Merry

A few months ago, after almost a decade of corporate 9 to 5 deluge, I quit my job. I traded my staffer hat in for a comfier freelance version so I could finally dedicate more time to my writing and art. The money isn't as consistent, I stew a lot of lentils, and my sweatpants are on too much of the time, but it seems to be paying off.  

The nice humans at The Flexible Persona are publishing some of my new short stories. Eloise came out in January, read it here. Another one, Merry, was posted today. The third story, Erin, is coming out in March.

More writing news to come. xoxo

Pearl

They snuck out of windows and took with us her Post-it Note reminders to pick up Virginia Slim Menthol 100’s from 7-11. No ID was necessary. Everyone in town knew Pearl with the exception of the people in the hills with money. To them she was faceless, nameless. Someone who hung with bottom feeders. She cleaned their sheets, swept their floors, spent their tip money on booze and crystal necklaces for her and her daughters. It was easy to get away with things around Pearl because she was in more trouble than most people. Drinking and pills and men. They would move in, overdraw her bank account, steal from her jewelry box, sleep with her friends. Sometimes there were blow jobs on couches. Sometimes Tarot and crystals, Led Zeppelin. And always, thick smoke stained curtains were drawn for sleeping off morning hangovers. Every day was a cause to celebrate. It was the little things. Another passing report card from her daughter, enough food in the fridge, a relatively clean bathroom, no more stomach flu. Pick up a bottle of vodka and some juice. Maybe some those pizza poppers for the girls. She’d make her famous slaw, spicy chicken wings, pie with store bought crust and apples from a can. Her daughters would party with her, her daughter’s friends too. She would console them about having to go to rehab and juvenile hall. Their parents didn’t know how to love them, but she would care for them, she promised. She sang Rhiannon while stroking their oily teenage hair. She longed for the clean life. For days without smoking and hacking up residue. She’d get a new job. She would make it work this time. The girls wouldn’t have to help pay for food anymore. The house would be clean, laundry folded, tucked neatly inside lined dresser drawers. Just her and her daughters perched on the couch watching B movies, only cigarettes this time. 

Gloria

Twenty years ago she was sitting on his lap in the backyard of someone’s dream. Summertime in Denver. The lady in his life, the only one he told himself for years in forlorn echoes. She wore boyfriend jeans and a white tank top, skinny from last night’s cocaine party and breakfast diet soda. Yellow glasses confused her sullen eyes for sassy. She painted paintings of a one day cat standing in the threshold of a dilapidated church. She wore flapper hats, capri pants with character prints, polka dot socks. She claimed she was sad and couldn’t bear her sadness in the presence of others. Her sadness needed to be contained in a desert bubble. Her sadness was too big and grew bigger five years later in New York where streets were doused in glum. She caught the last plane and left. I hate it when people pee on the seat she’d say with chirpy disdain, her long fingers running through my boyfriend’s hair. He said every man would fall in love with her because she was exactly the kind of woman every man wanted to fall in love with. Even Beck he said, Beck would instantly fall in love with her. Charismatic without being obnoxious, maternal without being motherly, creative without being arrogant, smart without being pretentious, funny without being goofy, cynical without intense souring. Let’s wake up tomorrow and do yoga. Later she would do yoga in front of people looking to do yoga in front of other people. She would asana up and down and in between those looking for Yogic answers. They would listen of course. She was the real deal. She had been through cocaine addiction, breakups, fear of death and after parties. Recently this happened. She sent a heartbreak email to a girl who wasn’t part of the heartbreak. The girl, realizing the email wasn't for her, quickly scanned the email without taking in too much of the content. She read the email not unlike she would read the ingredients to her favorite container of chocolate marshmallow ice cream. Milk, eggs, cocoa, sugar. etc.. Considering her experience with yoga and people of yoga who supposedly take in reality and the situations of reality fully, without judgement, with non-attached ownership of information, she replied to this accidental sending of an email with an apology. This wasn’t for you. Please disregard. There was no need to explain. She was going through a breakup and she sent an email defining her feelings about the breakup addressing the person who was also part of the breakup. His name was Larry. She wasn’t sure about Larry, but Larry would always be sure about her. End of story.