First Poem of the Semester!

Autumn Rhythm 

heart racing-

exoskeleton of a long lost beat,

like abstract sprites violently

suspended—shadows,

emotion dripping off

the phosphorescent wall.

pizzicato pulse-

we are the radiant chaotic

balance, spasmodic children of Eros

and Eris—unraveling nebulous threads

in meter with the unrestrained

autumn rhythm.

lascivious melody-

draped in ethereal silk

Titania growls, restless,

while her children devour one another-

sharp black blood and flecks

of the soul brutally cast off.

tumultuous silence-

you turn to find us, bottled breath,

anxious under your frigid stare-

but you’re blinded by logic and do not hear

the exoskeleton of a long lost beat

over the racing of your own heart.

you leave us in pagan darkness

and so we begin our dance once again.

Welcome to the "Adult" World?

So I was sitting in my apartment yesterday and I realized that I only have about two more weeks until the start of school. Aside from the hour or two that I spent on Amazon trying to find all of my books and coming to terms with the financial hit I am going to take in purchasing all the said tomes of knowledge--I am really excited for school to start back up. The only thing that I am even slightly nervous about is that it is my last semester. Honestly, it didn't even strike me until after I was done finding my books and started looking for openings in my field that I am basically four short months away from, what is supposed to be, the rest of my life.

This apparently is when I start preparing myself for the "adult" world. I don't know why, but that is what everyone calls this stage of graduating college and moving on in the world. Forget that I have been functioning like an adult for the last two, almost three, years-- living in an apartment, paying bills, working a mostly full time job, and trying to average out how long it will take me to pay back my student loans. Yet, society deems that leaving the world of academia is synonymous with reacquainting oneself with reality and its responsibilities. That is not to say that I can't understand the other side of the coin, because being in school is a different lifestyle than having a steady 9 to 5, but I don't feel right saying that after college I'm going to upgrade into an adult and that all of the work and skills I have acquired up to that point are merely juvenile displays of my potential.

Yes, I am still a little nervous about the end of my college career,  but I am also excited. Not for this proclaimed adulthood, but because I am going to have the opportunity to have a career to show what kind of mature human being I already am. Granted college is definitely a time to mature and learn, but at least give yourself some credit. It annoys me every time that there are people who post out on Facebook or Twitter that they got their first "adult" job or are ready for the "adult" world because they graduated college-- you are just showing how childish and unprepared you really are. We are already adults and all we are doing is moving into bigger pond with more adults who have more or less experience than we do.

So to all my fellow graduates of 2012, do not be intimidated by the "adult" world because you are ready for it. Having a career isn't any scarier than pulling an all nighter to cram all the information into your head before the test, or worrying about the two research papers, one project, and interpretive dance that you have to turn in on the same day. If we can do all of that and still have Thirsty Thursdays or play a sport or just manage to remain sane, then we will be just fine.

Indian Drills

Here is another piece that I have pulled out of the archives of last semester. Just for fun. 

            I kept glancing over my shoulder to see if I could find your face in the crowd again. All that I got for my troubles was a mouthful of asphalt because I tripped over some guy’s shoe as he tried to cut in. I quickly pushed myself back up and rubbed a rough hand over my body and face as I worked back into a steady jog. The damage was minimal—road burn on my hands and knees and a few jagged lines from an idiot who decided to wear spikes to a road race. The large paper square on my chest, yelling 836 in a cheerful cherry red, was crumpled and the perforated strip at the bottom was missing. Apparently, I was going to have to cross the finish line with an alias.

Hello, my name is -----; I have just finished running 23.2 miles. It used to be Travis, but apparently I lost it somewhere along the way. 

  The verdict came back and informed me that I would probably survive, plus, now the volunteers at the water station in mile three would think I was scrappy. 

I was in the middle of the ten minute mile pack, not too far off from where I needed to be to finish this race sometime today. I let my mind coast for a moment as I got back up to speed; passing stay at home moms with athletic strollers, teenagers in team shirts. 

