The Last TM

Photo Credit:  Jeanne Mcright, Dreamstime

I don't want this to happen. I can't tell down from up; up from down. Darkness surrounds me, the weight of it pressing hard on my chest. But darkness has no weight... It's water! Immediately, I suppress the breath I was about to take. I have to get out - now. But which way to go?

A faint glimmer eases my panic. It appears to be below me, but clutching my faith, I approach it. Fear, the weight of the water, and my desperate need to breathe inhibit me. I don't have much time. Thankfully, as I struggle toward the lighted area, it grows wider and brighter. Suddenly my head and shoulders break the surface. I draw a ragged, painful breath. Then another, and another. I see my guiding light. It's a lamppost on The River Walk. Slowly, I make my way toward it. At last, I cast myself onto the rocky bank beneath the promenade. Good thing I'm a strong swimmer. Otherwise, I wouldn't have made it.

I try to rest, but noise from above disturbs me. I look up to the bridge and see that a crowd surrounds the trunk of a car that has breached the railing and now hangs vicariously by only its rear wheels. Both front doors are open. Ray frantically screams my name, and then I see him toward the front of the crowd. Some of the people are holding him back from the edge. I remember now...

In the inside lane but driving far too fast, Ray raced to the rehearsal dinner for Lon and Gail. He hadn't believed me when I read the directions from Gail's TM, so I showed him my phone. He took his eyes off the road for barely a second. The car careened off the center divide, crossed the traffic lanes, hit the side of the bridge and smashed through the railing. The seatbelts saved us both. Ray undid his and quickly climbed out of the car. He reached back for me, calling for me to hurry. I unbuckled my seatbelt, crossed over the console to the driver's seat, and grabbed his outstretched hand. But the car lurched away from him. He lost his hold and I slid back. He called for me again and I tried to cross the console again, but my foot hit something on the door and it flew open. I scrambled to stay on the seat, but couldn't find a handhold. Ray's hand was barely an inch too far away. Gravity won. I slid down through the door and fell into the water. 


Wow. I fell a long way. Automatically, I reach into my front pocket for my phone. But of course it isn't there. I can't text Ray that I'm okay. He's still pulling away from those who are holding him, trying to jump into the river after me. I have to stop him.

Suddenly among the crowd, I am still too spent to attract his attention. I fight my way to his side and touch my hand to his cheek. Gradually, he stops trying to jump over the bridge railing, and instead, turns and sinks down in front of it, his head in his hands. I sit down beside him and hug him close to me. I'll stay with him; comfort him until he's ready to see me. Once his mind is at ease, I can rest.

Meme's Lesson

Lately, I've been visited by writing prompts. The one for last week inspired Beauty Secret. The one for this week inspired Meme's Lesson, which I'm sharing with you below. Enjoy!

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My grandmother relaxes in her ancient rocking chair; her head bent over the hand-sized fabric doll she has just sewn. She reaches over and pinches a small tuft of cotton from the giant ball resting on the rickety table beside her. Her movements are languid, yet methodical as she stuffs the doll. It's the latest of a countless number that she has made, and her clients love her for it. The basket beside her is filled with them, made from fabrics of every shade of the human rainbow. I am Antoinette and I have traveled here from Manhattan to ask my grandmother for advice. At the moment, I am pacing in frustration, annoyed that Meme does not understand the severity of my problem.

"Sit down child," she scolded in her soft, hypnotic Louisiana drawl. "You're going to fall through one of those loose planks. Then where will you be?"

"Under the porch I guess," I sassed her.

Meme laughed under her breath as she glanced up at me. "Now Annie don't get peeved with me. I am not your problem." She threaded her needle to finish off the newly stuffed doll. "Besides, you're missing the obvious."

"Then enlighten me Meme," I said, the harshness of anxiety in my tone.

My grandmother, the voodoo doctor, remains unperturbed. She is far from the backwards old lady she may seem to be, having earned doctoral degrees in both psychology and botanical medicine. Her several acre botanical garden sprawls behind her tiny, picturesque cottage; all that is left of the plantation that once spread for a few hundred acres along the marshy bank of Bayou Saint LaCroix. Many are curious about my grandmother's garden, as it is filled with the same plants that are in the factory gardens of many pharmaceutical companies. However, snakes slithering in and out of the nearby bayou are a more than sufficient deterrent. The medicines Meme derives from her plants differ from mass produced ones only in that she uses undiluted plant extracts - making them far more potent. It's not that my grandmother pretends to be backward; it's that her clients see what they want to see and she allows it.

