Friday Fictioneers-Beast of Burden

sheep-and-carcopyright-Sandra Crook

Walking back to the village, sheep meandered around Krista’s legs. One bleated, and the others followed suit. She inhaled car exhaust and lanolin. And dust.

She was so tired of feeling dirty. Her teeth were always gritty. She spat on the ground, careful not to knock the water container from her head.

This was it. Krista was done. She’d told Joey they could stay in Africa for a year. It had been three. She wanted her mother. And some semblance of a normal life.

Back at the village, she found Joey and cried, “I’m going back to Nebraska, without you.”

100 words/Genre: Domestic Fiction

I saw this photo and was immediately reminded of the book, The Poisonwood Bible. The character I most identified with was the wife/mother. She stayed with a husband that had clearly gone off his rocker while they were doing mission work in Africa. I wondered how I would react to a partner that continued living in a place that wasn’t home. That wasn’t safe. Where I wouldn’t want to have a family in. I’d be so afraid of losing who I was while trying to help people and be faithful to a partner that kept changing his damn mind. The rebel in me would eventually say, I’m done. That’s exactly what Krista did, she went home.

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers.

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Our Only Constant is Change

I attended a training session on how to make myself marketable for a new job venture at the university that I’ve worked at for the last 25 years. Basically, the ‘instructor’ wanted me to market myself as a product. Like a gym shoe made by Nike. A car for Motor Company. Or  a new formula type of soda made by Coca Cola. I was shocked. Here I am, a human, being told to liken myself to an object. As you all know, that’s not me. I am very flawed individual. I’ve  shared that fact with all of you on many, many occasions.

One of the things they told us to do was change our privacy settings on Facebook. Basically hide who and what we really are. In my mind, I stomped my feet like the insolent child I am, and adamantly opposed doing so. It didn’t matter that no one in the room knew of my rebellion. I did, and that was all that mattered. I’m an author, and I have to write. I want my words read. And felt. And shared. So the setting stayed public.

At our break, I met a fellow employee that I had corresponded with over email and the phone. We hugged and laughed. And talked way too loud. We were then shushed by the ‘instructor’. I nearly lost my ever loving mind. I wanted to say ‘fuck you’, I’m talking to a human being and I don’t have to take your shit. My colleague and I stared at each other in disbelief. She shrugged her shoulders. Everything was changing around us. How we ‘marketed’ ourselves. Our jobs. Our lives. Even the interview process was going to be sterilized for us.

In retaliation to the shushing, I hugged my colleague again. Once seated, I jokingly told the ‘instructor’ we were colleagues that had never met. She looked at me coolly and said, ‘isn’t that nice.’ No smile. No warmth. Barely an acknowledgement that we were all going through incredible changes. She was a consultant and clearly didn’t give a shit. All she was focused on was getting through the workbook that we were working on.

I sat through the rest of the ‘workshop’. At the end, I silently left the conference room. Never looked up at the ‘instructor. I just kept my head down and walked out. And vowed that I would not attend another ‘class’. I did jump through the hoops of the resume and interview process. I waited patiently to find out if I’d been promoted. I guess 25 years of experience and supervising employees for 15 years results in a lateral move. I wouldn’t be supervising anyone. I couldn’t believe it! After a week of knowing my fate, I’m still struggling with the decision they made.

Now, I’m on extended sick leave until at least the middle of June. A major car accident and lengthy recovery reminded me that impulsiveness is a very, very bad thing. I know I have a job when I return. I’ll be back at my beloved faculty and staff at the SSW. For how long, I’m unsure. I’ve rediscovered yet again, that change is the only constant in our lives.

If I have to move to a new location that’s fine. It’s closer to where I live. I’ll walk to work.  I can’t wait to see my colleague from the ‘workshop’ we attended. I’ll give her tons of hugs, and talk too loud. You see, these folks at my new place of employment have no idea what they’re in for when I finally settle in. No idea at all. I’m a leader, not a follower. I have big plans, and they don’t include sitting in a cubicle till I retire. I’ll do it, for the pay.

But my heart, ah yes, my heart, it will be living for another place altogether. It will be in the country on a blanket spread out in the backyard. French Bulldog lying in my lap. Pen and notebook in my hand. Flowers in my hair. And dirty bare feet. Yep, that’s where my heart will be….

