I’m sure February would tell me not to hold the timing of events in my life against it, personally. Yet I wish it would behave more like a lava cake oozing molten chocolate versus exploding brown shit everywhere.

I’d like to savor February a little, ya know? But…

24 years ago I lost the love of my life to a car crash. He hung on for a week in a coma as I stayed by his side at the hospital, hoping against all hope, until it was declared he had no more brain activity. He died February 14th.

8 years ago I found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned, but my live-in boyfriend of many years and father of my second son was happy about it. I started to adapt to the idea of being a mom again in my 40s. Then in February I miscarried.

2 years ago I was in the midst of ending my relationship with the man mentioned above. We had been together for 15 years, and we had a child together. We went through family deaths, loss of jobs, moving, house construction, surgeries, and the miscarriage. Everything that tests a couple. And it didn’t break us.

Instead it took us apart slowly, like unobserved termites eating at the bones of a house until it disintegrates.

I had been unhappy for a long time but didn’t know how to leave. I wasn’t sure I was ready to leave the known to wander into the unknown, having no idea where it would lead.

Then something happened (which feels a bit personal to disclose here and now), and it caused me to jump into action like a race horse bolting out of the gate. Within a week I decided to leave, signed a lease to rent, made my down payment—all before I even told him I was leaving. Looking back I realize my subconscious knew if I didn’t have something in place I couldn’t back out of, I would change my mind and stay.

A few days later I did tell him, and I moved out at the end of February.

And while the past couple of years I’ve made it through this month with more of a hibernating withdrawal instead of cussing and crying, I guess, in a way, February did redeem itself. I should honor the month that gave me back my life.

Because it’s when I finally woke up.

I realized I had spent too many years living with angry, unstable men—a good part of my childhood and all of my adult years. I’ve spent a lifetime telling myself he’s not that bad…it could be worse…there’s good moments…he doesn’t mean it…it’s not all his fault…I play a role in this too…I overreact…I need to work on my problems…I have to be stronger…maybe I expect too much…I know he loves me, he just doesn’t know how to show it.

I’m so done with all of it.

As the month draws to an end, I’m ready to let out the breath I’ve been holding.

I’m ready to be grateful for February, with all its celebrations.

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How about you, dear readers? Do you have a month you hate? Have you ever jumped into the unknown? I’d love to hear about your experience!

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“I don’t believe in signs,” her son says.

“What?” She looks at him, processing this new information.

“I think it’s a coping mechanism.”

“What?” She repeats. His words are slowly seeping their way into her brain. “What do you mean?”

“When people don’t get what they want, they have to come up with a reason. They can’t accept that’s the way it is.”

They were out looking for a Christmas tree, perusing the fake ones at Menards, something she swore she’d never buy. Lately, life had her doing lots of things she swore she’d never do. But getting a fake tree…well, she wasn’t so sure she was ready to part with a tradition nearly 50 years in the making. It felt like self-treason.

“Ooh, how about the pink one?” she jokes.

“Yeah, I don’t think so. This one is ugly too.” He points to a snow-flocked tree.

“You don’t like white Christmas trees?” She wonders how much more she doesn’t know about him.

“No, they’re stupid. It doesn’t look like real snow.”

“You’re really into reality, aren’t you?” she asks. Is he even her kid?

“This one is nice and not too expensive,” he suggests. It stands 6 feet tall and has full, dark green branches blinking with colored lights. At $75, it’s a steal. She starts looking for an employee to help her, spotting one nearby. He follows her over to the display and checks the inventory with his scanner. It’s the last one.

“I can sell it to you, but you’d have to wait until Sunday to pick it up. They don’t want to tear down their ‘Enchanted Forest’ too soon, you know.” The employee gives her a face like he doesn’t believe in all this retail magic.

Sunday. Three days before Christmas Eve. It’s pushing it, even for her. She looks to her son for his opinion, but he just shrugs. Typical teenager.

“We’ll look around more,” she tells the employee. He smiles and goes back to scanning merchandise.

“Maybe it’s a sign we’re supposed to get a real tree,” she says, testing his theory.

“Or maybe, they’re just out of the tree you want,” he replies, giving her a smug smile.

