Narrow Lane

 "You've wasted your summer," she said—not for the first time—as if the end of summer marked some invisible boundary of importance.

Sam drew out another cigarette and lit it. She wasn’t ready to leave. The shadows were deepening around us. It had been bright when we entered the restaurant, but now no light leaked through the blinds, proving her point: summer was ending.

I tried to form a reply. I sputtered partial phrases, none of which made much sense.

"Don't get defensive," she continued. "You need to find someone more mature. Someone who can offer you something mentally."

 

It sounded horribly boring to me. Like watching paint dry—acrylic paint, not oil-based, no fumes to enjoy. I wasn’t looking for a partner to challenge me intellectually. I don’t put much thought into things—except people—and you don’t need a PhD to observe people.

I wanted the fumes.

"You deserve better," is what she was really saying. I’ve heard that before. More often than not, it’s less about me and more about them. My instinctive response is always the same: I don’t want better—I want you. More accurately, I want what I see in you. They don’t see it in themselves, or they don’t share the same vision.

Why is what I seem to deserve and what I want so far apart?

I’ve already reviewed my childhood trauma. I don’t want to remarry, and I’m not looking for someone to grow old with—just the thought turns my stomach. I’d rather be alone than settle for someone who doesn’t interest me. I’ve created my own narrow lane.

 

Firefly sits across the couch from me, eating a bowl of ice cream.
“After meeting you, I cannot see you being with someone your own age. You’re young at heart. Most people your age are boring. They’ve given up,” she says.

Sometimes I think I have too—just not in the same way.

Searching Questions

One in twenty people will go to jail in their lifetime. I know six friends and several acquaintances who have spent at least a night there. I’m not sure what that says about my social circle. I’m not saying I haven’t done things that could have landed me in jail—I just didn’t get caught.

I don’t seem like the type of guy who would end up in jail. My tattoos might suggest otherwise to a casual observer, though.

Why am I thinking about this? I was searching for a post about the time Tinkerbell spent a night in jail. It was over a domestic argument with her baby-daddy at the time. They took her in just to cool her off. I’m sure I wrote about it back then, but searching through 2,000 posts without a tag is like fishing for a needle in a haystack.

It has to be out there. It was too funny not to record.

Acceptance

 I got my first acceptance today. Neon Origami is a website dedicated to publishing writers' work. I am happy I can share it here.

I had this piece I always liked, A Tang of Lime. It is a well-crafted piece of flash nonfiction centered around a real-life flirtatious conversation layered with the cost of friendships. You can click on the link if you would like to read it.

Rejection

 I received a second rejection letter today, but it was encouraging. 

Thanks for sharing Shimmer with us. I liked reading it, but unfortunately, our Editorial Board thought it's not quite ready for publication in its current form.

We hoped to find surprises in your piece, to  read a story that is creative in the sense that it describes more than a "typical" love triangle mess.

Mentioning the psychic is underdeveloped, and if you want to keep it, we would suggest that you explain its symbolic significance. 

Finally, the ending could be stronger. Let the reader discover something new! 

I hope you are not too disappointed that we have to reject your submission. I do see potential here, but the piece still deserves some work.

I encourage you to continue sharing your work with us, either with a new piece or a revised version of this one!

This feedback gave me the direction to add to the piece and do what they requested, without adding other areas that are underdeveloped. I will wait several months and submit it again.

Shimmer

Before my trip with Tinkerbell, I wondered if she had ulterior motives. I was analyzing her from a distance--the invitation, her desire to get a new job with more money. They had me thinking that she might be thinking of making a change in her relationship. 

The undercurrents were there, but I think she has made peace with them. Her boyfriend is loyal and makes good money; she values those more than she misses other aspects. I know this by the way she talked about Billie or Gia when each left. Tinkerbell sees things through her eyes.

I try seeing others' possible motivations--which often differ from my own. You don't have to agree with them to see them.

I have been writing 2 hours a day, often more. Gaming has suffered. So has my sleep. I am not sure I am getting closer to my goal, but I am trying.

