Lady Parts in Revolt

That’s what my essay which recently appeared at Salon should’ve been titled. But I didn’t think of this perfect title until my essay was already turned in and on its way to legendary viral status. Some of that last sentence is true.

Instead, the essay was published with my placemark name- “The Menopause Checkup.” Right? Cringe. Who knows how many people missed my awesome story due to a lame title?

I hope you’ll go ahead and read my essay Lady Parts in Revolt over at Salon, and forgive me the title. In it, I discuss a surprisingly personal interaction I had with a medical technician as we tried to figure out why I’d been bleeding for months and months with no end in sight.

Thank you!

 

Spaces with Men

*Friendly advisory: domestic abuse*

A Job

I’m an assistant manager working the graveyard shift. Every night I organize the aisles, count the cigarettes, stock the cooler. They hired Gary to help me out; to take care of customers and clean the store while I make orders and reconcile the register. An assistant for the assistant. Gary is an old Harley guy who will smile when I ask him to make the coffee and call me a bitch once I’ve turned my back. He is a man who whose ego is easily bruised, so I humor him the way all women have learned to humor men. I play distraught by tasks so that he can think he is saving me rather than taking orders from me. If he can portray not just daddy, but sexy, virulent daddy, he is temporarily soothed, and I can get my work done. If he catches any whiff of actual competence from me, it’s back to calling me bitch.

We are in the middle of this humiliating dance when a neighbor calls to say she saw my Ex climbing into the bedroom window of my apartment. I cradle the phone with my shoulder, watching Gary’s face grow red as he takes apart the nacho cheese dispenser, angry at doing women’s work, I suppose. His fingers leave cheese prints all over the steel counter, the nacho trays, the backroom sink. Like a little boy waging petty revenge against his mother.

I thank my neighbor and hang up. I’m sure my own face is raging red now, thinking of my ex, sitting in my apartment. Waiting. Maybe with the T.V. on. Maybe smoking my pot. The fucker.

“Gary, I have to run to my house,” I say. “You are gonna have to do the rest of this yourself.”

Bitch, I’m sure I hear as the glass doors swoosh shut behind me.

 

A Home

How could I have fucked this guy, this asshole. Sitting on my couch. Watching my T.V. Smoking my pot. How could I have let him move in with me. What was I thinking? Things are going well, so let’s throw a bomb into the mix. And he is a bomb; a dirty bomb ready to spray chunks of metal and hatred onto anyone standing in the path of his kamikaze suicide. And here I chose to be the one standing in the blast range.

There are half-eaten nachos on his lap.  Nachos from my store. A greasy drop of cheese hangs from an arrogant grin. He knows. He knows he’s pushed me too far, and he likes the feeling. I reach for the tray; I want to spill that shit all over his weasel dick. But he is faster than me, up and over the coffee table; shoving me against the wall before I can even begin my tirade. He’s been ready, waiting for this moment, who knows for how long. Maybe forever.

I fight back at first. I bite his arm when he throws me to the carpet. He grinds my face so far into the beige shag that I can taste the litter my cat trails into every room. I struggle, but he isn’t just angry, he’s crying, wailing, waging war against demons much bigger, much older than our measly affair.

I go as slack as I can; I will wait him out. I will let him call me dyke and bitch and cunt and whore. I will stay as silent as can be. His hands wrap around my throat, holding on for dear life, repeating like a prayer: “I hope I gave you AIDS.” We are frozen in our embrace until the cops come banging on the door.

 

A Place

Only drunks get put in holding cells. The rest of us sit on the kind of plastic seats that plague DMV’s or waiting rooms. A sort of purgatory where time is suspended, and you are left with only your dark thoughts and your stupidity to keep you company. The walls are white, and there are no clocks. There are no windows, and there are no friends. We wait. For our mug shots. For our fingerprints. For our onesies the color of processed cheese.

The cop that arrested me was apologetic. The domestic violence laws in Colorado, he tsked. When I gave him the weed from my back pocket, he seemed to care for me a little less. When I said I lived alone, paid my own rent, and the fucker over there broke in, his face grew stoic. When I admitted those were my teeth marks on that asshole’s arm—but I was defending myself!—he took my tears as supreme female manipulation. In the eyes of the police officer, we are both culpable. He will let the system sort it out.