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A Final Rendezvous With Renee

In my Dreams

These days words leave me hollow like a rotting tree stump. It may be dying, but there’s life buzzing in it anyway. Insects and animals colonize within, while the stump slowly decays and becomes one with the earth again.-Heath

I’m hollow. An empty vessel. Spent. And my story has been told. Every single one of my posts have helped bring me peace. I’ve poured my heart into every word I’ve written. Doesn’t matter if the story was real or fiction. I still bled on these pages.

The fictional stories have all had some grain of reality. A real person. A need. A want. A longing and desire. I have never created characters. I’ve created living, breathing people. Maybe someday I’ll tell you the origin of some of them, but probably not.

My journal entries, now those were something weren’t they? They taught me a thing or two about over sharing. Without them, I would have never learned about this gift that I have. It’s a curse too. See, once you begin to write,  it controls you. You immerse yourself in fiction because reality is too much to bear.

Sometimes words came so fast, I couldn’t write or type them fast enough. I was obsessed, to say the least. Photographs and paintings brought forth words and stories. I never realized how much I had to say.

My first fictional piece was called Ascent. About a girl that wanted to die. She didn’t though. Her newly discovered wings saved her as she began to plummet toward the sea. Little did I realize I was the one sprouting those metaphorical wings.

My writer, he pushed me to write for Friday Fictioneers. What began as a lark proved to be a much needed exercise in discipline. My writer fled, but I stuck with FF. Rochelle Wisoff-Fields has been a terrific mentor. I’m honored she worked so hard with me. I adore her for every criticism and kudos. My best flash fiction story was, The Invisible Man. I may submit it to Narrative Magazine. They’ve rejected my work before, but you never know what can happen.

I’ve had five short stories published by EtherBooks. Alan and Melissa from Ghost, and Damon and Rhiannon from Sounds will always be my best creations. The stories are still available for download on your iPhone or Android phone. The app is free, so please download and critique my stories.

‘The Ghost of a Great Love’ 

‘A Night Swim with Marilyn’ 

‘Dawn at Antietam’ 

‘Sounds of Orioles and the Taste of Lemonade’ 

‘On a Hot Summer Night’ 

Sometimes God Sits on a Stoop is a favorite recent post. I saw the face of God that day. I’ll never forget Curt, or his story.

I’ll keep the blog active for awhile, but don’t be surprised if one of these days it’s gone. Like me, she is a force of nature that can’t be contained.

Real life is waiting. I’m going to live it. I suggest you do the same.

Love,

Sparkly Girl

P.S. Don’t hate on me for posting the 1D video. This song is the shit. Even if it’s sung by a British boy band.

P.P.S. How can I forget Rory, my brother in arms? My world will never be the same now that you’re in it. I love you.

Although I am broken, my heart is untamed, still
And I’ll be gone, gone tonight
The fire beneath my feet is burning bright
The way that I’ve been holding on so tight
With nothing in between
The story of my life…

The Tattoo Artist, Friendship Soup and Conversation

vintage-tattoo-couple“Tattoos made my skin more ‘me.’ -Melissa Maxwell”

Larry Smith, It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure

I spoke to him on Thursday night, after handing him a jar of handcrafted soup. The note attached articulated that I hoped it nourished he and his son’s bodies as well as their souls.

His eyes clouded with tears, and he began to speak to me. To catch me up on his life. The words came out in torrents. I just listened. It usually is so difficult for me to keep my mouth shut. I always want to inject words of advice into conversations with friends. To ease the pain in some way.

He told me of recent happenings. The sadness. The grief. The loss of a good friend to suicide. And coming to the realization that he was a good man. I kept listening. And smiling. I wanted to hold him close to me, but I didn’t think he’d welcome the contact.

For some reason, he went back to the beginning of his life and shared everything. This man that has pierced me with his needle made sure to  pierce my heart too.

We spoke of his art. The drawing, painting, and tattooing. We spoke of writing. He said I was good. I told him he was better. I announced that he was a reincarnation of Jack Kerouac. He chuckled and grinned like a little kid and announced that his grammar was awful. I assured him that a writer is only as good as their editor. He snickered again.

I inquired about Christmas Day. He told me he’d be spending it alone. The nurturer in me wanted to invite him to dinner on the 25th. Wouldn’t that be something, my friend, covered with tats, ears gauged, sitting at the dinner table with my family? But I didn’t ask. I should have.