She rolls her eyes. Frustration begins to fill her body. Her shoulders are tense, her stomach in knots. She thinks about how this was never an issue before. She always went to the tree farm, bought a ridiculously expensive Frasier Fur already cut. They would saw a couple inches off the bottom and remind her to put it in water within two hours, and then they’d load it into the SUV as she wished them a Merry Christmas and gave them a tip. Once at home, either her fiance´ or oldest son would help her get it in the stand. Voila, done!

But this year is different. She walked out of her 15 year relationship. Her oldest son got his own place. He was ready, even if she wasn’t. And now funds are not allowing her to do what she normally would. Nor does she have the help needed to do it. Her younger son will definitely try, but ‘try’ is the operative word here. He has other talents. She stands in the middle of the Enchanted Forest at Menards, trying to decide what choice to make.

“How long are we going to be poor?” Her son asks, not in an accusatory tone, but honestly questioning. It’s almost too much. What does she say to that?

“Um, I don’t know, that’s kinda hard to answer. Besides, we’re not that poor. We have what we need, just not extras. Why?” She starts working her way towards the section of the store where they house the real trees.

“I’m thinking if this is going to last awhile, let’s get a fake tree. Then if we’re still poor next year, we already have a tree.”

Ever the practical one, she thinks. They go through the doors to the garden center. The temperature drops 70 degrees as the winter air slices straight through their bodies.

“Here, stand next to this one so I can get an idea of how tall it is,” she tells him as she stands the tree upright. His six foot frame towers over it. It’s ten days before Christmas and the trees have been picked through. What’s left are either short enough to become a table tree, or scraggly enough to please Charlie Brown.

“Do you see anything that will work?” She seems to believe he is going to somehow uncover the perfect real tree and create a magical Christmas miracle.

“No.” He doesn’t glance around. He doesn’t try to pacify her by walking about as though someone aisle-ditched the best tree ever one lane over. He doesn’t upend merchandise on shelves to see if it’s hidden behind a tree stand. He doesn’t even check behind the blow up snowman which could easily hide three trees. He simply looks at her, wondering when this futile search will end and they can leave.

“Let’s go. I can’t do this anymore. I have to think about it,” she says. He follows her out of the store empty handed. “Let’s go to a movie. Didn’t you say you want to see Five Nights at Freddy’s 2?” At this point in the evening, she feels they could both use a break from her.

She sets aside her endless self-talk for the next two hours. The movie is better than she thought it would be. She doesn’t get the inside jokes related to the video game, but enjoys hearing her son snicker at them.

Later that night she taps “place your order” on Amazon and buys an artificial tree. She decides it doesn’t feel like giving up—it feels like dropping the weight of expectations. It feels like acceptance.

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Well, the universe once again reminded me how worry is wasted energy. I finished her novel in less than two weeks! I could not put it down—I mean, I had to, as I was reading between working two jobs and being a mom, and this girl needs her beauty sleep—but still, you all, this is an AMAZING story.

If you enjoy strong female characters, weaving between timelines, or just damn good writing, buy it. I like reading different types of fiction and this one included some of my favorites: contemporary, dystopian, and historical fiction. It even contains elements of magic—just enough to make us wonder if we aren’t all a little magical; and a bit of romance—to remind us we are all worthy of love.

Okay, here’s those enticing tidbits about each character:

Miryam lives in 1300s England, where anyone who is not in line with the teachings of the church could be accused of heresy and quartered in the public square. Yet Miryam has a wild spirit and a thirst for more than the limits of what her life allow. She meets a group of people who open her eyes to the magic of the world, and after a traumatic experience in the woods, she flees to join them. Will she stay and risk being labeled a heretic, or will she return to her loving family and do what is required of her?

Leah is a 21st century Californian, single mom, and psychic who doesn’t believe in her profession or herself. The only thing she knows for sure is how much she loves her daughter—the one her awful ex-husband is trying to take away through a custody battle. After an odd encounter with a woman Leah is convinced is crazy and suffering dementia, she is given a book that alters her life path and changes the way she views the world. Just when she’s beginning to trust herself, she’s receives some news which makes those closest to Leah question her sanity. Will she be able to follow her intuition, or will her loved ones hold her back?