It’s not my first time in this place. It’s not my last. There will be many more times than this one where I will undress in front of someone I’d rather not. I’ll try to look tough. Unaffected by my circumstance. Too far removed to really be touched. Chin up, as they say.

If you’re quiet and follow their direction, chances are good they won’t pick you out. Don’t bother with logic or question their motives. It’s safer to shuffle along; keep your wrists slack so the cuffs won’t bite. They will be unimpressed by your story or your narrative or your traumatic history that led you here. They’ve heard it all before. You’re not new or unique. You’re just another woman in jail.

 

 

This is What the Trail Teaches Me:

Enjoy it now, it only gets harder, I think twenty, thirty times a day. The dusty ribbon of dirt I follow winds through dry, prickly plants intent on leaving faint tracks of blood along my shins as I pass by. Fist sized rocks appear, scattered on the trail as if spilled from some impetuous child’s toy box.  I climb rugged hilltops while tiny black flying monsters loiter between my sunglasses and face. I picture shade. I manifest ‘downhill.’ But no. The trail brazenly slashes up a cliffside. Perilous switchbacks zigzag toward a horizon determined to leave me burdened, awed, humbled.

*For NewshoundToNovelist new  Prompt Pot feature

Independence Day

*This flash fiction was published by NANO Fiction Issue 10.1 in 2016

 

What is it about small towns, I wonder, eyeing the girls in daisy dukes, cautionary tales of meth and boredom. It’s Utah. It’s hot. The tow-truck drops us off at a roadside Motel. A dusty parking lot full of cracked up cars. A forlorn tire swing listless in the weeds. Our home for the night.

It was supposed to be an easy goodbye. He’d drive me to Vegas, and I’d be gone, into the unknown. California, probably, then north. North is the new Wild West; I told dubious acquaintances. He understood. No messy farewells, we agreed. Now we are stuck, I guess. Stuck here, with too much time.

Our room has a stench. The swamp cooler sputters and clicks off. Through the window I see people at the park. I see checkered picnic tables and potato salad. I see women with aprons and men in uniform.  “Looks lame,” I say.

“Let’s go,” he smirks.

Our feet kick up dust as we cross the street; our faces collect an instant sheen of sweat. We want to laugh at these people, to pity them and enunciate all the ways we are not like them. We want to tsk-tsk their backward ways: their homogeny, their apple pies, their flags. We study the brittle aged, the angry teenaged boys, the flies on the melting watermelon. We want to feel superior, but it’s too sad to ridicule.

Back in our room, we take off our clothes. We are sad, too. As sad as the shabby carpet. We move slow, as to not startle the other.  He is long and slender, arrogant and clever. Too beautiful for me: my best friend. Outside I hear bottles clinking. The methed out girls have found the angry young men. Together we all stifle in the deadlock heat.

Time Machine

 

Remember Tic-Toc, the mechanical man
from the Wizard of Oz?

(Does Everything But Live.)

He had to be wound up
to operate, and eventually,
his inner workings would slow
down like a roulette wheel until he stopped;
Stuck inside a frozen body. Looking out
through unresponsive eyes;
alive, but unmoving.

Life in a tin can.

 

 

Foster Home #2: The Well Intended Couple

*This is an excerpt from a longer essay titled, “Into the System.” (W.I.P.)

 

They live in a rich community, and they can’t get pregnant. They feel sorry for me. They bear a vision of how I will be, with just a little polish and shine.

Their house looks like a furniture brochure. I look like a dust ball on their carpet. Stephanie takes me shopping. Blouses and pantyhose. A haircut and new earrings.

I get my own room upstairs, so clean and white. I can’t relax. I tip toe to the bathroom. I steal salami from the refrigerator.

I dream that they will adopt me and we’ll go on exotic vacations. They’ll fix me, and I’ll be their daughter. The child they couldn’t have.

Stephanie instructs me how to make lemon meringue pie. We talk. My voice sounds thick and unwieldy in the stainless steel kitchen. I strive to dazzle her with my charm and wit. I’m obedient. I’m a quick study. I’m worth keeping.

Sometimes I make her laugh. Sometimes I think she likes me.

I stay away from Bob. I don’t want to be alone with him, just in case. He works all the time. I wonder if I’m here as Stephanie’s project. I don’t mind.

Things are looking good for me.

She lets me have a sleepover. I show my friends around, proud. See what I landed. See how big my room is. See my new pretty family with sophisticated tastes. They are my family now, all mine. I get comfortable.

I get careless.

