inside your mystery

picture found here.

Since I started blogging in 2010, I've found a few that I consider my favorites. They are the blogs I look at and hope for an update. One of those blogs happens to hold a short story contest every month.

I've made a pact to enter the contest every month - even when I struggle with the prompt because at least then my my mind is working and creativity is flowing. And I also have made a pact with myself to share the entires here, but I will only share the entry after the winner has been announced.

The winner was announced on Sunday which means I can now present my take on the prompt. The title of the short story is "Moving On."

Moving On
It started with a knock on the door. It was me and the baby at home. Mama was “asleep” on the couch. That’s what I called it then. Now I call it high and passed out.

I pulled the sheet to the side and peeked out. Flashing lights on the street and a lady standing at the door with a clipboard.

I tried to wake Mama. But she wouldn’t budge. Her eyes didn’t blink. She made no noise. The baby started crying, and then there was another knock on the door. This one was louder.

I squared my shoulders and walked to the door. “My mama’s not home.” I ran from the door to the window and pulled the sheet to the side.

The lady with the clipboard wrote something on a piece of paper and shuffled her feet. She squinted at the door and then looked to the side. “Is there anyone else home?” Her voice sounded like honey.

I could say there wasn’t, but when Jessie did that, the cops came into the house and took her out of the house. I could say someone else was, but then the lady would want to talk to them.

“Why?”

“We just wanted to make sure you were okay.” She looked at the clipboard and flipped through the
pages.

“I’m fine,” I said. “You can go home.”

The lady glanced at the street, and a car door opened. He was a big man. It took him a little while to walk up the yard because he had to step over empty boxes and a broken bike. “Please let us in.”

This is when it got tricky. I knew he could come in. I didn’t even have to open the door. That’s what happened to Jessie. She ran and hid in the closet, but they came in anyways. Cops have that kind of power.

So I opened the door.

I don’t really remember what happened then. Lots of questions. The cop tried to wake mama, but she still didn’t move. He got worried and pointed at me and then to the baby. The lady took us both out of the house and put us in the backseat. Her car was dirty. I drew on the windows and kicked at the bags of McDonald’s on the floor. The baby kept crying, but I didn’t have the pacifier so I couldn’t make the baby stop.

We went to McDonald’s. The lady bought me a milk shake and chicken nuggets and French Fries. The baby ate French Fries.

The lady asked more questions. How much time did my mama spend asleep? Who took me to school? Did anyone else live with me? How did I get the bruise on my leg? What did the baby eat? How often did the baby eat?

I asked to go to the bathroom, and she said I could. I looked for a window but there wasn’t one. Then she came and got me. She took me to a brown building. She said I was going to stay there and that she would take the baby somewhere else.

I told her I wanted to stay with the baby. I said I took care of the baby and that I put the baby to sleep. I told her that the baby needed me.

She looked sad when I said it. She bent down and pressed her knees to the ground. She looked up at me and her eyes met mine. I think she almost started to cry. She told me that I would see the baby again but that I needed to let someone take care of me.

I cried. Shaking shoulders and snotty nose. The kind of crying that doesn’t stop and can’t be contained. All these people looked at me like I was crazy, but I kept crying. And then I started talking. All these words came out of my mouth, and I don’t even know what I said. But the lady’s eyes got really big. She handed the baby to someone else and then took me in her arms.

I didn’t want to be alone. I told her I needed someone. I said that the baby protected me from hands and that when the baby was in the room no one would hurt me.

“You’re safe now,” the lady said. She handed me a napkin and waited for me to blow my nose. She gave me a hug and then pushed me in the direction of another lady. I took a shower and changed into pajamas. And then I sat on a bed alone.

The lady promised I would see the baby again. She promised that I wouldn’t be alone and that I would be safe. The next day she brought me a trash bag. The bag had clothes in it and a pair of shoes and one stuffed animal. And then she had me take the trash bag to a new house. The baby wasn’t there, but the lady promised me these people would care for me.

Every month, sometimes every two months, I moved. From one house to another house. The people always asked for me to leave, and the lady with the clipboard always moved me.

I saw the baby once a month. A different lady with black hair held onto the baby and gave the baby kisses on the cheek. The lady with the black hair never let me kiss or hug the baby.

I was 16 when it started with the knock on the door, and when I turned 18, I grabbed my trash bag and I chose to leave the last house. The baby was two by then. The baby called the lady with the black hair mama.

The lady with the clipboard asked me to stay, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be taken care of. I didn’t need anyone. In the end, there would only be me, but I realize now, that’s actually quite a lot.