What were you doing here? 

I couldn’t keep my eyes from scanning the people fencing in the street, maybe it had all been my imagination. Some woman with the same honey brown hair; a teenager wearing that hideous, faded graphic tee that you wore every night to bed; just enough to trick my brain into seeing you. I focused on moving up into the small group ahead of me, my mantra melting into the rhythm of my footfall on the warm ground—she’s not here, she’s not here. Still I found myself fighting the urge to look over the quickly thinning line of people off to my right. This might be a more challenging race than I thought. The trees were the light yellow green of spring and as we ran further from the city. I felt my stride lengthen and my pace ease from the hasty, adrenaline fed dash that your possible attendance had caused. I started trying to make shapes out of the shadow of the clouds on the road; there was no way that you would come all the way out here. 

            The footfalls lethargically reached my ear. Still locked in my task of reforming shadows the steps sounded like the familiar pattern of a slow rain on my bedroom window. He was in no rush to catch me; it didn’t even sound like he was racing, maybe just out to enjoy the weather. Suddenly, I realized that I never listened to people’s footsteps except when running. I must have slowed down while musing over the depths of a person’s soul that could be obtained by listening to their footsteps because I looked over and there he was.

Middle-aged and head taller than me with chestnut locks that girls must love to run their fingers through. Mine is black like Sunday morning coffee, with a little salt thrown in for early sophistication, and cut short so that I can tame the curls my mother decided were necessary to pass down. I could feel a stitch forming in my side, so I slow down and coast in his pace. As I start to get into a rhythm my mind starts to wander and I wonder why he’s running today. A casual hobby or maybe he was trying to be healthier?

I imagine the lovely young wife he has at home; the kind that dresses in jeans, silky blouses, and vintage jackets—stylish but not overly so, but she could still lie around the house in sweats and watch the game with him. They have a small apartment uptown with wood floors and beautiful windows, watching over a small grove of trees. She dances around the kitchen with flour on her cheeks as she bakes, and she tells him that she wants settle down. She wants a small child with green eyes and honey brown hair to curl up next to her and listen to her read. He waits—stalls—holds her close and tells her to hold on just a little longer. He wraps her in his arms and wraps her heart around his finger. She promises, and he kisses her forehead, pushing the thought from her mind. He wants to move up in the company, maybe start his own. He wants a cliff hanging split level, and a roaring turbo engine—kids can wait. 

There is a sharp twist in my side and I snap back to the honey colored grasses and the simmering black asphalt stretched out in front of me. The man throws me an irritated look before picking up his pace and pulling away until he is just a hazed blur of color. I slow down clutching at my side to ease the pain.

You should mind your own business. 

I heard you chuckle gently and it continued to echo in my ears. You must be feeling particularly persistent because you had followed me all the way out here. Staggering to my feet, I curse at you. Shoving you out onto the pavement and, ignoring the pain, sprinted—determined to leave you back there.

After half a minute I’m forced to stop as the pain has found my lungs and started crushing them in its searing grip. Slowly, I am able to look up without feeling like my lungs were going to be ripped from my diaphragm and I make eye contact with a teenage boy as he starts to speed up. No, better yet, he was going to just sprint pass me. He saw me doubled over here like I had the plague and he was going to fly past to avoid the half second that he would have to pity me. 

His hair is short and dark like mine, but he had the soft caramel color of someone who was born in the sun. I couldn’t help but respect that he was sprinting like it was the last mile instead of the nineteenth. I can’t help the endorphin fed giggle that bubbles up out of my throat as your voice subtly slides under the unguarded door into my mind. 

I bet he is late for a very important date.

The scene suddenly flashes past me like pictures in a flip book. After the race—as a celebration—he would go home and soak in a warm bath, stretch, maybe fix up an omelet with tender bits of salmon and peppers mingling with the eggs. Later, when he would go and pick her up, she would tell him how exciting watching him run had been and how well he did. They’ll go to an Italian place with a delicate tea candle cradled in the middle of the table, and he won’t be able to stop noticing how beautiful she looks with the shadows playing across her face. He will keep getting distracted by the urge to reach over brush his hand against her cheek, and she will giggle and tease him about still being spaced out. 