Karaia resides in New Soteria in the year 2307. Life in the future is good: no one goes hungry or has to grow old; everyone is employed; crime is pretty much nonexistant; anger and depression and pain have been eliminated. Then one night Karaia witnesses something she isn’t supposed to see, and she can’t forget it. Her refusal to let it go leads her to meet two questionable people who show her more than she expected to find, blowing her world apart. Will Karaia be able to use this information to aid her own personal quest, or will the corporation she works for discover her secrets before she can begin?

The only downfall of being an ARC reader for this book is it’s a trilogy, and I’m so curious and excited to see what happens next to these women—these characters I have fallen in love with, been inspired by, and cannot stop thinking about.

Thank you, Jessica Ann, for allowing me the opportunity to be immersed in your fictional world of Miryam, Leah, and Karaia. It has been a pleasure!

If you are interested in buying the novel it can be purchased through the following links (of which I have no affiliation):

Bookshop.org

Barnes and Noble

Amazon

Of course you can buy it on Jessica Ann’s website and receive a discount, (obviously the best option).

Happy reading!

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“This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end

Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
I’ll never look into your eyes again”

The Doors

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In my early 20’s I was young, naive, and hedonistic. Now in my 40’s, it’s hard to remember the person I was then. In some ways she never left—she hangs back in the shadows of my soul, waiting and watching to see what I’ll do next—how far away will I wander from the person I was?

Growing up, for me, meant abandoning the passion and fire of my youth. I don’t know if it’s like that for everyone, but I couldn’t seem to hold onto them. The man I’m with now taught me that relationships aren’t always easy, but that doesn’t mean you leave—that adults sometimes sacrifice their own wants for the sake of their families and responsibility. And grown ups don’t act on their big emotions, crazy desires, or silly dreams. They swallow them.

But back then, in my youth, I thrived on emotions, desires, and dreams. And he let me. Now I realize he would’ve done anything to keep me. Sometimes I think he was the grown up who was willing to sacrifice his own happiness for mine. At other times I think my joy was his joy. He was part of my life for only six years, yet he left an imprint on my soul which remains over 20 years later. There is not a day he escapes my thoughts. If I succumb to Alzheimer’s, I believe he will be my last remaining memory.

***

I wake up on a cold February Friday morning with plans to see Michael after work. Even though we’re no longer a couple, the break hasn’t been clean. I still love him, and often spend weekends at his place. We had spoken the night before about what kind of beer I should buy for the weekend.

“Do you want the Killian’s Red or the Leinkugel’s Honeyweiss?” The glass doors along the wall are stacked high with options.

“Get the Honeyweiss. I know you like it better.”

This is his way; to always give me my way. I’m holding the case of Honeyweiss, the call simply a courtesy in case he goes out of the norm and chooses for himself.

“Okay, got it. I work until 4 tomorrow, then I’ll head home and pack up. I should be down to your place by 6 and we can have dinner,” I say. After the relationship ended, he moved to southern Minnesota to work with his friends on a pig farm.

“Sounds good. What do you want me to make?”

He had wanted to be a chef at one time, before our lives changed. Before I changed it. For a while I had forgotten how he’d toured the Art Institute in Minneapolis. Then he found out how much it would cost. It seemed impossible, but I said we would find a way, someday. It was back when I thought dreams were made possible by simply willing them to be.

“Whatever you make will be good. You know what I like,” I reply.

“Chicken pesto it is. And Roman is doing better, Mya,” he adds gently.

Roman is our kitten. Or his kitten. I adopted Roman for him after he moved out. We had been in a fight last week because the kitten had been sick and he didn’t take him to the vet right away.

“Oh good. Thanks for taking him in. Well, I’d better get going. I’ll see you tomorrow. I love you.”

“I love you too. Bye.”

I close my cell and put it back in my purse. I pick up the case of Leines I’d set down during our conversation and start to head to the check out lane when the cardboard bottom opens up, and 24 bottles fall onto the tile, most of them breaking open.

“Shit!”

That delicious golden liquid pours out, pooling around my beige boots. It’s a harbinger of what is to come. For the rest of my life I will be grateful “I love you” are the last words I spoke to him.