Our words began to lessen and it was time for me to take my leave. He came around the counter and hugged me tightly to him. I took in his scent, divine and manly. I whispered in his ear, ‘Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.” He smiled boyishly and I departed from his shop.

His smile stayed on my mind while I drove to my little apartment, just 10 minutes away. The fact that he would be alone on Christmas Day did also. When I got home, I extended an invitation for Christmas dinner. His reply was noncommittal but thankful all the same.

He let me into his life on Thursday night, and I didn’t worry about what time it was. Or the other things I had to do, I just listened.

And I learned.

**Writer’s Note:**
This was the Facebook status that I was tagged in after we talked on Thursday evening. I guess my words stayed with the artist. It is quite an honor to be a part of his life. No matter how small that part may be.
I woke up as the sun was reddening; and that was the one distinct time in my life, the strangest moment of all, when I didn’t know who I was – I was far away from home, haunted and tired with travel, in a cheap hotel room I’d never seen, hearing the hiss of steam outside, and the creak of the old wood of the hotel, and footsteps upstairs, and all the sad sounds, and I looked at the cracked high ceiling and really didn’t know who I was for about fifteen strange seconds. I wasn’t scared; I was just somebody else, some stranger, and my whole life was a haunted life, the life of a ghost.-jack kerouac — with Renee Heath.

It Started With a Jar of Pickles

depression-13057Two weeks ago on a Monday morning, depression crept in. The trigger? A jar of pickles I’d bought had expired. There I stood, with the fridge door open and the jar in my hand. The glass cooled my fingers, while hot tears streamed down my face. I placed them in the door and slammed it closed. With my tears wiped, I reapplied my makeup and headed to my office.

Work went fine and I was dealing well with the news that my job had been eliminated. Luckily, I’m guaranteed placement in the new Shared Services Center. I’m not thrilled about it, but it beats not having a job. For some strange reason, I kept thinking about those damn pickles. I continued to lose control of my emotions.

Meggie texted me and asked if we could meet for dinner. We made our plans to go to Benihana. That’s what I needed, food prepared by a silly man flinging extremely sharp knives.  Even my son in law Chris would be joining us.

I planned to go visit Adam Boy first to see his new place. He and Claire moved out of Roger Darling’s into a cozy little apartment. Along with their two kitties and Baxter, the wonder Lab. I’d stay and we’d chat. Maybe we’d even recite some lines from Anchorman and laugh. Then I’d take off to see my other kids.

During the first blinding snow storm of the season, I made my way to see Adam Boy. I walked in and was greeted by an overly excited Baxter. I hugged and kissed him. Let him lick my face off. My boy showed me around his place. It was nicer than my little apartment. A tad bigger, and the walls were painted an earthy green.

10 minutes after I got there, my son told me to leave. He shattered my heart. I hadn’t even taken off my coat and barely sat down. I picked myself up, pet the dog and walked out. I cried the entire time it took me to get to my daughter and son in law’s place.

During dinner, Meggie told me I looked like someone had run over my dog. I told her I was fine and we enjoyed dinner. Chris farted the entire time we drove back to their house. I had to roll the windows down so I wouldn’t vomit. He’s hysterically funny, but extremely gassy. I’d venture to say it was because he’d eaten a pound of garlic butter on his food. Egad it was so gross!

In bed that night, I thought about the stupid pickles again. Finding sleep to be elusive, I took a Clonopin. Back under my warm comforter, I counted sheep and tears. I fell off the edge of consciousness into oblivion.

My week progressed as did the darkness in my soul. By Friday, I’d had enough. I wanted to stay home, but Lo Lo wanted me to meet her new guy. We went out dancing, which I usually adore. But my heart wasn’t in it. That Friday was the first time in almost two months I felt like I’d never be with another man. That no one would ever want a woman my age, size, intellect, or a multitude of other qualities. That I either did or didn’t possess.

By the following Monday, I was wallowing in self-pity, but I didn’t drink. After a huge argument with my friend and a shit ton of tears shed, I’d had enough. I crawled into bed and slept like a stone.

The next morning, I awoke and smiled. The dark cloud that had hung over my heart had vanished. I showered, dressed and got ready to leave for work. Before I did, I opened the fridge and removed the expired jar of pickles. After throwing them in the garbage, I locked the deadbolt and made my way out the door.