I want to be good for Stephanie. But I can’t tame my hair. Or my anger. Or my crying jags. I can’t smile all the time. I’m not organized. I’m not obedient. All the nice stuff they give me does not cover up the dents and dings.

I sense her disappointment. She is pulling away from me, finding new ways to occupy her time. I hide in the bathroom. I steal cold hot dogs from the refrigerator.

After school, I find the Social Worker on the couch with Stephanie. Stephanie has some issues. She has some concerns. You don’t clean your room, Stephanie says. You don’t use soap in the bath, she says.

I used the gel, I say. That’s for shaving legs, she says.

I’m sorry, I say.

She’s talked it over with the Social Worker. They think I would do better somewhere else. They are not the right people for me. I panic and beg. I plead until I run out of breath. I promise a spotless room and a clean body and perfect grades and the right attitude, anything if I can just stay.

One more day, I cry.

Go get your things, they say.

But I have no things to bring.

 

 

 

Remember These Things

I don’t know why I remember what I was wearing: tie-dye tank top and loose shorts past my knees no bra no shoes I went barefoot everywhere and that day the bus was empty I sat in the back just one long seat taking up too much space looking out the window smudged from greasy foreheads or fingers maybe a little girl’s head pressed against glass making hearts with peanut butter and strawberry jam hands? And that was the day my breast was sore from tiny marks around my aureole left by his braces. Train tracks he called them. It wasn’t love but it was fun and the bus hit a bump an empty beer can rattle-rolled back and forth in time with my belly sick and dizzy and full of fear I remember that rattle but I don’t know why.

I don’t know why I remember falling on the sidewalk, I just do, I do remember it solid cold grating against my cheek like a five o’clock shadow all those pebbles green and silver and yellow and tan making white concrete when you’re standing upright and I needed to be upright and not facedown tonguing the ground so I pushed myself back up into the world. It was a quiet day a perfect sunshine day a tiny breeze ever refreshing and all the quaint houses with their little green yards and beds of bright poppy flowers and sprinklers tick-ticking away a lovely neighborhood so lovely and not mine, I remember now it was the wrong bus stop and if there was a reason, I don’t know why.

I don’t know why I remember these things.

I don’t know why I remember these things about my mother: tarot cards, skinny jeans, a roach clip, a cigarette ember, white musk, a suitcase and a gun. She called me pumpkin. She divided my dark hair on each side to yank and braid and smooth and tie to perfection. My friends had a secret club they wrote her love letters and when she read them she smiled, happy for once. I remember swimming all day long, no I rode my bike all day long riding over to their houses to eat their food to take a bath in their tub to try on their clothes, play their games, any games they had so many like race cars, teddy bears, baby dolls, soccer balls, family nights, movie nights, please let me stay the night! Let me go camping with you! Let me go to the amusement park with you! I’ll even go to church! I remember a night at one house frozen on the hardwood floor no pillows or blankets or room on the bed and their house creaked so scary the shadows like claws on the walls wishing for my room my bed my mom I loved her so much I wrote her love letters, I remember. I remember my love red hot a terrible inferno.

I don’t know why I remember the bus number: 58. Route 58 from Boulder to Lafayette and back again every half hour from 6 a.m. to midnight except Saturday and Sunday good luck finding a ride then. It was the right bus the wrong bus stop. I had a little cry on the ground and heaved myself back into the world. Bold colors everywhere even on my ugly tie-dye. I wandered through the stupid fucking streets with the crappy little houses full of asshole people. The heat oppressive and my heart jackknifing in time with my heavy feet. Then there was the rattle in my pocket my fingers rolling back and forth across the label the scratch of fingernail to paper and plastic a ball of lint caught between my pinky and ring finger. Why would I remember that? Or how it was bright enough to want sunglasses and hot enough to want water and easy enough to swallow a bottle of pills all cotton mouthed and chalky throated and kids playing in the park, kids laughing and moms watching and dads working and all the people doing all their things and I told myself to remember it, I told myself…

…I don’t want to remember this next part.