(title from "ghost" by eastmountainsouth)

the bearer of unconditional things

I am a writer. I forget that sometimes. And sometimes, I disregard it. During those times, I am empty. Something is missing. My life is lacking.

And then I remember. And it's like I am breathing for the first time. Or like I am breathing after almost drowning. It hurts but it feels good.

I'm in the process of remembering now. I'm in the process of breathing after almost drowning.

The need for change bulldozed a road down the center of my mind. I tried to move forward but instead stumbled over the destroyed speed bumps and exposed potholes. Bumped and bruised, I picked myself up and tried to move forward again, but the road took a sharp turn to the left. I found myself upside down and inside out.

It hadn’t always been this way. At one time, the road was straight and well paved. The streetlights turned on at 7pm every night and directed me on my adventures.
I was content.
And now…Now I felt the world beckoning to me and asking me to leave behind all that I knew. One sign said to turn right, and the next told me happiness was a mere ten miles away. The more attention I paid the signs, the more my thoughts wandered further from my life and closer to the life of a waitress slinging cups of coffee in New York City.



I couldn’t just leave. Ankles swollen. Back aching. Feet kicking my stomach. It held me in place, reminding me that the beckoning world would remain in front of me.



This was what I wanted. I dreamt of screaming babies and giggling toddlers. I longed for feet slamming against the wood floors and endless fights.



And it wasn’t just me. It was him, too. Me and him. A we that had once been everything to me.



It happened. After months of pushing him into the right position and holding my legs over my head. After countless tears shed. After bleeding and hurting and wondering.



When I told him, he kissed me like it was the first time, and he spun me around. My hair flew out behind me, and then we climbed into the car. Windows rolled down and sunshine pouring in. His hand held mine, and he shouted the news for all to hear when we reached the red light in town.



He laughed at the congratulations, at the chorus of honking horns, and then drove us out of town and into the desert. He laid a blanket on the hood of the car and traced letters and numbers and pictures on my stomach.



But now. Now he was stuck. Stopped at the red light in town and looking to the right and then to the left. His fingers gripped the steering wheel, and he refused to press on the gas when the light turned from red to green and then to yellow and then red.



Cars honked behind us. The rolled up windows muffled the sound.



“What do we do?” My voice cracked at the first ‘do.’ I stuffed the tears deep down and swallowed the urge to take the steering wheel from him.



He blinked three times. The light turned green, but he paid no attention.



If only I were driving. But with just four weeks to go, he didn’t want to risk it, so he drove. To the grocery store and Laundromat. And to the doctor.



I sat. Feet pressed to the floorboard. My right foot reaching for an imaginary pedal.



“What do we do?” The light switched to yellow. Four seconds crept by, and the light was again red. “What do we do?”



“I don’t know.” He gritted his teeth. His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his knuckles going from peach to white. The red crept up his neck and then to his cheeks.



Why had I wanted this? What made this road so appealing to begin with? When all those I knew traveled to unknown cities, why did I chose to stay?



Was it worth it? Any of it? One baby doing well and the other fading away. There were no road signs directing me to the decision. It was just him in the driver’s seat and me in the passenger seat.



He finally blinked. After minutes of wide open eyes and a clenched jaw, he blinked. And then he pressed his foot to the pedal. The car jerked forward.



He went straight. Straight past the general store and the grocery store and the library.



My body moved with every bump. I felt each groove in the road. My stomach lurched when we hit a pothole that hadn’t existed a week ago.



He didn’t slow for the stop signs. The streetlights flickered on, and he turned left and then right. Minutes later, we were back at the stoplight as it turned red.



His hands shook. And then his shoulders. I covered his left hand with mine and then pushed the gear shifter into park. He blinked and then looked at me the way the deer he hit last winter looked at him.



“Let me drive.”



“No.” His voice was firm, and he shook his head.



I squeezed his hand. Two feet kicked my stomach, and I longed to feel the pain of four. “Yes.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and then unbuckled his. He climbed out of the car. We passed without touching and without words.



The light was green as I climbed into the driver’s seat. My stomach pressed the steering wheel, and I moved the seat back. My toes barely grazed the pedals. I shifted from park and into drive, and then I drove away from the town and away from the questions.



I knew I could drive thousands of miles and land in New York City. We would check into a hotel, and I would travel to the room with him. My lips would press to his forehead, and he would collapse onto the bed. With his eyes shut and dreams occupying his mind, I would disappear into the millions of people.



But I wouldn’t drive to New York City. I would follow the road to the next town. I would stop at the hospital and let myself out at the emergency entrance. He would park the car, and I would make the decision alone.



Change would bulldoze the road we traveled.