It’s around noon the next day when I get the call at work. Something about a car accident, intersection, dirt road, middle of fields. It’s the end of “hell week” on the farm, and the boys are glad it’s over, ready to celebrate the weekend. They tell me he was on his way to cash his paycheck but never made it. He’s been airlifted from southern Minnesota to the Twin Cities, where I still live. I tell myself it isn’t that bad. Serious, but he’ll be ok. Michael is a survivor. He had been hit by a car on his bicycle when he was 13 and had been put in a body cast for months. I’m convinced he’s invincible.

I rush to my dad’s apartment and pick him up, knowing I’ll need him. My father is always the calm to my storm. I make it to the hospital, and they tell me Michael’s just arrived so they need some time before we can see him. I sit in the waiting room, nervous energy coursing through me, staring at the carpet tiles streaked with purple, green, and black. My mind can’t handle all the questions I have, and so I begin to pray for the first time in my life.

“May God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference.”

I focus on the colors in the carpet and repeat the words like a mantra.

***

When I met Michael, it wasn’t love at first sight for me. And he figured I was out of his league. He was shy, and his curly brown hair was long and frizzy. He was thin with a pockmarked face from bad acne. I was brazen and bold, with dyed platinum blonde hair that fell past my shoulders. Women were always complimenting my clear skin and dark red lips; a face that didn’t need make up.

“So what’s your story?” I asked him the first night.

A group of us were hanging out at Country Kitchen, drinking coffee, eating fries, and smoking cigarettes. Michael looked at me but didn’t answer. Not easily deterred, I reached out and tapped him on the arm.

“What’s your story?” I repeated.

“Are you talking to me?” He seemed surprised, not annoyed.

“Yeah. You’re Michael, right?” I took a drag off my cigarette. He nodded.

“So…what is your story?”

“What do you mean?”

“Where are you from? How’d you end up here? How do you know Sean?” I waved my hand towards Sean, my friend from elementary school who’d brought this new group of people to our usual hang out spot. He was busy chatting up a petite girl with black hair in a pixie cut and a pierced eyebrow.

“Um, we work together, over at the gas station? He told me to come by tonight.” His bright blue eyes darted back and forth from me to the table.

“I’m Mya.” I smile.

As we continued to spend time together in our group of friends, I began to see something in Michael. It was pain. And I was a rescuer. Since I couldn’t really get Michael to answer my endless questions in person, we started a notebook to write to each other. One day he revealed his secret—he didn’t want to live. Having struggled with depression myself, we bonded. We told each other about our pasts, our dark thoughts, all of our feelings. We never judged or condemned. We listened. And we fell in love. After a short while I understood why Michael felt such deep pain; it was because he was so kind and sweet and generous. I wanted to know everything about him, and I wished I had known him his whole life so I hadn’t missed a thing.

***

After waiting over an hour, the nurses tell me and my dad we can finally go in and see Michael. They warn me about his condition—it’s very serious, and he is not conscious. There has been damage to his head and face, and they are still trying to determine the extent of his injuries. I care about none of this. I only have a driving desperation to see him. He needs me now, and I will be there.

The curtains open. The scene before me feels like it’s out of a movie I’ve watched. He lays in the bed in a hospital gown, machines beeping and whirring, the tubes coming out of them connected everywhere to his body. His head is bandaged and red stains have soaked through. Then my eyes land on his face, but it’s not his face. It’s flat, yet swollen, with no shape at all. Everywhere, where his face is supposed to be, are cuts with blood seeping out.

My legs give out from under me, and I can hear a loud wailing, and it takes me a second to realize it’s coming from me. My father holds me upright so I don’t fall; a nurse asks if they should call a priest; I start sobbing, thinking they are calling for one to read his last rights.

Dad reads my mind and whispers in my ear, “It’s for you, Mya. They want to know if you need one.”

I shake my head no and try to stop crying because I’m afraid they will ask me to leave, thinking I can’t handle it. Later, I learn this is the floor where many lose it. Nurses watch loved ones grieve over and over for their tragedy. Some make it and some don’t. Some are never the same. But they don’t make you leave. They understand this may be the last moments you have with your loved one. They give everyone the opportunity to say goodbye.