He’ll drop her off, starting to walk away, and then in a super nova of courage and daring he will pull her into a startled kiss. Backing away, he has a moment to notice how her fingers had twisted into the back of his shirt and when she pulls him back it is as if each kiss is a breath—necessary and deep—and he cannot force himself to part with the very essence that is giving him life.

This time I am ripped back into reality from the sudden realization that my throat was collapsing and somehow your malicious hand was succeeding in smothering me. I was on my knees suffocating in a giant oxygen filled sphere and your echoing laughter brutally reminded me that the irony had not escaped you. It was like waking up and finding myself in your creative construction of hell, twisting and braiding your darkness into the physical world around me until is started cracking and shattering like flash frozen tree branches. 

I shuddered as the sun on my back reminded me of how you would sneak up behind me and wrap your arms around my chest. The breeze felt like your hair brushing my face as I breathed you in every morning. I felt the hot pulse of tears in my throat. The rustling leaves and grasses was the symphony of breaking glass and ceramic. All that noise and chaos that was then followed with silent waves of indifference that radiated from every action and word until our life became one massive vacuum. The delusion that I drowned myself in as you stopped coming back to the apartment. I was giving you space, being accepting of your needs, you would come back.

You were still laughing. 

I could feel the boiling wave of hate in my chest. I wanted to strangle that mocking laugh that was still ringing in my ears. I wanted to shake you. Demand why you tortured me. Why didn’t you just leave?  Why keep coming back?

There was a touch on my shoulder and I mentally dismissed it until it became more persistent in trying to get my attention. I swiped my hand back and turned with a snarl. 

What more could you possibly want? 

The young woman’s blue eyes were wary and she stood indignantly over me, “Well, I guess that is what I get for trying to help the idiot on the side of the road.”

I sluggishly came back to myself and wondered how long I had been sitting here. The girl was in loose shorts and a distracting neon green t-shirt, so I deduced that the race wasn’t over—yet. 

“So are you going to get up or did you think that they were going to move the finish line to you?” She crossed her arms and stood waiting impatiently for me.  

“I just had a stich and was resting.”

“What? You need some water or something?”

I cleared my cracked throat, “No, I’m fine. I was just taking a minute to catch my breath.”

She stared skeptically at me, “I’ve never seen someone catch their breath so dramatically.”

“I was being stupid and running Indian drill style,” I flashed a weak smile.

“Yeah, you’re pretty stupid to run like that,” she offered me a hand even though I could tell she wasn’t buying my excuse, “but I guess running a race is like a big Indian drill. Pass one guy, chill out, and then speed up to catch the next guy.” 

            I grimaced as I felt the lactic acid burn through my veins as I stood, “Too bad most of them have enough fight to always come back and sneak up behind you. Then you just end up leapfrogging the stubborn pain-in-the-ass ‘til the end,” I mutter. The girl laughed and started to jog patronizingly in front of me.

“Do you think you can make it or should I finish for you?”

“I’m pretty sure I can make these last four miles without you, Mama Bird.”

“Right, if you could have seen yourself laying there on the side of the road you would be doing the same thing,” she said and turned and started into a steady jog. 

            I took a deep breath and winced as I felt the burning in my legs like peroxide in a cut, but I knew it was good for me. Maybe by the grace of God or some all-powerful being the burning would cleanse me of you too. I hesitated. 

            There was no response. 

The silence was almost worse than feeling you reverberating through my body.  I kept the girl in the neon green shirt a few paces in front of me. My mind was like a tennis match as it volleyed the arguments and rebuttals of your sudden disappearance.

