One of your favorite submissions lost its opening bout…by a hair no less. Oh, the pain and injustice! Never fear…there is still hope.
Recognizing that the random way contestants are pitted against one another in the opening round (to keep things fair) might, at times, match up some of the best writers and knock someone out earlier than maybe they should – we came up with a way to give everybody a second chance. It’s called SAVE WEEK.
How this works is simple. Below is a list of all the submissions from the first round that lost their bout (complete with link to their bout), grouped by week. The 3rd week will be filled in once voting has closed for those bouts. In the comments below you can detail ONE SUBMISSION FROM EACH WEEK, three in total, that you believe deserves to move forward to the next round. The same voting rules apply here as in the opening round. Voting in a preliminary round is not a requirement – anyone can vote. Critiquing isn’t required except to explain why you feel your selection should continue with the competition.
Wait until Thursday noon when all the slots are filled in, then you’ll have until noon on SUNDAY, MAY 13th to make your selections.
Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE, and remember, the bouts stay open for one week and some of the first weeks are still live.
This is the final first-round bout of WRiTE CLUB. Congratulations to each of the thirty contestants who were given the opportunity to step into the ring, and for those of you who submitted but didn't get the chance to compete - please give it a try next year. The voting was SO CLOSE amongst the slushpile readers that you could have been just one vote away. For those of you who might be disappointed about not being selected this year, PLEASE continue to come by and read/vote for your fellow submitters. They really need your support/input - plus you can still win a prize.
Also - if your favorite piece of writing didn't win their bout, make sure you return for SAVE WEEK!
Here's a refresher of what's going on, in case you forgot how things work here.
Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.
How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!
Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Thursday, May 10th (noon central time).
It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10.
In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).
Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes and Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.
A few rules –
1) One vote per visitor per bout.
2) Although our contestants are anonymous, voters cannot be. Anonymous votes will not count, so if you do not have a Google account and are voting as a guest, be sure to include your name and email address.
3)Using any method (email, social media, text, etc) to solicit votes for a specific contestant will result in that contestant's immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –
In the far corner, we have Emese Silver representing the Paranormal genre.
I should have felt safe. My pistol was within reach and ready to fire, but I couldn’t shake my apprehension. They would find me, and soon.
“Snap out of it, Cara. You’re being paranoid,” I whispered. “No one’s getting in here unless you allow it.” I looked at the stack of bullet-ridden targets on my desk. Dad would be proud of each shot. Straight through the bull’s-eye, no matter their position on the paper. With McCloud’s 500-pound bark as an alarm and my aim, intruders would not be problematic for long.
I inhaled deeply and rose from the recliner. McCloud scrambled to his feet. He pointed his nose at the door. Though he was gentle and good-natured, I could count on him to tear any threat to shreds.
No growl came. His interest in the door had resulted from my sudden movement. I relaxed.
“It’s okay, McCloud. Just going to wash dishes.”
The mountain of white fur settled onto the floor. A moan escaped as he stretched out beside the chair. I headed to the kitchen, half-expecting him to follow, but he had little incentive. Dinnertime, and we’d be racing.
My shoulders sank at the dishes peaking out of the sink. I stared at the mess and considered letting him lick the plates clean. Gross.
McCloud moseyed in at the sound of a spoon clinking against a plate. The food fell into the sink, and his eyes said it all. Traitor.
I gave him a pat then dropped a partially eaten rib into his dish. As I wiped spicy barbecue sauce from my fingers, he snatched the bone and I had second thoughts. The treat would inevitably elicit regrets with a 2:00 AM-scratch at the door — not that waking from a dead sleep strayed from my recent routine. At least his intestinal distress wouldn’t involve the usual kicking and screaming I endured each night. I pushed the memories out of my head and carried on with my cleaning while McCloud pawed at the rib.
As I rearranged pots in the cupboard to make room for the one atop the counter, the temperature plummeted. Someone—or something—was watching me, and it meant me no good. A puff of frigid air prickled the back of my neck. The pot clanged onto the floor, and I whipped around. In a single action, McCloud released the bone, sprang to his feet, pointed to the space between the refrigerator and table, and snarled his warning.