***

A couple of months after we met, Michael and I moved in together–at this point we were inseparable. A friend of mine had a place in town and wanted help paying rent, and the price was right. It was a house divided into five apartments: two on the top floor, two on the main level, and ours in the basement. Mine and Michael’s bedroom wasn’t technically a bedroom but more of a porch off the backside of the house. It had a door to the outside, and a window we covered with thick blankets to keep out the cold because there was no heat running to it. In the winter the frost covered the glass, and we had to get a space heater to stay warm. We had a paper delivery route at 3am, and sometimes Michael let me stay home and sleep, cozy under the covers, doing the route by himself. His sacrifices were endless.

And for a while we had one wild ride. We moved from our tiny midwest town to California, where we bunked with four other people in a crazy expensive apartment south of San Francisco. We sold vacuum cleaners door to door and strolled the streets at night looking to score weed. One time a dude said, “I’ll be right back,” and trotted around the corner, coming back a few minutes later, stuffing some pot into Michael’s hand. Our California joyride lasted until his family called him back home because his sister had gotten herself into some trouble. She had met a guy who ended up being a meth dealer, and she was in jail relating to his “business.” They needed Michael for his moral support and to maybe testify on his sister’s behalf if it came to it.

I stayed in California, trying to enjoy the vibe and find a crowd to fit in with, thinking he’d come back and we’d pick up where we left off. Then one day I got lost coming back from a job interview in another town and ended up in a van with a stranger who only spoke Chinese. He ended up dropping me off in a parking lot, gave me $20, then hugged me while he quickly felt me up. I thanked karma for getting me out of there basically unscathed. Then I called the friends we lived with to come get me but they were too busy. Feeling alone, I ended up going back home to Minnesota. To Michael.

After that we settled into a comfortable pattern. I got a job as a bookkeeper, and Michael started working at a bagel shop. We lived with my uncle until we made enough to get our own one bedroom apartment. We shared one car because we couldn’t imagine affording another. He’d have to be at work by 5am, so I’d drive him, then go back home and get ready for my job. When he was done, Michael would walk the mile or so to my work, pick up the car, then come back later to get me. We budgeted, grocery shopped, cleaned the apartment, and had friends over for dinner. Every summer we took a vacation for two weeks. It was blissfully normal. And I was suffocating on it.

***

Four days into his coma, after the sun goes down, I sit in my car smoking a joint in the hospital parking lot. The Grateful Dead is playing Uncle John’s Band. “When life looks like easy street, there is danger at your door.” Yep. Never again will I trust easy street. The thing is, I didn’t know back then I was on easy street. Like most things in our youth, I took it for granted.

I stare at the concrete walls of the parking lot I’ve come to know too well. Four days. Four days of wishing, of hoping, of praying—something I never do but now the Serenity Prayer spills from my lips like his name.

Four days of trying to be numb. Four days of watching him lie in a hospital bed, body full of tubes, face unrecognizable. Four days of sleeping on the couch in the Intensive Care lobby. Four days of eating whatever someone puts in front of me. Four days of crying more than I knew possible. Four days of pain from which I never fully recover. Four days of bargaining. Four days of hating myself more than ever. Four days of promises I don’t know if I can keep. People—my family, my friends, the nurses—all tell me to go home for a while. To get rest. To eat and take a shower.

“Just for a couple of hours,” they say. “It will help you feel better.”

Like fuck it will. Nothing is going to make me feel better. And leave? Leave him? Are they out of their minds? How can I possibly leave him? The one who never left me? Who always stayed by my side and loved me through all my insanity. Who loved me so much he let me go.

***

Looking back I can see how our patterns, the path we were taking, led him to believe the next natural step would have been marriage. Then maybe kids, if I wanted. A house and a life together. I guess that’s how it’s done. But I was too young to understand. Or I wasn’t built that way. I don’t know if it’s being a child of divorce, or having parents who did things non-traditionally, but the next step never crossed my mind. Settling down has always unsettled me. I was content in the moment. Until I wasn’t.

