Thursday, May 3, 2012
The harshness of the bleach burned my nose and throat and made my eyes itch. His copper-penny eyes followed me as I sanitized my small apartment, the smell of Clorox replacing the scent of Jasmine, waiting for death to strangle the air.
“Parvo,” the vet said five days prior, and I was confused at first, because it sounded like nothing more than a game children play. “Is there a cure?” I’d asked hopefully, but he’d looked at me with sympathy, and I knew the answer. As I left the vet’s, the sky had opened up and cried for Plato.
I finished mopping and sat down on the too-clean floor, Indian-style. Plato’s ribcage protruded from his body, a scallop-edged accordion inside his torso. I ran my fingers against his chest, his breath shallow beneath my fingertips. He let me cry, watching with sympathetic eyes, as if I were the one with the sickness and he the caretaker.
I reached over, picked him up gently, and sat him on my lap. His fur was soft, his body pliant. His eyes—brown, deep, and soulful—searched mine, looking for answers, for comfort, for permission.
I nodded as he licked my palm for the last time.
Friday, April 13, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
It's been a long time since I've posted anything on here for reasons not worth mentioning. But I was tagged on Facebook by two pretty awesome people, Eric J Krause and Icy Sedgwick, for the Lucky Seven meme and I figured it was time to dust off the old blog and make a go at it.
So here are the rules of the meme:
1. Go to page 77 in your current manuscript
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next seven lines as they are – no cheating
4. Tag 7 other authors (Done on Facebook)
While I'd love to say I have a page 77, I don't. So I chose page 7 of my yet-to-be-titled YA novel. Keep in mind, in MS Word, this equals 7 lines. :)
The loud knocking brings me back to the present. I can hear her outside the door, muffled words strung together with sadness and vodka. I try to ignore her, but the knocking and the mumbling becomes more insistent. I finally get up and open the door.
“I’m making dinner,” she says slowly, her eyes glazing over as she looks past me.
“No thanks, not hungry,” I say, trying to close the door. I have no desire to share a meal with her tonight, especially in her condition. Not that her “condition” is better on any other night.
She pushes on the door as I try to close it. “Iss almost ready. Making your favorite. Friedchicken and macaroniandcheese,” she says, her speech slurring so much that some of her words come out jumbled together. “Wash up and get your . . . get . . . get Sean.”
It’s the first time she’s said his name out loud in four years. I am too shocked to move. She’s still looking past me, some long-ago memory playing out in the space behind me. There’s grief lurking in the bags under her eyes, etched into her face, tangled in the lacy red lines of inebriation in her eyes. Her pain is a mirror of my own. I can almost feel sorry for her, almost see the humanity in her grief. Almost.