31 Days and Counting

marilyn 1

“Fear is stupid. So are regrets.” – Marilyn Monroe

Step 1: I admitted that I was powerless over alcohol that my life had become unmanageable.

Step 2: Came to believe that a Power greater than myself could restore me to sanity.

Step 3: Made a decision to turn my will and my life over to the care of God as I understood Him.

Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of myself.

Ay, there’s the rub, catch, or whatever you want to call it. The searching and fearless moral inventory of myself. It’s not easy for a procrastinator like me to park my ass in a chair for a couple of hours and list all of my resentments.  My flaws. Wrongs that I cannot right. Pieces of my past I gloss over. Only to bring them up again so someone can point out how fucked up I am. It’s unnerving and it makes angry. It’s why I gave up going to AA the last time I got sober. I became what you’d call a dry drunk. I didn’t drink, but I didn’t do the work to stay sober either.

31 days ago I’d had enough. I bought a Big Book and began reading it. I even got a sponsor. Of course being the pig headed woman I am, I tried to move ahead and do some of the other steps before completing Step 4. Super Sponsor called me a cowboy and told me to do the program by myself if I was so damn smart. Thing is, I’m not smart. I’m frightened beyond belief. When I finally admitted that to myself, the work began.

My sponsor told me to remember that I wasn’t writing prose. I’m a writer though, and it’s what I wanted to do. I wrote my list in a way that maybe someday my words could be used as a soliloquy if I ever got to do a big Share at an Open AA meeting. Of course I look at the sentence I just typed and laugh at my arrogance. That’s not what Step 4 is about. It’s about letting go of resentment and all that other junk that weighs us down.

Last night I sat at the kitchen table and completed parts I and II of Step 4.  With all the courage I could muster, I texted my sponsor and told him I was finished. His response, only three little letters, ‘ILY’. It made my night to know that he was still in my corner. Still cheering me on.

There’s more work to be completed, but I’m closer than I was two days ago. I’ve been sober for 31 days. I’m not going through withdrawal anymore. I can sleep through the night without having horrific cravings and nightmares. I don’t want to beat the shit out of everyone I come in contact with. I’m generally a happy person to be around again. I’m snarky, sarcastic, fun loving, a smart ass, sparkly, and basically a raving lunatic. So yeah, I’m pretty much back to normal.

What I find most difficult to do at the moment is find my muse. She or he is hiding in plain sight I’m sure. Pray, keep your fingers crossed, dance naked in the moonlight, or whatever you need to do to help me find it again. I’ll be sitting at a table, working on part III of Step 4.

Love and kisses,

Renee

Sometimes God Sits on a Stoop

Homeless-Veteran-Sign1Wounded Warrior Project

Please click the link above and give what you can. PLEASE!

I saw the face of God in a young homeless man in Detroit City last Saturday afternoon. He was sitting in the doorway of an abandoned building. The concrete was blazing hot, even in the shade. I couldn’t imagine the discomfort he felt while dressed in fatigue pants and a white cotton shirt.

We made eye contact and said hello to one another. With a smile shared, I knew he was a good man.  I was entranced by his features almost immediately. His face was young but hardened by life. His eyes were exquisite in their beauty. Arms, sinewy and covered with tats. Hands with long fingers should have been trained to tickle the ivories in a jazz joint.

I turned my face to the right and looked at the remnants of an abandoned building.

“They really should tear that down,” he said.

“Why hon? It’s a part of history, just like all of the surrounding buildings are,”  I said.

“I guess you’re right.”

“Nah-”

My reply was cut short by a mouthy and street smart, yet delicate woman that spoke rudely to the young vet.

“Get a job you fucking faggot,” she yelled at the homeless man.

“Hey Gwen,” he said back to her.

We laughed, even though I cringed when Gwen called the vet that word, faggot. That’s one I will never, ever say out loud.

Roger and I continued to enjoy the festivities before the Jimmy Buffett concert at Comerica Park. We laughed at all the drunk people, and how folks were dressed. So many men wore grass skirts and coconut bras. As for some of the women, I wondered if they’d checked a mirror before they left the house. I felt bad for them, really I did.

We sat in our seats as the sun slipped behind the metal girders at the highest point of the stadium. The breeze began to dry my clammy skin. Jimmy began to sing about Caribbean Islands, but my mind went back to the young man sitting in the doorway of an abandoned building.