 

I was anxious that just being in such a close proximity to her might trigger a jealous reaction from you because, honestly, I couldn’t handle much more of your abuse at the moment. Then I felt a twinge of something—pain or sadness maybe—in my chest as I realized that if you were gone, you were gone for good. Grief started to pour in through the cracks and holes that you left and started filling up in my chest. My rational mind was trying to instill some sort of order and composure, but between reliving the drowning grief and the panicked realization that I was losing it; my rational mind really didn’t stand a chance.  

So instead it leaned quietly against the wall and took down copious notes for me to leaf through later. It noted the strange itch in between my shoulder blades—daring me to turn around. This perked it up and for a moment the rest of my brain stopped panicking, like a small child that knows his mother is home and everything was going to be fine. My greatest demon and my most destructive hope could be right behind me. 

My pace quickened slightly and I forced my mind to focus on the painful neon green in front of me. 

Think about how much I hated the color—how did someone even come up with a color like that? How did someone even come to own a shirt that almost made your eyes bleed if you saw it in daylight? Why am I not blind? 

Think about anything else, just don’t look back. 

            As the last three miles dwindled I found myself catching up to the girl until we were side by side—I was too frightened to leave her. I felt like you were coasting easily behind us, just waiting for the best time to dash forward and cut in front of me and forcing me to run in the shadow of grief and anger until I was strong enough to pass you. I could feel your smile, the image of the Cheshire cat popped up in an obscure corner of my mind, sweet and gentle, hiding the twisted, hungry snarl. You were just toying with me. You were just waiting until we were alone, then the real fun would start. 

It was too soon that we crossed the finish line. The young woman congratulated me as she gasped for air, her arms resting on her knees and her chocolate hair hiding her face. As I tried to catch my breath I could feel the pressure building up in my temples as you crammed yourself in. 

She is beautiful, isn’t she? Athletic, fiery personality—I’m sure you would be great together. Except that you have a dark shadow, don’t you? One too many skeletons in the closet for someone like her. Isn’t that right?  

She straightened, an excited smile on her face, as she went to hug me, but then she stopped. My face was contorted in pain and I had pressed my hand to the bridge of my nose to try and levitate the pressure. The so instead she gave me a knowing smile and ran off to the booths that were lining the area around the finish. I felt nauseous as my skin prickled at your sensual, unseen touch. I had given up on trying to fend you off and was now just focused on trying to fortify myself for the destruction that was sure to come. 

Suddenly, there was a bottle of water that popped up from under my arm. I turned and the young woman was standing there with a playful smile offering the sweating plastic tube.

“I get headaches after a run too sometimes and if you hydrate fast enough usually you can stop them right in their tracks,” she tossing the bottle gently to me.

I stood there astonished for a moment. Why did she care so much? She didn’t know me from Adam. But I caught the water bottle and for a moment I felt like gravity had returned to normal and I forgot about you, but only just for a moment. 

            Then a built guy with the posture of a military man walked over and wrapped his arm around her waist. She glanced at him annoyed and then threw an apologetic smile at me. “My ride’s here,” she said trying to convince a joking tone into her voice. I just nodded awkwardly and waved, not sure how to handle the situation.

That was your chance Prince Charming, but you blew it. Oh well. I guess it is just going to be you and me tonight. 

I watched them quietly for a moment as the itch between my shoulders gradually turned into the bite of your nails tearing at my skin. I turn and glare at the empty air as I try to forget the girl with the chocolate hair. I can hear your sing song voice as I stalk away from the race towards the street.

  

Don’t look behind you. 

I started towards the garage where I had left my car looking stiffly forward.

Shut up.

           

           She might be looking back for you.

SHUT UP!

Don’t look behind you. 

I try to keep my eyes focused on the street and city before me, but I can’t stop watching in horror as a black shadow slowly lurches forward from somewhere behind me and begins melting into mine, as the sun slowly snubbed itself out behind me.  

Running out of ink

So the end of summer is near and I have started looking back at all the work (writing wise) that I have accomplished and I have to admit that it is depressing.

