug of her shoulders, Cybill smiles, and vanishes through the wall.

Part I: The House of Cybill Langlert

Leaves swayed against the ebony sky. The front door rattled and creaked with the wind. The front light to the house pulsed with a white glow before it descended back into darkness.  At some point that night, the light would never return again.

Untrimmed hedges surrounded the house. It provided the perfect cover for an intruder. Except the intruder wasn’t outside now – he lived within it. This was his home. The new owner, Cybill Langlert – was the intruder!

Cybill fidgeted in her bed.  She was annoyed the light never stayed on. Her decision to purchase the house a few months ago seemed like a good idea in the daylight; it was a steal with a rock-faced exterior, four big bedrooms, three bathrooms, real hardwood floors, and with dark cherry wood kitchen cabinets that were beginning to peel. The house for sure, was a fixer upper. But most of the hardwood could be restored with a little hard work. But the outdated wallpaper would definitely have to go.

Thud!

Creak.

Cybill raised her shoulders up from the mattress. A stabbing pain ricocheted through her neck by the jarring motion at which she had raised it. She took one moment to rub it and then…

Creak…

Cybill leaped out of bed! She grabbed her baseball bat that she kept in the corner of her room and slowly opened the door. One eye peered around the corner into the darkness. Very slowly, she swung her whole head out to determine where the sound was coming from.

This house, since she purchased it, had done nothing but terrify her.  Originally, Cybill believed the house may need some work but it wouldn’t be that costly. She was handy with tools and had some knowledge of how to complete the renovations, thanks to her father and her ex-husband, who were both in construction.

But she soon realized it was a bargain for a reason. There were stories in town about the house. According to the town rumor mill a man once lived there by the name of Jocklyn Raydon who had committed some crimes: theft, robbery and murder.  But it wasn’t actually his house; he had simply moved in to the abandoned building and took up residence there. However, the police caught up with him on this land and Jocklyn refused to surrender.  A shoot-out in the house made a quick end to the miscreant.

The original building that stood here after Jocklyn’s death was torn down. The house Cybill lived in now, replaced it. But the new building was on the same land.  The home changed hands multiple times and there were rumors Jocklyn’s ghost, unwilling to surrender the home to the new owners, haunted it.

Stories told by the residents in town recounted common ghostly acts: a tossed dish across the room in the middle of the night, a doorknob that turned with no one on the other side of it, and lights that commonly flickered.

But it was the bigger things that he did. One man while on a ladder replacing a light bulb described how he felt it pushed. Some said it was just the wind. But others said it was Jocklyn’s ghost. The man suffered a broken leg. Hastily, he put the house on the market for sale after being tormented for months by other paranormal occurrences. The last owner who Cybill purchased the home from fell through a glass window. (Some in town said it was the ghost again.) The woman required multiple stitches to her face.

Oddly enough, if there were children in the house the ghost never harmed them. The ghost went to great lengths to ensure he never caused them distress. One child recalled how he woke one morning with earplugs in his ears. His mother deeply shaken by a night when windows were slammed every few hours, and framed photos along the staircase were knocked to the floor, didn’t understand how her son slept through it. That is – until the morning.

A compassionate ghost to children, he cared nothing for adults.

Cybill never believed the stories. An educated woman in law she belonged in the realm of reality, versus that of paranoid fantasy.

There was an explanation for everything.

Her feet wobbled along the uneven floorboards on the second level of her home. Just then, she glanced over. A window slowly was raised upwards. In front of the open window she made out the white outline of a figure with a malevolent grin who wore 1970’s bell bottom pants and a long-sleeved plaid shirt.

Cybill tightly clasped her baseball bat as sweat gathered on her temples. With it raised, she stood there, motionless.

The ghost’s eyebrows were bent downwards. His face twisted with rage. With a rush, he slammed the window down and shattered it. He screamed at Cybill, “Get out of my house!”

Glass sprayed everywhere across the hardwood floor! The wind blew the larger pieces and a clinking sound of it being dragged across the floorboards was heard.

Cybill stood there with her baseball bat raised and said, “No! This is my house! You leave!”

“Ahhhhhh!!!!” Jocklyn shouted as he charged at Cybill.