“I know you’re there.” My arms folded in front of me as though they could prevent my heart from jumping out of my chest. I took a calming breath and regained my composure. “Reveal yourself or leave.”
And in the near corner, we have Charlie St. James representing the Women's Fiction genre.
The cake was surprisingly heavy. The first thought through my mind wasn't that I was launching a chocolate cake at my ex's car. It was that my mother would cringe I wasn't using the proper utensils. I had reached into the box, fingers wide, and grabbed a lump the size of my broken heart.
"Just throw it!" Cyn yelled.
The other girls giggled from the back of the car.
Confectionary sabotage hadn't started out as the goal for the evening. Instead it had been to bake a cake from scratch and eat it all with the girls from the Ex’s Bake Club. In one sitting. Because I was an adult and raging against the destruction of my perceived existence on this planet. As were all the other lovely ladies who were currently cheering me on like a demented pep squad.
But like with all other things Cyn got involved with, the night hadn't gone as first planned, and now, I was trespassing at my old apartment complex with an artillery of baked goods.
Fuck you, Greg Haddock.
For ruining the life I had planned since I was fourteen. For leaving me homeless and directionless. For setting me adrift in a sea of singleness, rage, and calorie guilt.
I threw the wad of chocolate cake as hard as I could against the back window of his Honda. The Honda I'd put the down payment on, but he insisted be in his name to build credit. The Honda I'd driven across the country from Stanford to Northwestern while he flew business class on his parent’s dime because he couldn’t be exhausted for orientation. The four-door we'd picked out thinking about our future children.
I went back for a second helping and sunk my fingers into the still warm cake. The cake I'd baked to prove he was wrong. I could bake. I could have a job and keep a household running with freshly baked goods. And no tiny prick was going to tell me I couldn't. The round of chocolate fury skidded across the top of the car and rolled slowly down the front window like a muddy snowball, leaving fudge in its wake.
Araceli jumped out of the car and dug her fingers in too. She launched the handful at the driver’s side window. "That's for dumping my friend, cabron."
I threw my head back and cackled.
Bridget walked up beside me and took a handful of cake. “This is for leaving her without a place to sleep.” She tossed it like a delicate snowball, and it made an amazing splat against the passenger window and slid down in gooey perfection.
And for the first time in a very long time, I took a deep calm breath.
Apparently, a little chocolate cake could ease a broken heart. That and friends. But mostly chocolate.
Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE, and remember, the bouts stay open for one week and some of the first weeks are still live.
Here's a refresher of what's going on, in case you forgot how things work here.
Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.
How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!
Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Wednesday, May 9th (noon central time).
It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10.
In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).
Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes and Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.
A few rules –
1) One vote per visitor per bout.
2) Although our contestants are anonymous, voters cannot be. Anonymous votes will not count, so if you do not have a Google account and are voting as a guest, be sure to include your name and email address.
3)Using any method (email, social media, text, etc) to solicit votes for a specific contestant will result in that contestant's immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –
In the far corner, we have M.M. Fritz representing the YA Dystopian genre.
The alarms scream, mirroring the dream they interrupted. I groan, rolling over and burrowing further under the worn blanket. Another drill. Haven’t we gotten this down by now? This would be the third in a month. The protocols are in place, everyone at their position in two minutes flat.
Reluctantly, I peek through one sleep-coated eye. Small, cave-like, and ever lit by the red light required in all of our rooms in case of “emergencies” like this, it was more dungeon than bedroom. My uniform is hanging on the wall hook, ready for me to slide into it the moment my feet hit the ground. We sleep in the standard-issue undergarments. To save time.
They will be waiting for me in the hall by now. It is my responsibility to give the command to move into position. I’ve done it perfectly every time before, leaping out of bed at almost the same moment the alarms begin. I’m always the first one in the hall, standing at attention, still as a statue, a slightly annoyed expression on my face at the delay in my team. But today I am tired. The constant training, constant vigilance is wearing on me, and for a fleeting moment I imagine what I would be doing right now if the whole world hadn’t gone to shit.