Writing is not easy. Okay, I already knew that, but I never expected it to be so hard without the constantly pressing preimposed deadlines or subtle kicks in the ass from worthy friends when your plot structure is about as sturdy as a haphazard pile of sticks. That is not to say that I haven't been inspired, it is quiet the opposite. I have written out countless ideas and half baked characters, but I seem to lack the energy to actually start sewing all the pieces together into a mildly coherent work. So even though I don't follow these tips I feel like if I write them down and share them then maybe I will be more likely to follow them.

      5 Tips to Being a Regularly Productive Writer--sometimes                        

1. Make yourself write everyday-- Even if it is just a journal, free writing, or sketching out an idea. Sit down for like 30 minutes and just start writing. The idea is that after a while you will get accustomed to writing on a regular basis.  
2. Try free writing-- If you hit the ever looming writer's block then it is best to not try to continually smash yourself into it, right? The point behind free writing is that you just write about anything that comes to mind (much like how Virgina Woolf  writes all her stuff... stream of consciousness) and hopefully you will be able to write around your writer's block. The also really nice thing about free writing is that it can be about anything in the world, like the pen on your desk, and it doesn't have to be grammatically correct or even beautifully written. 
3. Work in a group-- Sometimes it is nice to work with friends, it helps take off some of the intensity of working alone and they can also help with things like brainstorming, editing, and all of the other times that two heads are better than one. If you work well together and tend to lean into the same genre then there might also be room for collaboration as well. 
4. Keep an idea journal-- Even if you think you will never look at that idea again or you think it is remarkably stupid, write it down. You never know when that idea might mature into a great story or maybe something to give your character a richer back story. This is also really great material to work on to start off your free writing. 
5. Read-- I know that we all want to be good writers, but sometimes being a good writer means being a good reader. If you are interested in Science Fiction, then read novels and shorts in that genre. Interested in Steampunk? Do the research and read up so that you can nail the culture and intricate details. It might also be a good idea to read outside your genre as well to get a better understanding of characters or different ways to handle a plot twist. The information is all right there if you know where and how to look for it. 

So hopefully those tips are helpful and encourage you to get out the pen and paper (okay, who are we kidding--open the laptop) and start jotting down some ideas. I know that I will probably only follow these for a week and then start to drop back into my old habits, but at least I am motivated now right? 

Eleven Months

So this last Saturday my roommate, Katherine, and I drove out to Shirleysburg, Pa to go to Creation. For those of you who might have never heard of Creation, it is a three day Christian music festival and all around really fun place to spend a day with your roommate. Aside from listening to some amazing music, chugging like a billion gallons of water, and taking an extensive number of "bishawww" photos, I stumbled on to something that really caught my interest. 

It is called the World Race. It is run through a group called Adventures in Missions and of course the first thing that drew me to the booth was the word adventure. Go figure. Katherine and I walked over and checked everything out and I found out that they specialize in a variety of mission trips from a few weeks to almost a full year. They also have specialized missions for groups or individuals of all ages. Okay, back to the original point--the World Race. It is a mission trip that spans an eleven month period and eleven countries. I was really interested and I took some information down and then we walked away. However, the idea and opportunity came with me. 

Now I have been thinking and considering the overall possibility and trying to work out the rational details. I am graduating in the Fall. I was already trying to plan a trip of some sort, unless I am blessed with the mystical appearance of a decent job, somewhere over in Europe, maybe visiting my uncle who lives in England, something like that.

For that I knew that I would require and desire companions. My first thought was my boyfriend, Brandon, who just graduated and is currently buried up to his eyeballs in internships and would need to stay here in Pa to work and try to get ready for his Board exams. Scratch.

Next thought was my best friend, Jeshanah. I couldn't imagine a better traveling companion to some beautiful European cities. Then I realized that Jes would still be in school until the following Fall and while I wouldn't mind waiting, if I managed to land a job it would make traveling a lot harder to accomplish. Scratch.

 My next option was my friend Jeremy, because of previous traveling experience in Italy and the handy couple of languages that he can speak. However, he is sadly still working on his teaching cert. and working. Scratch.