Why I remember. Out of all the things I could remember: I wasn’t wearing a bra. I had no shoes. That my legs were hairy and I wanted to say sorry. That they were going to find the train tracks: it wasn’t love but it was fun. Everything was white lights and needles and loud machines: their hands, my head. My head especially firecrackers of blooming white flash bulbs of emergency crowding around me with distant voices and solemn faces looming full of slurred and silly gibberish. What a nonsense thing to remember but I do doctors and nurses and interns and my mother off camera and I was there too!  I was there black coal fizzing out of my throat the tube so cruel to my tongue and sucking up a swirling mess sick like on a swaying ship and no balance (no bra!)I’m choking on ocean I reach for the air, or wait— I grabbed for the rail—it was metal I think, no, no—it was a wet noodle it was a fish I couldn’t catch it was a pinprick in my arm and it was a little red balloon no a little green monster no it was blurry blubbery snotty fear no more voices no more white I hear them fuzzy through a tin can and I remember the earthquake feeling a terrible shaking a volcano ripping me like an inferno a tidal wave a bitter black heart that only I could see.

*This Essay was published in the March 2017 issue of Indiana Voice Journal. Check it out!

A Letter to My Therapy Group

Dear Group,

This illness has been my single most defining force, whether I wanted it to be or not. It has destroyed the last decade of my life, aged me beyond my years, worn me out and separated me from people I loved and from people who might’ve loved me back. It has always chosen the hard path, the path of most resistance, the quick escapes and easy ways out. It has shrunken my brain, widened my body, sagged my cheeks and dulled my eyes. It has stolen me from myself, stolen my time here on earth. It has been cruel. It has been unforgiving.

I sit here today, one hot mess.

I have been on medication now for two years, a.k.a. “managing my illness.” Progress has been slow. Before I finally admitted my illness and accepted help for it, I spent 10 years sequestered in my apartment. I’d go weeks without leaving or talking to anyone other than my husband. He was my only friend and my only family. Everyone else had abandoned me, some of them for a good reason. I simply did not feel like I deserved to be alive. I felt like I had failed as a human, and it was important to keep myself away from people so that I wouldn’t hurt them, and so they wouldn’t hurt me.  Isolation was my self-medication. It was my truth, my life, and my slow, tortured attempt at suicide.

Things have changed in the last two years. I am not constantly in the grip of my illness and medication has created a window of opportunity to think before I react, a skill impossible for people with bipolar to master without help and practice.  I have done a lot of healing and learning.  I am starting to want things for myself, and sometimes I even feel *gasp* hope.

I am better now, but here is the thing I need to share with you:  I am full of fear, and in spite of help and medication, I am continuing to punish myself through isolation. I recognize that I am at the stage in my recovery where I need to forgive myself, and rejoining the world is part of that process. But, group, my heart still believes that I don’t deserve life, friends, family, or a chance at some kind of self-fulfillment. I am paralyzed by the notion that I am unlikable, that I won’t be accepted, and that I have nothing to offer the world or myself.

It’s been so long since I’ve had relationships with other people. I am afraid that I will manipulate and hurt and sabotage them like I did so long ago. I am afraid to connect to people, feel close to them, go through the good and bad of what relationships have to offer.  I am afraid to find out that, even with the illness managed, I am simply not a worthwhile person.  That I am too needy to be a good friend. So far, I have not found a way to forgive myself, and I’m afraid I will never be able to figure out how to do so. It’s an infuriating and willful place to be.

That’s where I am, group. I’m lonely, I’m scared, I don’t really know who I am without the grip of mental illness defining my personality.

Thanks for listening,

Amy                                                                                                                      June 12, 2012 

(found while cleaning my desk)

*Photo Credit: Porsche Linn

Excerpt from 2016 Pacific Crest Trail Journal

*Earlier this year, I backpacked 700 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail (A 2,660-mile trail from Mexico to Canada.) The plan was to hike the entire distance, but I did not make it. Here is a journal entry from Day 7. Interested in reading more?(Bonus: I met a nudist hiker a few weeks in) Day 1 PCT 2016 I may share more here as I rummage through my journal, reminisce, and try to talk myself into trying again in 2017. It would be my third attempt. As Churchill says: “Success is stumbling from failure to failure with no loss of enthusiasm.”

(Day 7: March 20, 2016)

The trek from Chariot Canyon to Scissors Crossing was my final day on the trail last year, and it was an extremely painful 15 miles. I have regaled Aaron with stories about how the elevation profile for this part is a dirty LIAR and that we will go up for HOURS instead of a lackadaisical DOWN like the profile PROMISED. Of course, my memory is tainted with the amount of pain I was in. I remember the traverse of granite mountain as hellish, and the flat, crazy hot,  going-the-wrong-direction trail to the underpass as hell’s middle finger aimed at you when you turn your back. (Yes, I know hell has no fingers.)