Sleeping. I would be sleeping. My watch tells me it’s not even 5 a.m. yet. There was no chance you would have seen me up before the sun in my previous life. If it were my choice, I would sleep until at least eight, lazy in bed and read or just mess around on my phone until the hunger got to me. I’d put off writing lesson plans or grading the stack of essays that took up most of my nightstand and dream of being a full-time writer in a small cottage in the Scottish highlands.
But nothing was my choice anymore. I’d given up such a luxury when I’d made my last choice.
The floor is like ice, as it is every morning in this underground bunker. I allow myself one moment to stretch. We are going to fail this drill, and it will be my fault. A tiny pang of guilt clutches my heart then lets go, receding into the exhaustion that prevents me from caring. I even consider crawling back into bed. But I’m up now, so I pull on the stiff uniform and breathe through my mouth as the odorous cloth passes over my face. The chemicals glazing the surface may save me from some of the worst deaths imaginable, but in the meantime I smell like a radioactive skunk.
My helmet is just sliding onto my head when the alarms stop.
I freeze.
Something is wrong.
*********************************************************************************
And in the near corner, we have MarlaWriter representing the YA Contemporary genre.
Fifteen minutes until my car backs out of the driveway for zero period band practice, and my sister’s door is still closed. I pull a baseball cap over the brown mess I didn’t bother smoothing into a socially acceptable mold of hair gel and guy-style. Grabbing my trumpet and backpack, all I can think about is Mr. Slater giving away my first chair position for being late. He threatened as much last time.
I glance at my watch and lean closer to the wall separating my room from my sister’s. No sounds of zipping backpacks or the off-key humming she likes to do when she’s getting ready. No meds-induced heavy breathing either. Even her service dog is silent.
Sophie sleeps hard. It’s a miracle she wakes up at all after swallowing the mounds of pills she takes every day.
The outdated pictures in the hallway rattle when I close my door harder than I need to. I hardly recognize the cookie-cutter family posing with coordinated smiles and matching Christmas vests like none of them have a care in the world.
I stare at Sophie’s door handle and wonder how many fingerprints smudge its shiny surface. How many times I watched Mom’s hand hover over it, worry lines hidden beneath her smile. I roll my eyes and huff because she’s probably hunkered down under a mound of blankets next to a stretched out yellow lab. But as much as I try to shake the weight off my shoulders, I wonder if this will be the day Sophie doesn’t wake up. I steel my knees in case it is.
I think about What If? I’d be an only child. Again. Both my parents could be at the same performance on the same night listening to me playing a solo I’d earned in jazz band. I search the picture with just me and my parents taken before Sophie was even born. Before the world changed color. The kid sitting in between his parents smiling too big has no clue.
If something were wrong, Nana would’ve alerted. She’s trained to get someone and then lay with Sophie until she stops shaking. My heart beats one of those thumps where it feels like two at the same time, so I take a deep breath. If Nana needed help, she’d be whining. Probably hasn’t even been taken out yet.
I reach for the handle but then dig my phone from my pocket instead.
I’m leaving in five. And if you want
a ride to school, you better hurry.
Hopefully she reads it. Hopefully she can.
Schrodinger’s sister.
I smirk at my joke but immediately curse myself for being cavalier. Not supposed to make jokes. Rule number 372 when you live with a chronically ill sibling. At least my physics teacher would be proud.
Familiar morning sounds of Mom rustling lunch bags come from the kitchen, and the smell of coffee beckons me to follow. With one last glance, I curse the shiny handle.
Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE, and remember, the bouts stay open for one week and some of the first weeks are still live.
We're nearing the end of the first-round bouts of WRiTE CLUB and you can feel the anxiety climbing. Who will make it into the ring? Who will make it to the next round? Too many questions...let's get some answers. Here's bout #13.
Here's a refresher of what's going on, in case you forgot how things work here.
Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.
How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!
Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Tuesday, May 8th (noon central time).
It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10.
In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).
Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes and Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.
A few rules –
1) One vote per visitor per bout.
2) Although our contestants are anonymous, voters cannot be. Anonymous votes will not count, so if you do not have a Google account and are voting as a guest, be sure to include your name and email address.