With the mission trip not only would I be with people, but I would also be doing some very good and much needed work, which is definitely more productive than a few of my friends just gallivanting around Europe.

I broke the news to Brandon that I was thinking about the trip, but in my heart I believe I am already committed to going--at any cost. He simply smiled at me and told me that God had put this in my heart and that was why I couldn't stop telling people and thinking about it. It isn't all just excitement, there is a little nervousness and fear mixed in as well. It is a lot of money and I lot of planning that I am going to have to work out, but I think I am going to try and do it. Granted I am going to have to suffer the wrath of my parents as well for moving so far away for so long, but I feel like this is something that I really want, and have, to do. I will keep you guys updated. 

Scrivener and Character Sketching

I figured that just posting "The Diner" wasn't good enough by itself because I didn't actually have to do any writing today for it so here is the real post.

Something that I have discovered recently, thanks to my dear friend Jeshanah, is a program called Scrivener. (For all the writing nerds out there that are mega curious I have posted a link to the site.)

And this is what it looks like (Taken from Google Images)

Scrivener Link

See I didn't lie.













So I have started using the program to work out a really interesting story idea that has been brewing for a few days and I have to say that I am already in love with it. It breaks everything down and yet still keeps everything in the same program so I don't have to have like ninety million Word documents for everything.

Which brings me to character sketching. I usually don't have to work on character sketches because my pieces have always been in the short story genre and I could work out a character or two as I wrote. That was sort of my intention as I started just getting down the basic, specific information that I knew I would forget if I didn't write it down somewhere. Then I started thinking about this one character, Evain.

There were a few quirks and traits that I wanted and then I started thinking about the culture that would have produced her character and I started fleshing out the Kahao people. Then of course I started wondering where they and more specifically, she, was from and what Evain's homeland would be like and of course since Scrivener has a template sheet for Places as well I created the Anaokala Isles.

I guess what surprised me was that just by spending a little more time on a simple character sketch, and being more organized, can make or break the creative flow for a story. There is definitely an element of luck to it as well because you have to have a story that can be built and modified indefinitely, but this program helps keep the dominoes falling without breaking your stride. I hope that this program works as well for you as it does for me. Good luck!

The Diner

This is a story that I wrote for a creative writing class that I had last fall and I have made a few minor tweaks and corrections. Enjoy! 

Catherine stepped out of her car pulling on a jacket over the top of her black work pants and neon green shirt, proudly declaring that the Route 26 Diner “has the best waffles in the state of Oregon!”. The parking lot only had a few cars and did nothing to diminish the barrenness of the space, despite the gaudy neon lights and quicksilver chrome finish. The silence and intensity of the midnight darkness pressed down on everything; in a constant battle to smother the diner’s lights and slowly crush it with its dark gravity. Shivering, Catherine hurried through the big double glass doors, nodding at Rachel, the third shift hostess, and proceeded to dispense her personal belongings in the back.

 As she walked back to the front of the restaurant, tying on a black serving apron, she surveyed the dining area with a quiet sigh. The tables had been wiped down and the menus placed behind the condiments, but it had a superficial cleanliness. She knew better than to accept the contented façade, because this self-contained diner had transformed from a job, to one of her children and she knew all the tricks and games it played. As she walked between the booths she straightened this or that, noting that exasperating space of white tiles were a booth had once sat, contrasting with the worn, not-quite-white tiles that had been treaded on faithfully for years. Here was the rip in the upholstery that some students out after Homecoming had made, the edges fraying and closely resembling an irritated cut she had on her arm. The windows had vexing scratches, there was dust that stubbornly refused to leave the fake plants by the door, plates and mugs that looked abused and exhausted, coffee rings that lingered reminiscing over those Sunday morning brunches, or first date conversations; sitting down on the tired red upholstery she wondered when this child would grow up and stop needing her to soothe and clean every bump and bruise.

