"Looking for recipes? This isn't the spot..."

I’m a newly single mom of two young kids and toddler twins. I have all of the ingredients in life to make an awesome soup — come along as I tear up the recipe card, throw humor, honesty, and heartfelt hope into the pot, and give it a stir. I simmer with love as I write the unexpected story of my family.

Garbleblaster #158

Posted by on Apr 21, 2014 in Fiction, Microfiction | 10 comments

When the music stops and I stand on the stage alone, I’ll relive the transforming dance and steep myself in movement. I want to embody grace and substance and love. I have shed my shell and exposed bare the light shining within.

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Microfiction: Left

Posted by on Apr 13, 2014 in Fiction, Microfiction | 23 comments

I still carry her photo in my wallet. I’m not sure why. When she left, I was gutted. My skin was inside out and everything, I mean everything, hurt. All the time. I was so young. Mothers shouldn’t get to run away.

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Fiction: Wrong Turn

Posted by on Apr 7, 2014 in Fiction | 9 comments

Delia moaned. Before she opened her eyes, she did a mental inventory and decided that she was, in fact, still intact. She opened her eyes a slit, peering through her lashes into the bright morning sun.

“Oh! Uh-Oh!” a worried voice clucked. “It’s awake! Oh, Victor, it’s awake!”

“Maude, be careful. It could be dangerous.”

The voices were small and shrill and oddly low to the ground. Delia gingerly turned her face toward the sound and forced her eyelids open. She was in a garden of sorts, bounded by a menacing iron fence. Two young hares, rump to rump like dueling pistols, crouched by the gate.

One of the hares squealed and cowered when it saw Delia looking at them. “Oh, Victor!” it squeaked.

Delia’s mouth opened involuntarily in astonishment. “You… you… You talked?”

“Well, of course,” huffed the hare that appeared to be Victor. “Do you think we are Mountain hares?”

“You talked. You talked. You talked,” Delia repeated herself over and over, uncomprehending.

Victor stood upon his hind legs, “Yes, we’ve established that. We all talk.” He polished a monocle and the expression on his face clearly read, “This one is an imbecile.”

Delia tried to sit, but found that moss had somehow grown into her dress, effectively making her part of the landscape.

“Where am I?” Delia’s voice carried no small amount of panic. She began breaking the strands of moss to free her arms. The moss cried in protest, at least that’s what she thought happened.

“Where am I?” she asked again, pointedly staring at the talking hares, challenging them to answer her. The moss began to wail and retreated hastily from the folds of Delia’s dress.

“The Glen,” Victor signed, wearily, as if Delia should have known that.

“No, I am not. I was at work and my boss sent me for coffee. When I stepped out of the office, the wind blew me back into the door and I tripped and fell. I landed on the floor of the lobby. But I woke up here.”

Maude peered around Victor’s back. “No one gets here by accident. Especially not things like you. You were called here.”

“What? Oh, that makes no sense. No sense at all!” Delia spat. “I hit my head. I must have hit my head. When I fell. I’ve got a concussion or something.”

“You may have hit your head, that is true,” Victor sighed, “But you are here nonetheless. And that means that you were summoned.”

“No! Why would I imagine talking bunnies –”

“Hares!” Victor bristled.

“Yes, hares. Whatever. Why would I imagine talking hares? It doesn’t make sense!” Delia started crawling around the patch of garden where she had landed, the moss receding like the tide to get out of her way. “My pocketbook! It has my cell phone. I can call Amber and she’ll get an ambulance and I’ll go to the hospital…”

As Delia searched, the terrified plants around her pulled themselves up by their roots and scampered away, some sniffling. A mother tulip herded five or six small hyacinths under a thorny rosebush.

“Here! Here it is!” Finally, she found her pocketbook. She flung it open and started rifling around, searching for her cell phone.

The pocketbook began to laugh, “Ooh! Hee hee hee! That tickles!”

Delia shrieked and flung it to the ground. The bruised pocketbook tried to stand, then vomited the contents of the purse onto the ground before collapsing with a grunt.

Delia had begun to cry, too. She gently picked up her phone with her thumb and forefinger, unsure if it was going to come to life and yell at her, too. It did not. She swiped it and the face flickered for a moment, showed that she had no bars, and then it stuttered off. No amount of coaxing woke it again.

Delia slumped, head in her hands, tears splashing onto the front of her dress.

After a moment, something soft and warm snuggled up to her side.

“There, there, child.” Maude soothed, “One’s first trip is always the worst, so I hear. We shall know soon why you have been invited here. But why not have a nice cup of tea with us while you wait for the messenger?”

Delia nodded numbly. “I might as well.”

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