We left the concert early. Can you believe it? We paid over $100.00 for each ticket, but we left early!

“Do you want to go home?”, Rog inquired.

“No, I’d rather sit at the bar at Cheli’s and listen to the music,” I retorted.

What I really wanted to do was go back and find the man that I had talked to earlier in the day. I wanted to know his story. I couldn’t believe I hadn’t brought a pen or paper with me.

“Can we go look for that guy?”, I asked as we walked back to the car.

“Really Renee?”, Rog sighed.

“Yup.”

“He won’t be there.”

“Yeah, he will.”

In my heart, I believed he would be. See, he was my glimpse of God for that day. I knew he’d be there. We drove past the doorway and there he sat. I pulled my unopened water bottle from the car cup holder. Unfortunately, it was all I had to offer him. Roger barely had the car in park, before I dashed out of the car.

I walked up to the young man and he eyed me cautiously. Without hesitation I sat down next to him and handed him the water bottle.

“Hi, I saw you earlier today.” I smiled as I spoke to him, “We discussed the building that should be demolished.”

“Oh yeah.” He shook my hand. “Hi, again.”

“I brought you a water. Unfortunately, it’s all of I’ve got to give you today.”

“Thank you. I’m parched.”

He flicked his cigarette out and grabbed the water. I swear he drank it in one gulp. I briefly told him my story, that I wanted to tell his. Of course, I was traveling light that day. I had no paper or pen. There we sat, me in a dress and *Curt in fatigues on dirty concrete. He let his words flow and I slowed my ADHD brain down so I could retain every word he said.

Originally from Michigan, he shuffled back and forth from the Mitten to Tennessee when he was a kid. At the tender age of 18, he signed up for the Army. The young man served in Fallujah in ’05 and ’09 and came home with nothing. Once discharged from the service, he went to live with his dad.

Curt’s father died last August. The cause of death left a mystery to me. He left that home and with his meager savings bought himself a house in the D.  It burned down, taking all of his possessions with it. With no homeowner’s insurance he was fucked. Curt took what he had left and lived out of a duffel bag.

The embarrassment of his living situation, deters him from telling his grandparents. Curt’s eyes showed sorrow as he spoke sweetly of them. I asked if he wanted me to call and tell them. He shook his head no, despondently.  I turned my face from his so he wouldn’t see me cry.

We talked more about VA Hospitals and how he had been stabbed at the one in Detroit. My heart lurched when he showed me the scars. I told him to get to the one in Ann Arbor. He assured me that he had an appointment next week that he wasn’t about to miss.

I wanted to sit there all night and talk to him. I wanted to give him more than a bottle of water. I wanted to pray with him. I wanted to give him the price of my concert ticket. I wanted to give him back his youth. I wanted to drive him to a homeless shelter. I wanted to give him some kind of fucking relief.

“Curt I have to go, but I’ll come back.” I told him. “Are you usually sitting on this stoop?”

“It’s okay Renee,” he replied. “I’m only here during big events. I’m usually outside the MGM Grand Casino.”

“Do you have a phone? Can I call you?”

“Yes I do, but I ran out of minutes. Try me in a couple of days though.”

I saved his number in my phone.

Gripping Curt’s shoulder I said, “Thank you so much for your service, you gave us everything including your youth.”

His eyes misted over, and he whispered, “you’re welcome. See you soon Renee. Thanks for your time and the water.”

As I stepped away from my new friend, I wondered where the hell Roger was. I exited the car so quickly he hadn’t even found a place to park. I looked to my left and saw him wave. I walked the few feet to the car and as I opened the door, welcomed the coolness of the air conditioned interior. I thanked Rog for driving me over to meet the young man I had talked to earlier in the day.

The ride home was quiet. I thought hard on my conversation with Curt. I was so glad I went back to talk to him. I’ll try to call him in a couple of days. I’ll be very sure to go see him in a couple of weeks. I promised him I would. He was my glimpse at God that day. I’m sure he will be again.

*’Curt’ asked me not to use his real name, but I’m not above telling you where he frequently panhandles. If you see him, give him a little something. 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

Dostoevsky

“Mom, why do you drink?”

It’s none of your business. I leave the reasons why I drink at the AA meeting table.