After five years of never leaving each other’s side, I declared I needed space. I needed to be on my own and be free. I thought we were getting stuck in a rut, and I was too young for comfortable and boring. I wanted spice, drama, and never ending excitement. We lived in a city, and I craved that life. Late nights, dancing, clubs, freeways, shopping malls, everything moving fast and loud. I wanted to have the kind of life like the celebrities I read about in People Magazine on my breaks at work. I started waitressing, working and partying late, meeting people who took me to drag shows in seedy sections of Minneapolis. Michael preferred to be home early, watching tv and cuddling on the couch by 8pm. He wanted a family life.

There were no fights about it. No disappointed looks when I came home half in the bag past midnight. No snide remarks when I was too exhausted to do anything the next day. I did what I wanted, and he let me. If it bothered him, it never showed. Maybe he thought if he gave me all the leash in the world, I wouldn’t choke myself. I’d find my way back to him, no matter how lost I became. If time hadn’t run out, I like to think I would have.

***

On day six, the nurses’ endless pleas for me to get some rest break me. It’s late, and I decide a shower and sleeping in my bed for one night might be okay. My long brown hair is greasy and stringy, and the deodorant is no longer hiding my body stench. When he wakes up I don’t want to be unrecognizable too. The nurses promise over and over they will call me if there are any changes. At 9pm I get in my car and drive the 20 minutes to my apartment. I shower and crawl under the sheets. Sleep takes me quickly. I do not know this yet, but it’s the beginning to the end of my carefree youth.

The call comes at 5am. Michael took a turn for the worse. There was nothing more they could do. They took him off life support and held his hand until he passed.

I’m furious. And guilty. Because I left, he died. Because they didn’t call me sooner, I wasn’t there to hold his hand. Because I went home, I missed his last moments on Earth. Denial will come later; for now it’s only rage.

***

Later I wondered if you let go when I wasn’t there to spare me somehow.

And once you were gone, there was nothing left to hold on to—no more hope to find. While you were fighting for your life, I was busy preparing to care for you. They told me no matter what you had brain damage, but the extent to how it would affect you was unknown. Maybe you wouldn’t remember anything or anyone. Or how to walk or talk or eat. Or you may have anger outbursts. Your personality may be changed. None of it mattered. I prepared myself to take care of you no matter how bad it was. I pictured myself going through therapies with you, and learning about brain damage until I was an expert. I would wheelchair you around and wipe your ass if that’s what it took.

But once you were gone, all those thoughts meant nothing. That would not be my life. My life would be one without you. After making cremation arrangements and writing a eulogy for the paper and planning your service and cleaning out your house, there was nothing left to do. In my tiny one bedroom apartment were all your things. I took your box spring and mattress and added it to my own, piling them both up high as though I was the Princess and the Pea. Boxes of your clothes and personal items were stacked around my living room, all reeking of pig farm.

But I didn’t care about the mess or the smell. I laid on the couch, listening to the Doors sing “The End” while I smoked weed and drank scotch and had no idea how I would ever be happy again. Half of me had been severed. And I was furious at myself. I knew I was to blame. If I hadn’t left, you wouldn’t have moved down there, you would never have worked there, and you couldn’t have possibly gotten in that accident. All roads led back to me.

Even now, I logically know it’s not my fault. I didn’t kill you. But do I still blame myself? Do I still wonder what would have happened to us if I had made different choices? Yes.

***

For years I could not write about this. I told myself to, and to do it while every detail was still fresh in my mind. But I got distracted. First, trying to drown out the pain. Then, with my first child, named after him. Then back to school, a separation and a new relationship, then another child, and then the death of my beloved father. But it wasn’t only distractions. It was a loss of passion, of fire. It was the belief I could never do him justice on paper. It was the refusal to relive the trauma since it nearly killed me the first time. There are so few in this world who can love unconditionally, and he did.

So the years go by and the pain does recede. Some of the details do elude me, but the memory of him and the feelings have not faded. And I know I will regret it if I never tell his story. For he has left a legacy in me—living on through the years I carry him with me. Sometimes I can’t decide which has impacted me more: his life or his death. Both seem to weigh equal. Life should matter more, right? But when a life has such meaning, the loss of it fundamentally changes those left behind. Perhaps that is how I ended up so derailed; I grieved incorrectly, as though there is such a thing. But maybe if I had focused more on his life instead of his death, I wouldn’t have lost as much of myself.

