Wendy sat on a railroad track her heart was all aflutter, around the bend came the Number 10, choo-choo Wendy-butter. Wendy sits on the curb outside her house. Her knees pulled up to her chest and her face hidden behind a veil of hair the color of butter. She is chanting softly under her breath. Every time she reaches the end of the verse she starts again.

It is her mantra. What she does to calm herself. She’s been doing it since Evan died. Three years ago right in front of where she was sitting, her eight year old brother was struck by a drunk driver while he was riding his new birthday bike. He died three days later. That’s the day she lost her mom, too. At least her old mom. Her new mom cries all the time and her breath smells funny, like medicine but not cherry medicine. She smells like sadness.

Her parents told her last night that her mother was leaving today. That she needs to go somewhere and get better and not be so sad anymore. It made Wendy sad that she wasn’t good enough to make her mother happy after Evan died. She tries not to have nightmares but she can’t help it. Some nights when she closes her eyes she sees the accident again.

She heard her parents come out to the car. She listened as they got in, started the car, and drove out of the driveway. She didn’t look up as they drove away that way she could pretend that they waved goodbye. She knew she should go inside to see Tammy, the babysitter, but she’d rather be out here by herself. Wendy sat on a railroad track her heart was all aflutter… she started chanting again. All the while wondering if anyone would remember that today was her eleventh birthday. 

…around the bend came the Number 10, choo-choo, Wendy-butter…

The old man

A man sits on a weathered green bench. He is not quite an old man but he is close. His clothes fit poorly, purchased when he was thinner. The checkered pattern on his shirt distorts as he settles into his seat. He stares straight ahead but his eyes look toward the past. He sees a woman with skin like caramel, her dark hair pulled into a tight bun. She is wearing a white dress with small red polka dots and she is smiling. One hand is out-stretched; his left hand twitches wanting to reach into the past and grasp her hand offered so freely. Her other hand rests gently on her stomach, a smile lights her face.

He sighs. Shaking the memories from his mind, he struggles to his feet and boards the bus home. Alone.

Moving on

Well, it’s official, Patch and I are parting ways.

It’s been a really tremendous two years and I’ll always be grateful that I had such an amazing opportunity as a brand new writer. Some writers toil their whole lives and never get paid to do what they love. Me, they started paying two months after I started writing. So, go me!

What’s next? I hear you asking all the way from the future.

Well, I’ll continue to publish my blog but I’ve decided that this is a sign from the universe that it’s time to focus on finishing Restless and other stories that I’ve been neglecting (cough – Girls Like Us– cough). Also, several people have messaged me to ask if I had plans to lengthen Restless into a full-fledged book and since I have some new found free time I’ve decided that, yes, Restless will be turned into a novel or at least a novella.

Honestly, I’m a little relieved. It’s hard to come up with content every single week and since it was work, it took priority over all of my other writing. I can now concentrate on writing stories and updating the blog which is different from Patch, it’s informal. Continue reading

Update from Pam Land

It’s been a while since I spent any time writing about Pam. That, however, does not mean that I’ve not been thinking about her and her story.

Writing fiction is hard; harder than I thought it would be. Not ditch-digging hard or third-shift on your feet hard but it presents its challenges. Not just worrying about dialogue but also having a compelling and cohesive story arc but also giving in and letting the story be what it wants to be. Yeah, I’ll bet some of you are wondering what the hell that means. It means I want the story to be one way and the story, well the story wants to be another way. I was a little surprised as well and no, I can’t write it the way I want because when I do, it feels inauthentic. If I feel that, I’m pretty sure that you will as well.

See, the story wants to be one thing and I don’t like it. So, I guess, I’m refusing to write it down. Think of it like a five year old having a temper tantrum. That’s me. Only I’m having it in my head, with myself and I’m not quite sure how to but myself into a mental time-out. So here we are at an impass.

So what to do? Continue reading


…and rain will make the flowers grow  ~ Eponine, “A Little Fall of Rain”

summer rain

I love the smell of rain.

Especially summer rain.

It makes the world smell clean.


Full of promise.

It’s the essence of love; the thrill of the first kiss. The hand on your hip as he leans in, gently, to taste your lips. It’s you, arching your back and holding your breath. Knowing its coming. Nervous and anxious and excited. Passion.

It’s the feeling you get when you meet the love of your life. It’s the look in his eyes when you say yes. It’s the overwhelming joy in your heart when you say “I Do.” Love.

It’s the first flutter of your growing baby. Not quite sure what you’re feeling. Was it? Could it be? Then again; and you’re sure. Hope.

It’s the swelling of your heart when you finally meet your child. The overwhelming love and the sheer terror of caring for another living being. Responsibility.

It’s in the sunrise.

It’s in the storm clouds.

It’s in the rain.

It’s in us all.