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Dancing in the Rain.

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                                    It was August of the year without summer.   Tori and Leslie sat inside their cabin looking out into the mist, wondering if they would ever feel the sun on their faces again.                 “I would take a thirty-second sucker hole at this point,” complained Leslie.                 “I haven’t even put away my winter wardrobe yet,” said Tori.                 “I just want the rain to stop.”                 “It will be good for the salmon. Right?”                 “Better be good for something.”                 Leslie unfolded herself from the couch and wandered to the kitchen.   She looked around and grimaced before opening the refrigerator.                   “Sweety,” called Tori, “are you hungry or bored?”                 “Yes.” Leslie responded over the din of the fridge’s fan. “Why do we have so much mustard? The good stuff is about to go bad.”                 “Once upon a time, before the rains came- “                 Leslie sno
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The Rapture of Adventure

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                              “I want to thank you all for coming to my twenty-second birthday soirée,” I said beaming at the eager faces looking up to me, “I’m sure it is an honor for you all to be in attendance.” A busboy in his starched red shirt came to clear away the pizza trays.   I gave him my fiercest glare and he ran back to the kitchen, fearing for his job after crossing me during such an important occasion me. I made a mental note to speak with his manager after I finished my speech. “As you all know,” I began, “adventure is in my blood.” A twitter of excitement bubbled up around me. “I climbed the highest peak in Kansas when I was only ten, took a solo canoe trip across the perilous Marion Lake Reservoir at twelve and spent the summer of my fourteenth year exploring the dangerous depths of Washington Park Arboretum.” My words were met with the polite laughter of people who understood what struggles I had faced with each of these challenges. “As such, it should c
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Angels

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                                         TW: Violence.  I'm just in a strange headspace this week.                                                                 Tara listens to the intense whispers of those around her. "Please disperse," yells a Marine in front of her, "this is just a crash landing of a test ship." The crowd ignores him and continues to push and surge against the ramshackle barricade that the military has hastily erected when the ship crashed. It took only minutes for the first wave of pilgrims to arrive at the burning neon wreckage.  Tara was among them.  She lived a block away from the crash site and was eating dinner when the shockwave drew her eye to the kitchen window just in time to see fire streak the sky.  She had prayed every night for something like this to happen during her lifetime.  She prayed that something would take her away from this dreadful world forever. The crowd, breathing as a single entity, waits for something to happen
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Not in my Neighborhood

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I awoke to a barrage of text message alerts.   Opening one bleary eye I flopped my arm over my head reaching for my phone and slowly drug it back toward my face.   The sinking feeling in my stomach wasn’t from the drinks I had last night.   I shot straight out of bed and bounded toward the window, hoping against all hope that the photos that now graced my phone were a mass conspiracy. They were not. My morning encrusted eyes were treated to the sight of my sweet, loving husband dressed in nothing but a yellowed tank top, his knickers, and a beer helmet.   He was pushing an ancient mower and waving to the neighbors with a carelessness reserved only for the very young and the very old.   Since he was neither, I wrapped myself in my bathrobe and threw myself out the door in attempts to save him…well me, from further gossip and photos. “Honey,” I yelled over the metal-on-metal sound of the mower, “what the fuck are you doing?” He just grinned and gestured to his ears and then the
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Monkey Business

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                                               The leather straps of Jason’s backpack dug deep red fissures into his shoulders as sweat stung his eyes and mosquitos buzzed around his head.   The heavy humidity of the forest made him feel like he was swimming instead of walking, but without the benefit of weightlessness. His arms stung every time a plant brushed against them from the sunburn he got two days ago when he still thought this vacation was a good idea.   In the middle of a rainforest, they brushed against him often.                 Further up the trail he watched his wife, Katie, laugh cheerfully with the insufferable couple from Australia.   She caught him looking and waved her fingers at him, grinning at some inside joke with her and her new best friends.   Not wanting to entertain thoughts of murder, Jason turned his attention back to the mud and bug-infested trail in front of him just in time to trip over a root and faceplant into black boot churned earth.
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Phone That!

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“God dammit,” I heard Jay’s voice erupt. A human tornado had tossed our clothes about the room. “What’s the matter, babe,” I asked collecting our belongings. “I can’t find my damned cell phone.” “We are on vacation,” I said holding the lingerie I bought for the occasion.
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Small Potatoes

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I think a lot about the fact that I am never going to know the secret of my grandma’s mashed potatoes.   They shouldn’t be a mystery.   I asked my mom once what grandma did to make her potatoes so delicious and she looked at me like I had grown a third eye.                 “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.”                 Grandma always had the same box of mashed potatoes: Betty Crocker Potato Buds.   They sat in the cupboard next to the refrigerator on the second shelf, right beside the Stove Top brand stuffing.   The box was pulled out for family dinners and was featured prominently next to the turkey, or ham, or whatever traditional holiday meal was being served.   And always they were my favorite.   Melt in your mouth potatoes, with the sweet taste of butter and covered in perfectly cooked gravy.   Uniquely grandmas, regardless of who may have cooked them.                 “They are out of a box, just follow the directions.”                         
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