But we live by the stories we tell ourselves, shaping our own existence through our narratives, regardless of their truth. We are too close to the tragedies to see absolute truth; instead truth is shaped by our perceptions, as faulty as they are.

I realize now I have punished myself long enough, and it’s never what Michael would have wanted for me. I allowed the guilt to consume me, and then I buried it, thinking it could be suffocated, but instead it festered. It made me hold on too long in relationships when I needed to let go. It caused me to take on all the blame when problems arose in my life. It made me a victim. Now it’s time to be a survivor.

February is the cruelest of months. 
The coldness seeps into my bones. 
But it's not the temperature outside. 
Raised in Minnesota
I'm used to the winter. 
This is different.
Nothing can warm me. 

Curled in front of the space heater, 
Furnance running at 78 degrees, 
Wool socks, three layers of shirts, 
Shaking, teeth chattering.

When I get the call,
I understand.
Dead inside me...
Frozen from the inside out. 

This week in honor of Halloween I’m sharing two of my Poesque stories. I would love to hear which one you prefer. And do you find it challenging to write really short pieces?

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“Tiny’s Descent”

It happened 30 years ago on a dark and stormy night. Isn’t it always a dark and stormy night when bad things happen? I’m lucky to tell the story. Not all who were there that night can say the same.

I was 17, and school just ended for the summer. My friends Lisa and Vanessa and I were going camping for the weekend at Itasca State Park in the woods of Minnesota. We piled into Lisa’s old, rusty conversion van—the three of us, all our camping gear, and her dog Tiny. His name was a joke because he was a huge Bullmastiff with a tawny colored coat and dark face.

The first night went great. We ate juicy hamburgers cooked over an open fire, and then roasted gooey, delicious smores as we told scary stories around the campfire. The weather was a balmy 60 degrees with no rain in sight. We slept with the canopy of stars over our heads. Tiny, however, just laid there whining and growling.

Then the next night storm clouds rolled in. Tiny kept growling, but knowing he was nervous by nature Lisa kept saying, “Shh, Tiny. There isn’t anything out there. It’s ok dude.”

After a while we noticed Tiny had wandered off somewhere, as he wasn’t in his usual spot next to Lisa. We heard a noise coming from the dark woods.

Lisa called, “Tiny? Tiny, are you out there?”

A low growl came in reply. The flashlight went out. From the glow of the fire we could see a set of red eyes appear in the darkness.

“Tiny?” Lisa’s shaky voice was barely audible.

Another set of red eyes appeared. Then another, and another, and another, until the trees were full of glowing red eyes. Then Tiny came out of the trees, slowly advancing towards us, teeth bared, spittle dripping from his huge jowls. Behind him came an army of coyotes, wolves, bears, mountain lions, and other forest creatures. Lisa, bless her heart, thought she could bring Tiny back. But needless to say he devoured her, ripping apart her throat, her blood splayed across the gravel, seeping into the soil.

Sometimes I wish Vanessa were still here—an acquaintance with whom to reminisce, a witness to the madness of the night, a harbinger to be for those yet to cross my path. But alas, she did not make it out that night either. It is with regret, I must say, that she was shoved to the ground. A sacrifice. After all, dear listeners, only one of us could make it to the van in time.

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“The Lost Girl”

It was many years ago, on an autumn evening much like this. Darkness came early. The weather had turned cool. The trees had gone from verdant greens to burnt oranges and rusty reds; the leaves holding on, lingering like a lover left behind. The people were gathered in line waiting to enter the haunted trail, waiting for the opportunity to enjoy a controlled fear, waiting for the moment to prove their bravery.

“It wasn’t even scary, bro,” said one teen, postering in front of his friends. “Way more lame than last year.”

“Shhh…don’t say that,” said one of the girls. “If they hear anyone say it’s not scary, there’s a sacrifice.”

“A sacrifice? Sounds like the perfect Halloween scare story. Maybe we can offer you up?” He playfully punches her in the shoulder.

“You’d make a better sacrifice. I think they like the stupid ones more.” She shoves him, laughing as he tosses her over his shoulder, spinning until they both get dizzy, collapsing onto a stack of square bales.

“Do you know what you’re doing out here?” A high pitched voice cuts the air, startling them.