Today, I think I wrote my best piece yet. I melded two short nonfiction essays into one. Which is a good counterweight to getting my first rejection letter last night.

Best Of- Talk

 I have been pulling from my drafts in order to create several short flash nonfiction pieces to have available for submission when the chance arises.  This piece caught my eye. It is too short for what I am looking for, but I thought it was cute, so I am sharing it again.

Talk

Originally Posted October 28, 2005

My friend Jay might be a better-looking guy than me, but I am a better talker. Sure, I'm shy at first and tend to get silent when I'm really interested in someone. But give me an opening, extra caffeine and I can ramble.

I went to Jay's house after work. I was going to help him install his new cable modem. He answered the door dressed like a pirate. Yes, he lives in a fantasy. He needed an earring and some laces for his Halloween costume. I needed a black turtleneck for mine, so we decided to go to the mall before we worked on his computer.

Jay shopped for an earring like he was wearing it to prom. He wanted a clip-on. I tried to explain his grandmother doesn't even wear clip-ons anymore. I told him a real man would just pop a hole in his ear.

The earrings were on the clearance rack, but rang up full price. Luckily, we had been flirting with the sales lady while we scanned the earrings. She gave them to us for 60% off. Who says only hot chicks get free things?

A trip to the mall would not be complete without stopping in to see Sam at the salon.

"What are you guys shopping for?"

"I need a black turtleneck, and Jay is shopping for earrings. I'm turning artsy, and Jay is switching teams!"

Sam tells us her Ace Freely costume was complete. We stopped by Starbucks—'cause God knows I don't need to sleep. I chatted up the girl behind the counter. She had the place clean and ready to close, and I threatened to order the messiest drink.

By the time we got back to Jay's house, it was already after 9:30. I called customer support to get the modem registered to his account. I got Alison, a friendly support person from Ottawa. I think she was new. She couldn’t get whatever she needed to do to work. She needed to call her manager over. While we waited, I started reading her the Maxim magazine article I was flipping through, “100 Things You Need to Know About Women.”

Me: "Okay, here's one. #34: The average woman owns eight bras and wears each one five times before washing."
Alison: "That sounds about right, but I don't know about the five times.

Me:”19: The more piercings she has, the more places she'll let you put it."
Alison: "I only have one piercing. What's the next one?"

Me: "Okayyyy. #23: Every woman is self-conscious about her ass."
Alison: "No comment."

Me: "Oops, I think I hit a sensitive spot."
Alison: "I didn't say that."

Me: "#16: Chicks aren't afraid to get kinky; you just have to have the nerve to ask."
Alison: "I can't talk about that one—these conversations are recorded."

Unfortunately, Jay's cheap cell phone disconnected at that point. When I got customer service back on my phone, a guy took the call and hooked up internet access in minutes, but it wasn't as fun.

Wonka

When we returned to Tinkerbell's place, she showed me her preparations for Halloween. A three-foot-tall soft-serve ice cream cone sat in her living room. Her theme was Willy Wonka.

"Tink, this is amazing! How did you do that?" I asked.

She went into detail on how she constructed it. "The bottom is a trash can. The top I made from pool noodles."

"What about the sprinkles?"

"Those are clay. You have to bake them first."

The result was outstanding. She'd captured every detail, down to the texture on the cone. But this was only part of it. Stuffed in closets throughout the house were large toadstools, gumdrops, and lollipops. Each piece exploded with detail.

In the downstairs closet, there were materials for a giant Pop-Tart she was creating next.

"You could do this professionally," I said.

Tinkerbell downplayed her skills, but I’m an arts-and-crafter myself. I know good work. People would pay for such a display. She had been working on things since December.

"Wouldn't you love getting paid for what you enjoy doing?"

We headed back outside. Tink sat on her porch while I stood nearby. Tinkerbell gossiped about her neighbors as they entered and exited the condos across the street. Unlike the dorm, this time I was reluctant to leave.

I’ll make sure to post some pictures of the completed display.