3)Using any method (email, social media, text, etc) to solicit votes for a specific contestant will result in that contestant's immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –
In the far corner, we have PokeyDoo representing the Short Story genre.
With his empty hand, he stroked the book in his lap. “The binding is distinctive. I’ve never seen anything like it. What is it?”
She lifted her cup and stared at him over the rim.
“That one? It’s made of Father de Silva’s skin.”
He blinked.
His cup slipped out of his hand, bounced off the book in his lap, and thudded to the floor.
Bile rose to his throat. He shoved the tome out of his lap, jumped to his feet, and whirled around to stare at the rows and rows of books.
Thick and thin, tall and short, all with a myriad of bindings. Rich mahogany, buttery yellow, and every color in between.
A rushing sound filled his ears. He bolted toward the exit.
At the doorway his knees buckled and he fell.
He tried to get back to his feet but his legs were strangely too heavy and would not work right.
“What is this? What have you done?” he cried. On his elbows, he pulled himself partway into the hallway.
Madame Livreaux calmly put a foot on his back and pushed him down. Its simple weight pinned him like he was a feeble, old man.
“I know why you’re in New Orleans,” she said.
“What are you doing? What is happening?” He tried to roll away but now he could barely move his body.
“I won’t let you and your Inquisition destroy my library,” she said. “All my life’s work is in this room.”
A low growl started deep in his throat. “May God damn you to eternal hell!” he snarled. But now his tongue was thick and the words came out like garbled grunts.
She knelt down and cocked her head. “Why Father, it sounds like you’re trying to condemn me.” A faint smile played across her lips. “Father de Silva said the same thing.”
She caressed the side of his face. “You have such lovely skin. It’s so white. I knew I wanted it the day we met in the Plaza.”
She dragged his helpless body back into the room.
His eye caught sight of Poisonous Plants lying on the floor next to the teacup. His bowels loosened.
“We each have our work, Father,” she said retrieving the knife from the table and holding it up. Firelight gleamed on the blade. “You say you’re in the business of saving souls. I’m in the business of saving knowledge.”
She cut through his clothes to bare his back. With a feather-light touch, she stroked the length and width of it the same way she earlier caressed her books.
“Mon Dieu,” she sighed. “More beautiful than I imagined. Unblemished. Pure. Perfect.”
With all his strength, Father Argi again tried to put his hands underneath him to get away. No part of his body would move.
The blade flashed in the corner of his eye.
A long scream echoed through his mind as the knife sliced deep.
And in the near corner, we have ApoCalypso representing the Science Fiction genre.
There’s blood everywhere. Who knew a human skull could hold so much of the stuff, when it has to share space with a brain and bones and Mama’s beautiful, dark hair, so thick Kaia used to try to climb it as a child? Who knew.
“What have you done?” she asks her father, who sits, frozen, in his favorite lounger.
His lips tremble, but he doesn’t speak.
“Answer me.”
Something shifts in her timbre, a click she can sense but not hear, and her father’s eyes get the distant look that the Headmaster had told her to watch for.
“We had an argument. I pushed her and she fell and hit her head on the mantle.”
“Tell me the truth,” Kaia says, emphasizing each word.
“That is the truth,” her father replies. He doesn’t sound scared.
He should be scared.
“Why didn’t you call for help? Tell the truth.”
“Because I was worried that they would think I did it on purpose. I don’t want to go to prison.” His response is immediate, without emotion, without defense.
“So it was better to let your wife die?”
“Yes.”
“Look at me.”
He does. His gaze somehow sees her but doesn’t. He’s not responding to her; rather, he’s responding to her words, and the power they carry.
A power, so hard-won, that she will use only for good.
“Are you afraid of me?” she asks.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re afraid of me.”
No menace in his words. Only belief.
“Do I look afraid?”
“No.”
Good answer. But not good enough.
“Stand up,” she says.
He does.
“Do you know how to swim?”
“No.”
“Good. I want you to walk out this door and go to the lake. I want you to walk into the lake.”
He blinks and his face loses some of its color. “But... I’ll drown.”