What happens is: we wake up at dawn, tumble out of our tent with sleepy eyes, try to get water without waking up some hikers that came in the night, super- bandage all the blisters, click our packs, and take deep breaths. “This will be HORRIBLE,” I tell Aaron. And so we go.

And it’s….not so bad. The fact that it’s early morning and in the shade helps. A lot. “Just wait, suddenly we’re gonna go STRAIGHT UP,” I keep saying, but it never happens. Steep parts, sure. Hard? Yes; pretty much the whole trail is hard for me. But it’s not the monster that has plagued me for a year. “Whew, hard.” Aaron says when we reach the top, but I think he’s just protecting my ego. “Blisters, pain, so thirsty…” I mumble, a little shame-faced.

Thirst has been catching up, btw. We bring enough water, but not ENOUGH water, right? This morning I woke up a little horse. And water seems to be popping into unrelated thoughts more and more. Showing up in song lyrics. When Aaron tries to get me to play “What we’ll eat in Julian”, I can only conjure visions of water pouring from a pitcher.

We reach the flat, last few miles to Scissors Crossing. It’s so long. The dirt is burning my feet, expanding them, turning the skin into bubbles of future pain. And the trail goes the wrong way. Then changes its mind and cuts back along the road. Hot. Hot. Hot. Water.

We have water. But we don’t count on caches, so we mete it out because we will dry camp tonight. Yet both of us are secretly wishing: Please let there be water at Scissors crossing. Pretty please. We cross the street before the underpass, and spot some plastic hidden in the bushes. We rummage through them. “Nothing.” Aaron says, disappointed. Then I see it. “There!” I shout. One single, glimmering, beautiful 19oz bottle of fresh, glorious water. “Let’s share.” we gulp it down in minus 1 second. Oh, man. that’s the stuff.

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Finally at the Scissors, we find water, La Croix sparkling water, shade and cell service. Again, I marvel at strangers so going out of their way to help other strangers. We lounge in the shade like kings, taking pictures, texting, napping and making our customary stupid jokes. We do drink some of the water there, but don’t refill because others might need it more. It’s a fantastic break. Last year, when I got here, my feet were bloody and gross. Now they’re just….gross. Blisters, but not get-off-the-trail blisters. Not yet. Hopefully never.

It’s 3 and the hottest day, it feels like. But we want to head up into the San Felipe Hills. The trail looks daunting, how it hugs the side of the mountain, cutting steep-looking zig-zags up the slope. Oh well, let’s go.

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We cross the street and it’s like the desert instantly changes. There are all these alien-looking cacti everywhere. Things are stark. Things want to poke. Yet they are also blooming, giving mixed messages. And we are climbing, climbing, it’s windy and steep and never ending. It’s scary. But gorgeous. We are so far above Scissors Crossing. Did it even exist? Were we actually there? Maybe we’ve always been here, forever climbing.

The sun hits that magical hour where colors are enhanced, everything is super saturated and my heart swells with the beauty I am in the midst of. We find a campsite off the trail that feels like we are nowhere near civilization. It’s just us and red rocks, plants ever aiming their needles at us, a purple-pink sunset spreading over us while a blueish-white moon patiently waits for her entrance cue.

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Pool Girl

The ad said:

Wanted: Pool Girl

Employer: MC Killa Cuddly Where: The Cuddly Mansion

What: Do you have what it takes to live the big life? Can you rock a swimsuit? Ready to see and be seen? MC Killa Cuddly is on the prowl for a special girl to swim in his infinity pool. Mermaid Tank Girls also considered. Must have your own snorkel and flippers. Big $$, commensurate with experience.

(Note: Daily pool cleaning is REQUIRED.)

 

I showed the ad to Christy. “Oh, hell no,” she said. She had her textbooks scattered across my kitchen counter: The Art of the Steal, Cat Burglar 101, Modern Thief. “Don’t tell me you’re considering it.” She tucked wisps of blonde hair under her signature black hairband.  The diamonds in her ears sparkled. They were her latest nab. People on the streets dubbed her “The Black Panther,” on account of her black leotard and safe-cracking skills. Not even a Junior yet, and it was evident Christy was going places. Mom and Dad were so proud.