Cybill always stood her ground. She didn’t move. Some said it was because maybe she believed a ghost couldn’t harm her. Or, perhaps she believed mistakenly, Jocklyn couldn’t move her.

Cybill felt a rush of coldness. All of a sudden she was pushed backwards. She rolled at first easily down the steps of her home with bumps on her head and arm. But once on the bottom of the stairs, she lay there for a moment trying to make sense of what just happened.

A few seconds later, above her stood the white outline of a man in bell bottom pants and a plaid shirt. The baseball bat that she planned to use for protection, he raised it ever so slowly above her.

A cracking sound made her teeth grind together from the blow. Cybill’s eyes widened. She took long gasping breaths of air but it was never enough. Jocklyn’s ghost stood above her, smiling.

Like the light on her front porch that no longer flickered, Cybill descended into darkness.

But darkness does not remain forever.

And after some time, a light came on again.

The Hero Mouse, Brob-Ding

“My foot’s stuck! My foot’s stuck!” A little girl’s scream rushes over the water, across the green grass, and is heard as high as the treetops of the forest.

Brob-Ding the mouse, with his mouth full of sweet apple, pops his head up when he hears her cries.  He swallows his food and glances over at Jacob the fox, and Mittens the bunny. There’s no movement from either of them. Jacob is fast asleep on his back with his feet in the air. Mittens is too busy sitting there, wide-eyed in her frozen-bunny mode, pretending as she does that no one can see her.

Brob-Ding looks down at his enormous, half-eaten apple that stands as tall as he is, but is MUCH wider. There’s a lot of food to be eaten there. The apple will keep him fed for the next few meals.

He glances up and says, “Hey, Mittens! Did you hear that?”

“Hear, what?” Mittens’ eyes shift in the direction of Brob-Ding but the rest of her doesn’t move a muscle.

“Ah, the scream… It sounded like it might be a little human girl?” He asks wondering if his mousy ears are playing tricks on him.

“I didn’t hear anything.” She says with annoyance as she maintains her frozen pose.

At that moment, Jacob swings his head in the direction of Brob-Ding while his four feet remain in the air and says, “Not our problem, kid. She’s a human. They would never help us. Why should we help her?” His two black eyes stare at him as if he really is waiting for Brob-Ding to answer.

“Help me!” A desperate scream echoes through the forest again.

Then, it’s quiet.

It’s an unsettling quiet for Brob-Ding because with his super-mouse ears he now hears muffled crying. It sounds like it’s coming from Stoney Stream.

Brob-Ding peers up at upside-down slumbering Jacob, and frozen-bunny Mittens. He blinks a couple of times at them and turns and swings his tail around and quickly scampers over thick grass, over huge black rocks, and occasionally stumbles over tree roots.

But Brob-Ding NEVER stops as he races in the direction of the faint sounds of a little girl weeping.   

Once he is at Stoney Stream he pokes his head around the corner of a rock so the human can’t see him. There, in front of him, is a little blonde-haired girl in a green dress. Her hands are held over her eyes. Brob-Ding has seen this before in humans – it’s a sign of panic, of desperation – when someone doesn’t know what to do.

Brob-Ding bends his body as close to the ground as he can. He slowly creeps closer to the small girl’s leg that’s in the water and is wedged between two rocks. He doesn’t want to scare her in case she removes her hands from her eyes and sees him. She may scream, because humans are afraid of him. Or, just don’t like him. It could be either one.

Or, she may swat at him like so many other humans have done! It’s a terrifying ordeal. Brob-Ding wonders why he’s helping. There’s a perfectly good apple that he left back there where Jacob was sleeping, and Mittens was –

Well, doing whatever Mittens does. The apple will probably be gone by the time he returns.

Sounds of whimpering come from the small human. She rolls over and now has her face in the dirt. Brob-Ding pauses. The fur on his forehead wrinkles with concern. He hates watching anyone cry; whether it’s a bird, a fox, a rabbit, a deer, a bear, another mouse – and even if it’s a human.