“Yes, you will.”
For one long, silent moment, it seems like he will refuse, and then Kaia will have to kill him the old-fashioned way and risk expulsion from the Academy. But then he nods and goes to the back door and starts walking towards the shore, shimmering beneath the rain clouds.
Kaia watches him grow smaller and smaller and when the water reaches his knees, she turns away and collapses into his chair, still warm. Her mother’s blood is growing tacky on the floor.
“Perdóname, Mama. I should have been here to protect you.”
Mama doesn’t respond, which, all things considered, is for the best. They can sit together in silence for as long as they need.
When the sun goes down some time later, Kaia leaves her Mama’s house for the last time and returns to the Academy.
*********************************************************************************
Leave your votes and critiques in the comments below. Again, be respectful of your remarks and try to point positives as well as detractions.
We’ll be back tomorrow with another bout. See you then.
Reminder - You can follow along with all of the bout results right HERE, and remember, the bouts stay open for one week and some of the first weeks are still live.
Today we bring you bout #12 of WRiTE CLUB. Best of luck to both writers.
Here's a refresher of what's going on, in case you forgot how things work here.
Weeks ago the submission window opened for this year's contest where we asked anybody wishing to participate to submit a 500-word writing sample – using a pen name. The sample can be from any genre, flash fiction or something from a larger piece of work, basically, anything goes except that it cannot have been previously published or posted on the internet. All of the rules regarding how to submit can be found here. After the submission period closed, we had fifteen judges (we call them our slush pile readers) read all 181 submissions from 132 writers and once all the ballots were total we narrowed the 181 down to the 30 that will be stepping into the ring over the course of the next three weeks. Today is the first of those bouts.
How this works – two anonymous (pen name only) writing samples step into the ring. Visitors to this blog (that’s you) read both entries and vote for the one that resonates the most with you. We ask that you leave a brief critique for both writers with your vote because that is one of the real values of this contest – FEEDBACK. Please be respectful with your remarks!
Even though there will be a different bout every day (M-F), the voting for each bout will remain open for seven days from the date it is posted to give as many people as possible to have a say. The voting for today’s bout will close on Monday, May 7th (noon central time).
It’s that simple. The piece that garnishes the most votes moves on to the next round where they’ll face a different opponent. Using a tournament style format, the 30 contestants will be whittled down to just 2, and the winner of that final bout will be announced at the DFW Writers Conference in Hurst TX June 9-10.
In case of a tie, I’m the deciding vote. I can do that because, like all of you, I do not know the real names of our contestants either (my wife processes all the submissions).
Oh yeah – for every bout that you vote in, your name (see rule #2 below) will be placed into a hat for a chance for a $40 Barnes and Noble Gift card that will be drawn after the contest concludes.
A few rules –
1) One vote per visitor per bout.
2) Although our contestants are anonymous, voters cannot be. Anonymous votes will not count, so if you do not have a Google account and are voting as a guest, be sure to include your name and email address.
3)Using any method (email, social media, text, etc) to solicit votes for a specific contestant will result in that contestant's immediate disqualification. It’s perfectly okay, in fact, it is encouraged to spread the word about the contest to get more people to vote, just not for a specific writer!
That’s enough jibber-jabber…like the man say’s –
In the far corner, we have Cha-REL representing the Women's Fiction genre.
I’m not even wearing a bra. I’m fifteen minutes late, I haven’t washed my hair since God knows when, these “yoga pants” are my pajamas—yup, I slept in them—I have coffee-flavored morning breath, and I’m not even wearing a bra.
To be expected, there are no spots in the school parking lot, so I have to park across the street and sprint, which means I’ll be sweaty on top of everything else—damned 90-degree August mornings—and of course there’s Kristin Barlow.
“He-ey, Kaa-aate!” she calls in a voice that is like saccharine if it had a sound, waving at me as her long, lithe legs carry her across the parking lot and into her silver Model S. The first time I saw her, I was positive Kristin was a former runway model or something, but I was wrong. No, she’s a graduate of Yale Law who provides pro-bono legal counsel for underprivileged, inner-city families. Her husband owns a large venture capital firm so she’s able give back to the community in addition to being a perfect mom, a trophy wife, and the head of the PTA. She’s also never late to parent-teacher conferences.