"So you come to me as Mama Leveaux - to take away your problems?" she teased, paying me back for my sass. By an unknown - to me at least - consensus, clients reward the best voodoo doctor of the generation with the honorary title of Mama Leveaux, paying homage to the greatest voodoo queen of them all. My grandmother wears the title proudly.

"Meme, you know that's not true. I hate for you to think that of me," I answered as I went to her and knelt anxiously by her side. So much for sass. "But I do need your help. I'm... I'm caught between two realities is the best I know how to describe it. One that is just beyond my reach and the other that won't let me go."

It's as if Meme hasn't heard me. She attaches the long sticking pin to the doll, latticing it through the gris-gris pocket on its back. Then she wraps the completed doll in a plastic gift bag and ties the bag off with a bow. Still seeming to ignore me, she places the doll in the basket and picks up the fabric for the next one. "Strange thing," Meme muses. "I always offer a client the basket and they invariably choose a doll closest to their own complexion. As if the color of the doll helps their healing."

Meme practices voodoo blanc, where clients sometimes use dolls as a kind of acupuncture stand-in. They use the pin to pierce the doll in the problem area before they take my grandmother's potions. This is different from voodoo rouge (sometimes noir) - which isn't really voodoo at all - where the doll is used to try to cast pain on someone else.

I again attempt to capture her attention. "Meme, there is no potion that can help me with my problem. I'm asking for your advice - as my grande mere." I lay my head on her knee. "All my life I've watched you move through different realities - sometimes several at the same time. Please - tell me what to do."

Meme stopped rocking and placed her hand gently along the side of my face, lightly stroking my cheek with her fingertips. The gentleness of her touch eases my anxiety. "The reality that won't let you go hangs onto you because you are too good at what you do. But you already know that." Now that I had her complete attention, I could wait patiently while she gathered her words and mentally translated them into her second language. In a few moments, she continued. "You're overlooking the ingredient that will help you to push against that reality and use the momentum of the push to stretch out and grasp your new reality with both hands."

In disbelief, I exclaimed, "Meme! A physics lesson?"

Meme laughed out loud this time. "Call it what you will. Truth is truth."

"But you make it sound like I already have what I need," I objected. "What ingredient am I overlooking?"

"Silly child." Meme bent and kissed my cheek, softening her rebuke. "It's the same thing my clients use with my dolls and potions to heal themselves. The same thing that makes Voodoo such a powerful, spiritual magic," she answered. Her eyes deepened, becoming as tranquil as the bayou that nourishes her garden. "Quite simply... Faith. You already have it - all you need to do is use it."

Beauty Secret

Madame Marchand is, everyone agrees, a timeless, ageless beauty. There are many rumors, but no one really knows how she does it. I've been picked to find out. The party is in full swing downstairs. I've sneaked up the back staircase and am about to enter her room. My hand lightly touching the doorknob. I pause and listen intensely for sounds of anyone within. Nothing. Then I turn my head and try to hear whether someone is coming up either set of stairs. No one. All is quiet; I am alone. I open the door, slip inside and close it stealthily behind me.

Madame's bedroom is unlit, save for the moonlight coming in through the open French doors. Still standing near the closed door, I examine the room. Everything seems normal enough. The bed, the wardrobe... Then it claims my attention - a lone, exquisitely crafted bottle sitting atop her dressing table. Odd. Every dressing table I've seen is covered with bottles of perfumes, jars of potions, containers of everything a woman feels she needs to be beautiful. Yet here on Madame's dressing table, stands only a single bottle. Stepping noiselessly closer, I see that the bottle's shape is that of an upside down teardrop. The stopper is tall and fluted, with a single, translucent rose budding from its top. The bottle catches the moonlight, glowing in ever changing, pastel colors.

Drawn by its beauty, I approach the bottle slowly. It wears an ivory label. I stop, listening again for sounds of other intrusions. There are none. Hesitantly, I reach out my hand and close it around the bottle. It is unexpectedly warm. I lift it carefully. Holding it up to the moonlight, I read the inscription on the label. It says, "Love - massively destructive to hatred, selfishness and greed. Use liberally." I'm curious, but uneasy so I start to put the bottle back on the table - but now, there is another, identical one in its place.