“I guess it’s between you and Dad then.”

“Nope, it’s none of your Dad’s business either,” I stated. “Sometimes I don’t need to explain shit to you. I just want to get better.”

“Okay Mom!”

“Is there any way we can repair our relationship?”

“Don’t know.”

As my tears spill, I tell him, “I don’t want to be your peer, I want to be your mother.”

“That’s all I ever wanted you to be,” he says in reply.

My Adam Boy, the one that I thought understood me the most, never did at all. I created the divide between us, but so did he. I am not going to shoulder all of the blame anymore. The burden is far too heavy for me to carry on my own.

There is such thing as respect for your elders. While I was teaching the kids to do so with other adults, I forgot to include me in the lesson.  I thought they respected me, even when I was being a nonsensical drunk. Should I have put a boot in their ass more often? Maybe. Maybe not. Should their father have demanded that they respect me more? Maybe. Maybe not.

They think the world of Roger Darling. Me, they liken to a cartoon character that gave birth to them. I’m a weirdo.

I can’t go back and change a thing. All I can do is move ahead, and ask that they think more of me. That what they say and do to me can hurt.  I am their mother. I’m also their elder. I’m not a peer and I’m not supposed to be. Someday, I will be the grandmother to their children. I will be the wise old sage that will tell their children what not to do. I hope that their children will come to me for comfort when Mom and Dad’s rules are too much for them. Because I will be sure to teach them  to give their parents the respect they deserve. We live and learn, and we share our lessons with the next generation. At least, that’s what we’re supposed to do.

A few years ago, after having dinner with my mother, cousin and daughter, I got a phone call.

“My darling daughter  I love you,”  my mother stated in her most serious tone.

“I love you too Mommy, but I just saw you like, two hours ago,”  I giggled.

“After the argument you and Meg had at dinner, I just wanted you to know that someone liked you, that I like you.”

“Mom, I’m okay, or rather, I will be.”

During our phone call my thoughts returned to the conversation during dinner. My 18 year old daughter knew everything about college while I knew nothing. My mother gazed at me as my brow furrowed and smile faltered. Mom and my cousin continued the conversation, while I sat mute and tried not to cry. It wasn’t about the subject matter, it was the tone with which I was spoken to that made me clam up. My heart broke, and I was done.

I don’t write this post to demand respect of Meggie and Adam Boy. More so to learn to respect myself in these early days of sobriety. The respect from them will come in the passage of time. As they see me heal, they’ll heal too.

Teach your children the meaning of love, honor and respect. Don’t forget that these three principles are a two-way street.

To love, honor and respect ourselves, is to teach our children how to love, honor and respect others.

Love and kisses,

Plain old Renee

(And I’m just fine with that!)

Tunesday-Strong Enough

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God I feel like hell tonight
The tears of rage I cannot fight
I’d be the last to help you understand

Are you strong enough to be my man
My man

Nothing’s true, and nothing’s right
So let me be alone tonight
‘Cause you can’t change the way I am

Are you strong enough to be my man

Lie to me, I promise I’ll believe
Lie to me, but please don’t leave

I have a face I cannot show
I make the rules up as I go
Just try and love me if you can

Are you strong enough to be my man
Are you strong enough to be my man
Are you strong enough
My man

When I’ve shown you
That I just don’t care
When I’m throwing punches in the air
When I’m broken down and I can’t stand

Would you be man enough to be my man

Lie to me, I promise I’ll believe
Lie to me, but please don’t leave

Friday Fictioneers-Immersion Therapy

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAcopyright-John Nixon

“What the hell are we doing here?”

“It’s called Immersion Therapy.”

“For what? Clowns? I’m frightened of sharks and deep water, you idiot.”

“I thought you said clowns.”

“You know, this just proves that you do not listen to me.”

John touches her arm, “I’m sorry.”

Maggie pushes him away, “no, you’re not.”

“I’m trying to help you.”

“Even if you’d gotten my irrational fear correct, I’d never agree to this shit!”

Maggie’s words still hung in the air, and John knew their relationship was over. She didn’t want to get better, and he didn’t want to help her anymore.

100 words/Genre: general fiction

Click here, to find out more about Immersion Therapy.

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. Please be sure to go to her page and read the stories from other writers. We are a rather eclectic group. I welcome kudos and criticism. Bring it on!

Have a great weekend.