Brob-Ding stands before the swirling water of Stoney Stream. He hates swimming and he’s not very good at it, but no one else is around to help the girl. He pauses for only a second. Then he takes his two front feet and places them together, as he dives into the deep water! His eyes open, he pushes with all front and back legs as well as his tail, as he swims towards the large trapped foot.

The foot is wedged between two rocks. He heaves, and pushes, and pulls at it and then he notices he can squeeze his tiny fingers between the rocks. With determination he chips away and loosens the dirt around it. He gives the HUMONGOUS stuck foot a final push while wiggling the rock. Finally, after great effort by a very tiny mouse, the foot kicks free!

And then, it wallops Brob-Ding!

He begins to spin out of control from the force of the kick. His mouth opens from the pain causing him to accidentally swallow cold water. Brob-Ding’s feet and tail spin out of control, his eyes are wide. Just then he remembers the words fox said to him before he left: they would never help us. Why should we help them?

Brob-Ding realizes he made a mistake.

Then out of nowhere, a human’s hand reaches up and scoops him from the water and places Brob-Ding on the grass.

“Thank you, mouse, for helping me.” A child’s voice whispers to him. “Are you alright?” She asks with slanted eyebrows.

Brob-Ding can’t speak as he lies there for a moment, frozen with fear, like Mittens.  So, instead he nods his head up and down.

“You understand me?” She asks as her large eyes get a little wider. It’s as if her eyes could swallow him up.

Brob-Ding says, “Yes.”

“Wow!” The child says. “You can talk! I’m Kayla. What’s your name?” She says as a small crinkle forms in her nose and dimples appear in her cheeks.

“Brob-Ding,” he says.

“That’s an unusual name.” Kayla says.

Brob-Ding begins to lick his feet to clean them, while cautiously keeping one eye on her. You can’t trust humans. He doesn’t really want to provide an explanation about his name; the grooming session is a stall tactic. But her blue inquisitive eyes blink at him and there’s something in those eyes; a certain kindness he’s never seen before.

He peers up at her and says, “Its short form for Brobdingnagian. It means giant. My parents, they liked to read.”

Kayla erupts in giggles. “You’re so small! Why would they give you that name? Are you bigger than other mice?”

Brob-Ding’s eyes get glossy. She’s not the first one to make fun of him about his name, and his size. At school the other kids would tease him too. Once Brob-Ding was old enough he could have changed his name. But he didn’t, because his parents named him. Brob-Ding hasn’t seen them in a long time because they got tired of reading about all those places in the world like the Eiffel Tower, and Stonehenge so they left to travel around the world once Brob-Ding was able to take care of himself.

He misses them…

“No, I’m smaller than most other mice. They said they named me Brobdingnagian because I was small, but I had a big heart.” His eyes shift back and forth along the grass that surrounds him. He won’t look at Kayla. “My friends call me Brob-Ding for short.”

Kayla gently places a finger on the top of his head. He raises his eyes, and notices Kayla’s head is slanted to the right side and she says, “I LOVE YOUR NAME! It fits you.” She says as she nods her head at him.

“Can I call you Brob-Ding?” Kayla asks as she wipes the mud from her face.

“Yes!” Brob-Ding enthusiastically shouts.

Diamonds in Space

“We’re going to the South of France.” Gwen states it with a red lipstick smile and eyes that sparkle like the diamonds that hang around her neck.

“That sounds wonderful. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.” Rebekah says it casually as her stomach drops as if she’s on a turbulent flight. It’s probably her imagination. Or, maybe it’s that other thing…

“We have a summer home there. We can’t wait to go! Sipping cosmopolitans in Nice…there’s nothing better!” She squeaks at Rebekah. Gwen waves a hand dismissively at Rebekah and continues with, “You should do it one day.”

“Maybe, one day.” Rebekah concurs with a catch in her voice. It’s like someone is suddenly strangling her and she can’t breathe. But she agrees with Gwen because agreeing with someone is the best form of flattery. Or, it’s something like that. Rebekah can’t remember right now. There are other things on her mind.

“Did you hear my daughter, Nancy, will be attending Harvard?”

She can’t keep it up. “Harvard? Really?” Rebekah tries her best to sound intrigued and cheerful –instead, it comes across as if she’s doubtful.