The bottle in my hand becomes hotter and the stopper starts to rattle. I reach out my other hand to steady the stopper just as it pops out of the bottle. The delicious scent from the bottle is so sumptuous that without thinking I draw it up to my lips and drink it dry. The liquid transforms into a warming flush that spreads throughout my body. I am filled with contentment and purpose. The bottle is suddenly heavier in my hand. It has become full again. I lovingly replace the stopper and put the bottle gently into my hidden pocket.

With a lightened heart, I leave the room and go back to the party, descending the front staircase as if I had only been where I was supposed to be. My gaze is drawn to Madame, who also looks up at me. Our eyes meet; she smiles a radiant, knowing smile. I step onto the floor and turn to head in her direction. A small crowd gathers around me. "Did you do it? What did you find?" the whispers ask. Running my fingers along the bottle in my pocket, I answer with purpose. "Go and see for yourself." Not one ever did.

Mirrors Don't Lie

Originally posted on RedRoom.com, 10/7/2010
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The mirror never lies. Every line and wrinkle; each tiny, barely visible fault is mercilessly and exactly reproduced in the reflection. It's enough to drive a person to insanity.

Janelle never faced the mirror straight on. Rather she approached it from the side, sliding herself into view. She always chose to slide in from the left side; insuring that she saw the right side of her face first. It was her best side. Now, fully facing the mirror, she examined her dusky complexion.

Not bad, considering I had a late night out. Lynnette is fickle when it comes to choosing her companion. I need to look my best. Antoinette thinks that she'll get the best of me today but she won't. Janelle scrubbed her face and patted it dry. She surveyed her choices.

I'm going sultry today. Let's see - a mahogany rouge with pink undertones, burgundy lip gloss, pecan brown eye shadow. Mascara? Not very much. No eyeliner. I need just a touch of foundation, especially near my left eye to cover up that splotch. When I don't get it right, it messes up everything else. She slowly applied the foundation to the reddened patch of skin, checking her reflection from every angle. Finally satisfied, she applied the rest of her makeup. A few finishing touches to her lip gloss, and she stepped back; careful to stay within the simulated natural light cast by the bulbs that surrounded the mirror. She checked her face, turning from right to left, then back again.

Perfect. I think I'll wear my red flowered silk today. I like the way the colors of the flowers catch the light and it's one of Lynnette's favorites.

Antoinette entered the bathroom as always; consciously avoiding her reflection until all signs of sleep were scrubbed away. After patting her face dry, she looked into the mirror. Scrutinizing her peach complexion, she was satisfied that there was no indication of fatigue.

Not bad. I can work with this. Janelle will compete with me to be Lynnette's companion today. Only one of us can win and it's going to be me. I need to pay close attention to my nose though; minimize the bridge. When I don't get it right, it messes up everything else. Antoinette chose one of the two bottles of foundation on the counter - the one that exactly matched her skin tone. Using quick, brushing strokes, she applied it to her face. The second bottle contained a slightly darker shade, which she smoothed lightly around her nose. She checked her face, turning from right to left, then back again.

Looks good from that angle, and that, and that. Got the effect I want. Regarding her hazel eyes in the mirror, she hesitated over her choices of eye shadow. I know, I'll wear the green paisley silk dress today and play up the green in my eyes. She chose mint and jade green eye shadows; expertly applying the darker shade then the lighter one. Again she checked her reflection. It'll do. A little rouge, barely there lipstick; and...perfect.

Dr. Cranston looked up at the sound of the cane approaching his door; tapping, tapping. As the young woman entered his office he asked, "Well Lynnette, with whom am I visiting today?"

Lynnette regarded herself in the mirror slightly above his head. "It's Janelle, of course," she answered. "At least that's what the mirror says - and mirrors don't lie." Turning her sightless eyes down toward where she'd last heard his voice, she beamed him a smile.

My #FridayFlash? On RedRoom

I've joined Red Room. There's a contest going on over there - two days to write a short story. I met the challenge and posted my story - "Mirrors Don't Lie". So check it out - it's my #fridayflash. Please leave a comment on the story - I'd like to know what you think!
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Update - Oops... didn't realize you had to register to post a comment. Still hope you enjoy the read!

Second Best

These scenes were in my new novel. I found that removing them tightened the focus of the story. They are hugely relevant as backstory. I am happy to present them as a short.