A touch on her shoulder pushed her out of the quicksand of her thoughts and Catherine looked over her shoulder. Greg stood next to her with a knowing smile, “Did I catch you dosing at the wheel?” Catherine stood up and walked with him over to the long white Formica counter, pouring him a cup of coffee as he sat on the opposite side. He removed his hat, exposing a worn blue bandana. He seemed like the rough and mean type, but he had slowly warmed up to Catherine after a few free slices of pie every now and again.

“Naw, I was just thinking some about how much I absolutely love this place,” she joked, sliding the coffee over and pulling over a menu. His thick grey eyebrow had risen with a questioning playfulness and she slowly drew her hand away from the menu.

“Fine the usual then,” Catherine smirked, “double stack of waffles with blueberry syrup and a side of spiced potatoes.”

“That’s my girl,” he chuckled, then taking a sip of coffee, “So how is the college reapplication process treating you?”

Catherine stopped writing down the order and shifted uncomfortably, “Well, I’ve started, but I don’t know if it is the right time for me.” Greg’s tanned face turned solemn as he ran a hand over his thick gray beard and waited for her to continue.  

Hadn’t it just been the other night that she leaned restlessly against the wall, gazing out of that scratched window? It had been a clear, cold night, but a crisp cold that could only be a sign that winter’s rains were coming. She had watched her breath and the steam from her coffee mingle together and then advance onto the chilled glass, only to be beaten and ebb back to her lips. An endless, mindless battle against the icy unknown, and wasn’t she fighting too? Did she not look at applications and pamphlets of universities and tech schools when it was slow? Then she would grow bolder and stronger with each flip of a page; tonight she could write your two week notice. Tomorrow she would start talking to the banks; but then didn’t the unknown, in the guise of logic, push back? It is almost Christmas, or shouldn’t you wait until Adam gets his promotion? In the end, she was just down right scared. Catherine had laughed at that.

Even though it felt like she would never leave this place, like she was magnetized to it, and the harder she thought about leaving, the harder it pulled her back; she was still scared.  Catherine wanted to say that she going back to college and finishing her degree, in anything, just so she didn’t have to be here anymore. So she could stay home with Adam after they put their daughter to bed, instead of pulling on her non-slip shoes and slipping quietly out of the door to go to work. But she couldn’t because she was too worried about how they would make it if she didn’t work full-time; she was too scared she wouldn’t be able to find a new job, so she never would. 

Catherine had lost track of time, Greg had already gotten back into his sixteen-wheeled and started another new adventure, his bill folded neatly under the coffee cup. Catherine cleared the dishes, wiped the counter, and pour herself a cup of coffee. Then she walked over to the countertop stools and slid over the dull upholstery. She started to relax, taking a slow drag of the semi-stale coffee, trying to ignore the curious tingle on the back of her neck as she glanced at the small TV on the wall. The sensation grew more insistent and as she reached back to message her neck, her elbow brushed something soft.  Quickly, she glanced down to see a young girl standing impatiently at her side.

Her wavy chestnut brown hair was being unsuccessfully tamed by a headband and kept falling into her olive green eyes. Catherine’s motherly eye noticed the worn, threadbare, more-gray-than-green shirt, and the scuffs of dirt on the little girl’s khaki shorts; her pockets bulging with probably small rocks and secret treasures. Smiling, she decided that this little girl would fit the description, almost a little too closely, of her own daughter on any given day. She casually glanced around the diner for the little girl’s parents. She looked like she had just been playing doctor; a brightly colored stethoscope hung limply around her neck, a pair of thick black framed glasses poked out of the pocket of Dad’s old, dingy dress shirt that was now serving time as a lab jacket, and a small stuffed cheetah resting loyally by her side. “So where are your parents?” Catherine asked, trying to control the urgent swell of motherly concern and annoyance at the disappearance of the irresponsible parents who would leave their child alone in a diner at four in the morning.

The little girl shrugged indifferently, “I had a question.” She jerked the cheetah into her arms and started tugging on his ear, “Why do you work here? Did you want to be a waitress when you grew up?”

“No, I just work here for now.”

“Then what are you going to be later?”