“Yes.” Gwen’s chin punches out as she stares up at Rebekah with eyes that flicker. “You shouldn’t be surprised. Nancy takes after me, of course.”

Rebekah twists her face and says, “I have no doubt.” With that she tilts her half-filled glass of Australian Cabernet Sauvignon back to her mouth, and hastily swallows the remaining wine. When she’s done she says, “Oh-oh! I’m empty! I’ll be right back. I just got to get a refill.”

As she walks away with a small smile across her face, shoulders pushed back, she’s pleased with herself.

Also, there’s absolutely no way she’ll be returning to that conversation.

“No, you won’t.” Gwen announces.

Rebekah stops. She typically avoids confrontation. But at this moment, on this day, she spins on her heel and says, “You’re right. I won’t.”

Rebekah’s heels clip-clop across the marble floor as she makes her way to the bar. Her head begins to spin with dizziness from the alcohol that she heaved back into her gullet. When she approaches the counter she says, “Could I get another of the Australian Cabernet Sauvignon?”

A brawny bartender (because they’re always brawny that way they can do double duty as a bouncer and can toss a belligerent drunk to the curb, if needed) with black hair, light brown eyes, and a five o’clock shadow says, “Sure.” His eyes sweep across Rebekah as if he’s assessing whether she’s already too drunk to have another glass.

“Rebekah!” An enthusiastic, cheerful voice shouts at her from across the room.

Rebekah’s face brightens and her mood is suddenly calmer. Her best friend, Stacey, wraps her arms around her and gives her a big hug. They wobble together in their heels and nearly crash to the ground.

“What do you think of the venue?” Stacey asks cautiously.

“It’s beautiful. It’s a great spot for a Christmas party! The food is delicious. It must have been so much work. But everything is fantastic!”

“Thanks, Rebekah.” Stacey says as she bends her head forward, blushes, and lowers her eyes to her friend.

Rebekah is such a great friend to Stacey. When Stacey’s grandmother who raised her a few years ago died, Becky took her out for drinks, called her all the time, and they bolted from work several times to have an emergency chat session when Stacey started to become unglued at work. For that reason, she tells Rebekah the next thing.

“Mr. Bracklen, said I did a good job too. He also said because I helped set up several conferences that brought in new sales, and did a good job supporting the Sales Team, he’s giving me a promotion! Can you believe it? Becky – a promotion!”

“Stacey…” Rebekah clears her throat, shifts from one foot to the other as her face reddens, and says in a whisper with words that break apart, “th-that’s won-nder-ful.”

Stacey stares at her friend and wonders, is she jealous? How can she be? She’s an Executive Assistant and has always been at a higher level than me?

Defensively, Stacey continues in a pleading voice, “Becky, I worked really hard for it.”

“Oh, I know!” Rebekah says in a voice that sounds too ecstatic. It’s as if she’s suddenly become a salesperson who in desperation to make a sale, says and does everything with just a little too much energy. She sounds insincere, and she knows it.

Although, technically, Rebekah is trying to sell something – she’s trying to sell the fact that she’s deliciously, joyful this holiday season.

“I’m really happy for you.” Rebekah continues. “I’m sorry. I just need a little food. I’m tired tonight.”

Stacey grabs her by the elbow and says, “Ok. Let’s go chase down some of those chicken satay things! They’re SUPER YUMMY!”

“Good idea!” Rebekah straightens her back and attempts to stand taller. Everyone knows that if you slouch you look defeated. Slouching is not the way to communicate how ridiculously, brilliantly, happy you are.

In her mind, Rebekah begins to break apart as she thinks, it’s all soooo much work.

“Rebekah, Stacey!” Kyle cheers at them as they approach. He’s standing beside the table with the hors d’oeuvres with his hand poised in the direction of the appetizers.

“These things are delicious.” Kyle continues as he grabs the end of a chicken satay skewer, and casually dips it into the peanut butter sauce. Then he proceeds to nibble on the meat attached to the stick.

“Well, we’ll decide that for ourselves.” Stacey says with one of her sunny smiles and a wink at Kyle so he knows she’s kidding.

Rebekah reaches for one too and the taste of garlic mixed with smooth, delicious peanut butter dances in her mouth.