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Today I'll get him. Curtis waited and watched; his excitement feeding on the anticipation of long overdue revenge. Gonna shoot his ass. Tired of being second. Tired of Jake winning everything. Time to put him in his place. Curtis crouched, shielded by the trunk and shade of one of the cottonwoods on the forested slope rising above his family's home. This is my birthday party. I only invited the stupid cottager so I could beat him - in front of everybody. Curtis reached for the tail of his shirt and pulled it up to wipe his face. Wearing dark stuff today so I blend in with the trees and bushes. Hot as hell, but it's worth it. Jake's not cooler than me; he's not better than me. Just been lucky, that's all.

From his hidden vantage point, Curtis scrutinzed the two teams of boys - one in red jackets, one in blue - racing up and down the slope, trying to shoot each other with their paintball guns. I only want Jake. Not going to middle school with everybody thinking he's better. I hit a home run; he hits a grand slam. I run for a touchdown; he passes for three. Bad breaks - all of them. I'm Senator Dalton's son. I'm the one everybody should be following around.

Electric expectation charged through Curtis, temporarily suspending his bitter thoughts. He hunkered down into position; an impatient hunter forced to wait for a chance at his prey. I'll bet Jake's never been in a yard this size. His house isn't even big as our garage. I know every inch of our property - and I'm in the best spot for an ambush. All I have to do is spot him and track him long enough to get behind him and shoot. Painstakingly, methodically he moved his eyes from target to target. Just like Dad says when we're hunting. Check and reject - or check, line up the target and shoot. Looking for red jackets. Over and over it's check and reject. Not that red one, not that one... Gah! Where the hell is he? Curtis zeroed in on the jackets, checking them off one by one. There he is! I got him.

Jake disappeared and reappeared with maddening unpredictability. Curtis ghosted from tree to tree, barely keeping him in sight. Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead and shoulders, evidence of his determined effort and the mid-July heat. Making sure to stay out of paintball range, Curtis silently pursued Jake as he weaved - unscathed - between and among the boys in blue. He knows he has the weak team. He's not depending on them, he's personally taking out my guys one by one. Can't the idiots see what he's doing? He just waits behind a tree until one of the fools runs by. Curtis watched as Jake's team gathered at his signal beneath one of the oaks further down the slope. Taking advantage of their momentary gathering, Curtis quickly looked away to wipe his sweaty hands on his shorts. Don't want to miss the shot. Need my hands dry. He focused in on them again just in time to see them give a whoop and disperse. Curtis' eyes locked onto Jake. Guess he was explaining strategy. I've really got him now. My turn to be the best.

A startling noise suddenly tore through the silence. Curtis rose halfway out of his crouch turning toward the sound. Remembering to use his cover, he immediately ducked back down. Cautiously, he peered through the surrounding bushes. He was instantly relieved. It's just Marcus yelling. He always does that shit. Damn fool doesn't want to admit he's been hit. Even from here I can see that there's red paint on his blue jacket.

Shaking off the distraction, Curtis narrowed his eyes and searched again for his target. Without warning, the silence was again shattered - this time by the crack of a shot. Son of a... He wheeled and dove for cover - but too late. He felt the impact of the paint ball as it grazed his shoulder; tagging him out. Seething, he stood and faced his adversary, bested yet again. "I wondered where you were," Jake said with any easy smile. "So I went looking." The animosity that Curtis felt surged quickly and irrevocably into hatred. Jake's team approached, running up the slope. Heightening his humiliation, one of them shouted excitedly, "Jake got Curtis!" He turned to yell back down the hill, "Jake got Curtis - Jake got Curtis!"

As clearly as if his father had been standing there, Curtis heard his voice. "Never give your opponent a victory over a sore loser. Always - always lose with honor." Heeding that voice and swallowing his loathing, Curtis looked Jake in the eye. "Congratulations Jake, your team won." Jake smiled again and shook his hand. "Thanks, dude." Heading down toward the house with Jake and his other guests, Curtis hid the virulence of his thoughts; joining their laughter and banter. In spite of his efforts, one covert glance in Jake's direction was filled with malevolence. I hate that bastard and his damn grin. I'm the best and I'm going to prove it. He's a dead man.

Six years later...
Curtis stood on the beach watching the waves carry the last of the sawdust out to sea. I didn't mean it to go that far, but things got crazy... At least nobody'll ever find the bat. Carefully keeping his expression neutral, he climbed the path back up to the family house. Everybody's grieving. Gotta remember that - no matter how good it feels to finally be the best. After scrambling up to the plateau, he looked outwards toward the house. His father was walking toward him. What now? Gotta keep it cool - no one knows. No one knows... Curtis kept his expression calm.