“Would that be so bad?” I opened my closet. I knew I had an old snorkel set from when our parents took us to Hawaii—a mea culpa for their endless hours masterminding hijinks while leaving us to fend for ourselves. “The pay is good.”

“The pay?” Christie snorted. “Don’t let Mom hear you say that. She didn’t raise us to get paid. We’re The Bandits Four; we hoodwink and bamboozle. That’s our modus operandi.” She continued to sharpen her nails. Christy had decided her feature affectation would be picking locks with her fingernails. I was supposed to finish my BA in Munitions and join her on runs as, “CATastrophe.” I hadn’t told her yet that I was failing my TNT exams.

“Do you even know how to swim? Like the backstroke?” She jabbed her newly tapered claw my way. “You know “Pool Girl” is just code for S-E-X, right? Killa Cuddly has a reputation.”

I wiped the dusty flippers off on my jeans. “Christy, Killa Cuddly is known for cuddling, duh. Everything else is hearsay.” Pulled the snorkel mask over my face. Looked in the mirror. Would Killa Cuddly want to cuddle me?

 

 

Killa’s foyer was bigger than my entire studio apartment. His crew, known as “The League of Extraordinary Embrace” struck me as brooding for people whose claim to fame was mega cuddle parties. Even the hype man was silent. One by one we were called to head out to the pool deck, where Killa Cuddly sat on his wicker throne, clipboard in hand. Finally, it was my turn, and hype man gave me a tiny bit of cloth.

“Your costume,” he said, and pointed to a door. “Put it on in there and then proceed to the pool area. Don’t speak unless spoken to, understand?” He eyed me up and down. “Good luck.”

My costume was the skimpiest bikini I had ever seen. The bottoms were two small triangles held together by a ribbon, and the top barely covered my nipples. I parted my dark, frizzy hair and draped it over my cleavage. That helped a little. I slipped into the flippers and pulled the mask over my face. A pair of inflatable arm floaties with cartoon rubber duckies sat on the vanity. I put those on, too, and waddled my way outside.

“Interesting, interesting,” Killa said before I had made it to the pool’s edge. He was even more fleshy in person. His pale, flabby gut stood in stark contrast to the darker, more built bodies of his League. Everyone was in swim shorts except the champagne servers—all women, naked sans the rubber ducky inflatables around their tiny waists. I gulped. My face mask fogged up, and I stumbled a bit. The League chuckled, but Killa frowned.

“Pool Girl’s gotta have grace,” he admonished. I nodded.

“Okay, okay,” he said. He checked his clipboard. Whistled. “Bandits Four, eh? Your Pops know you’re here?” He stood up, rubbed his belly. “Your Moms okay with you cuddling the Killa?” He saw me flinch and laughed. “I’m kidding, chica. No worries,” his smile faded. “Now. Let’s see you swim.”

That day, Killa had me snorkel to and fro in his infinity pool. He timed how long I could stay underwater. He had me slowly climb the pool ladder and then belly flop back in. I made it past the first round, and he invited me back the next day. Round Two consisted of idly floating on my brand new inflatable rubber ducky, costumed in in a severely cut one piece, sunglasses perched on my face, a mimosa effortlessly dangled from my hand. By Round Four, I was a natural. I frolicked in the shallow end, and my buttocks glistened with the best of them. I fished dead bugs from the pool wearing daisy dukes and a braless halter. I laughed with the guests and poured Champagne down my chin. Even the League seemed impressed, and a few offered me a cuddle on the house.

Meanwhile, Christy distanced herself. She had taken it in stride at first, but as weeks passed, and it became apparent that my move to the mansion was probably inevitable, she turned on me.

“You’re embarrassing us,” she told me one night. “Think of your family.”

“Mom and Dad aren’t even talking to me,” I said. Mom had practically fainted when I told her. Dad silently focused on the blueprints in front of him.

“What do you expect?” Christy’s nails were the finely crafted lock picking claws she had always wanted. She wore an emerald belt now, and people on the street were calling her “The Green Figurine.” She knew I flunked college. “This isn’t what you were meant to do. We had plans. Nefarious plans. We were gonna throw the world into chaos together. Now you’re this…this….” she looked like she was going to vomit.

“Go ahead!” I smiled and held my head high. “Call me Pool Girl.”

 

*This story made it through Round 1 of the Yeah Write Fiction Super Challenge. The rules were 1,000 words or less using the two prompts of emotion and event. My prompts were: disapproval/swims in a pool