Rebekah glances around at the high ceilings where a painting is drawn on it reminiscent of the renaissance age. A ten foot Christmas tree, positioned in the middle of the room, greets each guest. Beneath the branches are presents wrapped in a mix of red, blue, green, gold, white wrapping paper and each one looks to have been carefully placed in its position under the tree. White linens are draped over chairs and tables. There are large red poinsettias in glass bowls on each table. Beside the plants are candles that sit inside golden holders.

“Where’s your wife?” Stacey asks.

“Oh, she’s not feeling well tonight.” Kyle says. “She’s in her first trimester.” He says with a bashful smile.

“What? OH MY GOD!!! THAT’S SO WONDERFUL! I didn’t know you guys were expecting!” Stacey squeals at Kyle.

Oh my god, there’s too much good news here tonight.

Brave face. Must wear brave face.

“Rebekah, isn’t that wonderful?” Stacey prods her friend.

“Absolutely! Fantastic news, Kyle! I didn’t know either.” Rebekah says as she reaches in to give Kyle a congratulatory hug.

After the hug, Rebekah eyes her glass of red wine. It’s too full. She can’t possibly drink it all in one shot (again) without making a fool of herself at the company Christmas party.

There’s only one other way out.  

“You know what?” Rebekah says. “I’m really not feeling well. I think I need to go home.” She says as she places her wine glass down on a nearby table.

“Oh.” Stacey says as her face falls.

“I’ll be alright,” Rebekah giggles resassuringly at her friend. “It’s just been a long day.” She says as she wraps her arms around Stacey and gives her a hug for a few seconds too long.

Within a few minutes Rebekah has crossed the floor, grabbed her coat, pushed the button for the elevator, and now she waits for it to arrive. A time management skill that she’s honed after years of working, Rebekah pushes the button to turn her phone on and unlocks it to see if she’s missed anything.

Missed Call. The display shows.

She flips through her text messages, Voicemail, it reads.

Rebekah clenches her jaw at the voicemail. She breathes out, enters her passcode, and raises the phone to her ear and hears…

Hello. This message is for Rebekah Standard. We’ve booked your appointment with Dr. Mertul who will be your oncologist on Friday, December 22nd at 3:45 PM. He’s located at…

The Beginning of Tortuous Tales

I want to write stories.

Stories that are weird and magical, stories rooted in my life, or stories dipped in humour. There are lots of topics to cover from how I feel today, to day-to-day life lessons and hassles, to whether aliens really exist. (I don’t know the answer to that question. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention.)

I’ve had two other writing projects that are available to the public. One was titled, 1500 Words or Less, and it is a collection of stories written under 1500 words. The stories told consist of both darker (loss, depression, grief) and lighter (chasing your dog, travelling) stories. Currently, I have only 5 stories on the website.  I hope to add more stories soon, but we’ll see how it goes.

The other project I completed this year was titled, Pushing Boundaries, and it was the first blog I started here, at WordPress. The blog centered on pushing myself outside of my comfort zone. From Pushing Boundaries I learned many things about myself. But one of the things I reaffirmed: is that I missed writing stories.  Whether they are fictional, or non-fiction, I enjoy hiding behind the veil of a story.

Also, after creating two rule-loaded projects (stories written in 1500 words or less, and Wow! there were SO MANY rules for Pushing Boundaries!) this blog will have no rules. I’ll post whenever I write something new that I want to share in this forum. There will be no limits on the number of words, no time frames in terms of how often I will post, and no expiration date.

This will be an ongoing project.

Enter: Tortuous Tales. 

Now that I read the title of this blog, it sounds creepy. One of the definitions for tortuous according to Dictionary.com means “full of twists and turns.” (There’s another definition as well, that means “excessively lengthy and complex” but I’ll try not to let that happen. Of course, this first blog post seems long. Hey, it’s a work in progress.)

So, tortuous. What does this mean for this blog? The stories can be any type of genre: fictional, non-fiction, science-fiction, romance, memoir, children’s stories…whatever I want.

According to Oxforddictionaries.com tales means: “a fictitious or true narrative or story, especially one that is imaginatively recounted.”

I’ll do my best.