“Well,” Catherine started, there was something about this girl that was nagging her, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

“Are you going to be a Veterinarian? You know the kind that works out on the safari?” 

She looked down at the girl whispering, “I haven’t wanted to do that since I was little,” Catherine turned away, starting feeling a little light-headed. Who was this little girl? Was she hallucinating? Was it because she drank too much coffee? She pulled herself up so she could look over her shoulder for Rachel, but she wasn’t anywhere in view; probably out smoking a cigarette with the cook. Catherine looked back down at the little girl, still chattering away, demonstrating how what an amazing safari vet she would be on her steadfast stuffed cheetah.

“Do you want to hear a riddle?” She asked excitedly, “You can see nothing else when you look in my face, and I will look you in the eye and I will never lie. What am I?”

Catherine started at her in disbelief. Couldn’t this little girl see that she was in the middle of talking herself out of this caffeine induced hallucination? The girl just stared up at her and Catherine watched as her face slowly twisted with impatience as the minutes ticked slowly by. Eventually, Catherine answered, “My reflection,” then forcing herself to take a long, deep breath, “you’re me, aren’t you?”

The girl laughed. “No, I’m Cat and I know what I want to be. I don’t know who you are.”   

“So if I go back to school and become a veterinarian, I’ll be someone?” Catherine asked, suddenly angry, “Well, I’m sorry it doesn’t work like that!”

“You’re just a scaredy Cat and you know it!” she taunted, pushing the cheetah into Catherine’s face, “You are just a scaredy me! Get it? Because my name is Cat? And you’re a scaredy Cat!” 

            She could hear Cat’s laughter and she felt the shame and anger start to crush her throat, the hot burning lump sat there in her chest. Cat was right, but if Catherine didn’t let out her shame it was going to slowly incinerate her from the inside out. “I hope you are happy about growing up into a scaredy cat like me,” she growled, “because you are not going to be a safari veterinarian and you are never going to do anything with your life, but work in this crappy diner for the rest of your life! Now get the hell out of my face.” Catherine could feel the tears welling up in Cat’s eyes, rolling down her own cheeks.

“You are so stupid!” Cat screamed and started hitting Catherine with the stuffed animal, “It’s your life too and you are going to punish both of us because you are too stupid and scared!! I HATE YOU!”

Catherine stood up violently, knocking over her coffee, “Well I hate you too! Now leave me the fuck alone!” she cried, feeling the tears streaming down her cheeks as she sank to the floor. She knew that she had made a mistake of settling for a life as a waitress. She had just always ignored how much she had hated herself for making the excuses to stay, for punishing herself for never finishing school. She had known the whole time, but she had failed once, and she had been scared that she would fail again.

            Rachel suddenly walked around the booth glancing around, “Cather—oh my God, what happened? I heard something break so I came in.” Catherine didn’t hear her, sitting quietly on the floor with tears on her cheeks and her coffee slowly seeping into the cracks in the tiles around her. Rachel helped her to her feet after a few moments of gentle words and cleaned up the spilled coffee and shards of ceramic.

“Catherine, why don’t you take the rest of the night off? I am worried that you might catch that bug that is going around because you never seem to sleep,” Rachel said with a forced cheerfulness. Catherine could tell that Rachel was concerned about her, like she was getting a little too close to being pushed off of the deep end.  She chuckled quietly; no it was because she hadn’t pushed herself at all. She walked out into the brisk six a.m. chill, the fog carpeting the ground, blanketing the hibernating earth. The sky was dyed a salmon color and Catherine sat in her car and watched as the earth’s phoenix shed its old fiery cloak for the soft golden rays of a new day.

But it wasn’t a new day for her. Her day had started long before in the dark of night, so the sun was her brilliant conclusion, the finale to the pyrotechnics of her epiphany. She started up the car, letting it warm up before she headed home for the day. Maybe she would chase her dream of becoming a vet, but she didn’t think so; she had different dreams and ambitions now that she could follow. All she did know was that she was certainly not going to step foot in that diner ever again.