They sit up, realizing the lights and lines of people are far off in the distance. They are on the edge of the cornfields, their breath coming in ghostly puffs.

“I’m sorry, I guess we got distracted.” The girl giggles, sitting up.

Standing and staring at them is a young girl. Her dress is white, thin, and at first glance it looks covered in poorly placed dark red polka dots, but upon closer inspection one sees they are pools of blood. The fabric is shredded, and underneath are deep cuts in her skin—open wounds with flesh hanging off them, yet not bleeding. One long gash runs from the outside corner of her black eye down to her white throat.

“Nice makeup. I think you’re the scariest one out here.” The boy stands, putting on his baseball cap.

“That’s what they say.” The girl turns away and heads toward the pale fields.

“Wait, aren’t you going the wrong way? Are you lost?” shouts the girl.

Her shadow disappears into the darkness.

When they turn around there are no more lights and people, only blackness. A pack of coyotes scream in the stillness then stop. Silence. Suddenly from every direction they hear the crunch of footsteps on dead leaves.

“Is it scary now?”

Recently, a lovely person whose blog I have followed for years and now has a Substack on here, (love, Maegan), has been writing a book. During the process she has talked about how healing it has been for her. And it got me to thinking…do I believe the writing process can help me heal from past traumas?

I’m willing to bet there’s lots of writers who would say YES, absolutely it does. Others may tell us writing is what has caused some of their trauma, lol.

A long time ago I tragically lost someone I loved, (still love), very much. I have no doubt that loss affected the trajectory of my life. And I have tried to write about it—about our lives, our love, the loss, the aftermath—all of it. I have yet to tell our story.

But I recently found two different drafts of stories I started years ago. One looks like it’s written to be a novel; the other, more of a short story. One was written many many years ago; the other, about four years ago when I started feeling the longing to write again.

Something inside me is telling me to finish one of them—that I need to do this to finally heal from a pain in my 20s. Then maybe I can keep going, writing through all my shit, until I feel whole again.

But which one do I finish? The earlier one has way more details and is full of dialogue. The action paces with the story, in the moment. I can tell my purpose was to tell it how it happened. 6,253 words. Title: “It’s Some Kind of Hell”*

The other I wrote just a few years ago. It’s more reflective, weaving between past and present in its storytelling. It’s heavy on internal dialogue. My purpose with this story was to explain. I’m just not sure to who, yet. 3,765 words. Title: “Dead Today”*

I’m not sure yet if writing helps heal, but it did help me make a decision. Through writing this post, I have chosen which story I want to finish.

Now the questions are: Will I be able to? Will it help to heal me?

Reviewing both of them tonight, I broke down crying and then remembered why I never finished the first story, the one told as it happened. I got to the part where I go to see him in the hospital, and I left it there. I couldn’t move past my pain until over 15 years later when I made my second attempt.

But the second time it wasn’t the pain that stopped me—it was fear. The fear I can’t do him justice in my writing. I can’t do us justice. I’m scared I’ll fail to convey the significance of…everything.

So I have to be willing to confront both the fear and the pain. I have to be courageous about sharing my story, hoping it will lead to healing.

*Note: I am by no means attached to the titles I gave these stories when I started. I hate coming up with titles, so I throw something on the doc to get started, and figure if I ever go to publish it, I’ll pick something better. Yet I do find the titles to these two stories fit the time in which I wrote them. “Some Kind of Hell” reflects how I felt as it happened, while “Dead Today” symbolizes more of how I feel years later.

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The carefree days of the 80’s are long gone, and I can’t decide if the carefree part was left behind because those are the years of my childhood, (under age 10), when life was its simplest, or if it’s because life just was simpler back then. I look back on those years, yearning for the same sense of simplicity. Of joy. Of timelessness.

Or perhaps the 80’s were carefree because the internet didn’t exist in our lives, tying us all together so we can tear each other down. Back when curing boredom required creativity, ingenuity, community. The people you talked to were the people around you, so if you offended them, you had to face them. Over and over.

Were people kinder? Or maybe we knew less about everyone else because our worlds were smaller? As with everything comes a trade off, a compromise, including our social evolution. I was once told, “In everything two opposites exist, and both are true.” And I see it more than ever these days, and in myself most of all.