“He-ey, Krii-stiin!” I warble, waving and then smacking my knuckles against the glass as I miss the door handle, and if I were more like Kristin my husband would probably still be around.
There’s a dad sitting on the bench in the school lobby and I cross my arms over my chest because my t-shirt-clad nipples don’t understand it’s not polite to point. He’s not Kristin’s husband, but I would bet my morning coffee his wife is a sun-kissed, blonde-balayage counterpart to mocha-haired-cover-girl-look-alike Kristin. I bet his wife teaches Pilates. Or hot yoga. Or a barre class. Or all of the above. He’s overtly handsome and his well-fitting gym clothes showcase the fact that he’s in better shape than the average late-thirty-something male, and I bet he just came from a spin class taught by his perfect wife. I sit as far at the other end of the bench as possible without letting one of my never-even-seen-a-Pilates-studio ass cheeks hang off the edge.
“Kate,” comes the voice of Lindsay, the receptionist-slash-office-manager, who is neither saccharin nor sugar, rather she’s more like cilantro because people either love her or hate her. “Ms. Lawson is still in another conference. It’s okay.”
“Oh, she is?” I ask, trying and failing to suppress my huffing and puffing.
Lindsay gives me a brisk and amused nod as she disappears into the door behind her desk. She reemerges a moment later carrying a styrofoam cup and holds it in front of my face.
“Everything’s fine,” she says, and I love cilantro. Cilantro gets me and knows without me telling her that I only had one cup of coffee this morning because I can’t keep track of time to save my life.
And in the near corner, we have MujerConHistorias representing the Short Story Grief-Inspirational genre.
With her head on the sofa’s armrest, her eyes follow the roach. That movement, a wobbly taka-taka as the roach busily makes its way across the hardwood floor, is what made her eyes focus. She can’t recall the last time she ate but the image of her picking out that floor three years ago when they moved in is as vivid as the roach’s shiny black back. Her husband had loved the floor. She’d hated how every speck of dust showed like a star on dark sky. The roach, usually undetectable on the espresso floor, leaves a trail on the dust with its airy taka-taka.
She sits up inch by inch, her side bursting into shooting pains. A head-shaped depression remains on the cushion, the fabric retains the outline of where her body was laying. She lifts her shirt and traces the sores on the side of her body with her fingertips. She’d found them last week. This she remembers. She lets the shirt fall down.
Her ear is about to touch the armrest again when she hears the cry outside. Soft. Timid. It persists until she drops her legs over the edge and stands. Her living room spins, her nails dig into the armrest.
The cries get closer. She shuffles like an elder from couch to patio door and slides the glass door open. An orange fluff ball meows again. It parades up and down the concrete porch, rubbing against patio furniture and planters with shriveled plants. Probably hungry. Her head turns toward the kitchen, an image of her mother-in-law with grocery bags flashes.
They used to have a cat the first year of their marriage. It was really his mom’s, Sandra’s cat. He returned it, eventually.
Sandra, the only one who rang her number long after she’d stopped picking up. Sandra gave up like the rest, months ago.
The feline, waiting for her to get distracted, speeds past her legs and bounds inside. Like on a mission it runs straight to the roach and licks it lips after swallowing it. She follows the cat down the hallway she’s seen hundreds of times, but not in this dimension. It’s curled up already, of all places, on the bed that hasn’t been slept on for a year, on top of her husband’s pillow.
“Hey.” Every cell of her body must’ve quivered, her own tongue not recognizing the taste of her voice.
In the shower, she gags at the fumes that rise off of her. She hits her heel, feeling for the ledge while stepping in reverse, not once letting her eyes meet the mirror. Afterward, she lathers aloe all along her sides.
She switches the TV on, the last thing they were watching resumes—last year’s Olympic games—right before he left for milk and was rammed by a semi at the corner.
It hurts to exhale. “I’ll tell you all about ‘em the day I see you, hon.”
She hits pause and picks up the phone to dial Sandra.