"This isn't a good time I know, what with Jake's murder just the day before yesterday," his father said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. He gave Curtis a quick hug and released him. "But the school called and said that since you're the alternate, you have the option to take his place this fall at the Senate Page School if you want it." He paused and cuffed Curtis lightly on the chin.  "I know you didn't want to get it this way son."

"Naw, Dad. It's alright - I'll take it. It's too good an opportunity to pass up," Curtis answered. He matched his Dad's sad smile with one of his own and followed him slowly back to the house. As he would for the next several weeks, he surreptitiously checked his fingernails for traces of blood.

Random Scenes - Batter Up!

Some of the characters from my first book are rattling around in my brain clamoring for novels of their own. Unbidden, thoughts for a fantasy trilogy series have popped into my head and are now competing for my attention. (Freudian slip? I mis-spelled 'popped' as 'pooped'). If that's not enough - there are random scenes floating around. Here's one of them.
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A batter is at the plate. He's facing a pitcher he always gets the best of. He has studied his every move and consistently beats him in their faceoffs. He knows the speed of his fast ball; the speed and trajectory of his curve ball. He isn't fooled by his changeups. The batter lowers himself into his stance, brandishes his bat, and gets ready to kick the pitcher's ass yet again.


The pitcher is on the mound, facing the batter that always gets the best of him. No matter what he throws, the batter has his number and gets to base or worse - drives a homerun. He had studied the batter and still had not solved the mystery of his success. Today though, he has a surprise. He's been working on a knuckle ball slider. Difficult to master; hard to control. Outside his comfort zone. Something new and unexpected. He eyes the batter and sees that he is ready - grinning menacingly, comfortably. He is clearly expecting the at-bat to go the way they always have.


The pitcher throws his fastball. His first pitch is always fastest and the batter invariably fouls it off. As he did this time. Now - the slider or the curve? He's never pitched the batter two fast balls in a row; hesistant because of his speed statistics and knowing that a curve or changeup was not his best third pitch. Today, he has another option. He is edgy, but makes the hard decision. Knowing it would make or break him, he throws another fastball. The batter, looking slightly surprised, swings hard - and fouls it off. The pitcher relaxes. That was close.


The batter lowers himself back into his stance, sure that the pitcher is his. Two fast balls in a row. His next fast ball will most certainly be slower. If he throws a curve or a changeup, he won't have the control to make it go over the plate. The batter's specialty is low ball hitting. He smiles in anticipation of an easy victory, watching the pitcher wind up and throw. Ah - a curve. He watches the trajectory of the ball and swings at exactly the right moment in it's flight - except that the ball drops a good two inches below his bat and sails across the plate. The umpire yells him out. What the hell was that? The old dog got himself a new pitch. He glares at the pitcher, a grudging new respect in his eyes. Son of a bitch.


The pitcher trots off the mound after the out - the last of the inning; the last of the game. I got him. Today. For the first time. His team rushes him from the bullpen. He whoops and runs toward them, throwing his cap in the air. Tomorrow's a different story, but I'm in this story for now.

Boxers and Broken Hearts

A professional boxer is popularly considered to have hands that are deadly weapons. Saying "I have a broken heart" is akin to climbing into the ring with one, being pummeled to a pulp, and then saying "I have an owie." Heartbreak is not an instantaneous event that leaves a few pieces that can be swept up and put back together with a bit of crazy glue. Anyone who's experienced heartbreak knows that it feels like your heart is being torn apart, ripped asunder, or any other appropriately violent expression of pain. In any event, 'broken' doesn't begin to cover it.

Trying to hold yourself together while your heart is ripping apart is a lengthy torture of the worst kind. Not something that can be endured silently. Once it's all over and you're left with a damaged, wounded heart, how do you heal it?

Some of us try to shield it by keeping it away from love. I suppose that's some sort of survival. Seen any zombie movies lately? There's no pain, no sadness; but no happiness either. It reminds me of the afternoon daquiri teas I witnessed as a child, where all the ladies were chasing their Valiums down with daiquiris or mint juleps. I can tell you they felt no pain - or anything else for that matter. That's not the way to heal your heart.

Another reaction is to push the pain off on others. Hurting someone else doesn't take the pain away - and doesn't hurt the person who broke your heart in the first place. So again I ask, how do you heal your heart?

Contrarily, love is the only cure for a wounded heart. You have to dare to love again for your heart to be whole. Are you brave enough? I dare you...