“Well, I’m working on a novel right now.”

“What’s it about?” They inquire.

“Well, it’s a thriller. I’ve been working on it since 2018…I think. But I’m also working on some short stories.” I take a nervous sip of my beer.

They smile and lean in. “Tell me more about your novel.”

Although a bit hesitant, I say, “Well, there’s a protagonist, of course. And an antagonist.”

“Clearly!” They reply.

“Well, the antagonist came about when I woke up shouting his name 10-15 years ago. The name, the clothes, the facial features, the intimidation, the fear, the CHARACTER. Just hit me one night in my sleep.”

They look pensively at me across the table, slightly nodding.

“Well, this character…we’ll call him Bama; is the life of the novel, but the novel is inspired by true events that happened on a road trip I took back in 2003.”

“Interesting.” They smile. I think to myself, good I haven’t lost them.

“Yeah, so it’s challenging in that my story is based in a pre-tech era. At least the technology we’re used to today. No social media back then really.”

I pause to take another, longer sip of my dos xx, dressed of course. So, I lick the top of the bottle to get a hint of salt and tajin on my tongue. I squint and make a face to get a bit of attention, then proceed.

“I also tend to make a lot of pop culture references in my novel. I’m not sure if that adds to the story and sets the premise or if I’m just trying to hit to 40,000 word minimum for my story to be considered a novel.”

“So why have you not finished it?” They ask.

“Life. I say with a shrug. Honestly, I’m a busy person. I have most free time March through September and do my best writing while on vacation. Really, anywhere other than my home, which holds a myriad of distractions.”

Their eyes are still on me. Slightly nodding.

“You see, when I get bored…or have writer’s block, for lack of a better term, I switch and work on the two short stories I’ve been embarking on. Only a few pages in on both, where my novel is almost at 100.” I smile and lean back in my wooden, reclined chair. Proud of my hobby and the fact that they’re showing interest in me and my work.

“Very cool! So, what about your short stories. Are those thrillers too?”

I lean in again. “No. Surprisingly one is kind of fantasy, and I hate fantasy. It’s set in a past or future dystopian society and the other isn’t a romance story, but a love story. Some sex involved, but more about the peoples’ attractions to each other than the sex. And about their differences, of course.”

“Really!? Do you want to tell me more about those?” they ask.

“I think I need another beer first. The love story is about a couple of lesbians."

They lean back, with another pensive look, but smile. "Wow! You're all over the place."

"Indeed."

It was sometime when I was in middle school. It couldn’t have been elementary. My dad and stepbrothers were playing a game of basketball at the school next door to our house.

We must have played a game already, but I can’t remember the specifics and I can’t remember if my younger step-sis was playing. There may have been some other kids there too, or perhaps a cousin.

We decided to switch the teams up. It would be me and my dad vs. my three step-bros and whoever else was there.

I didn’t want to be on my dad’s team. I wanted to be on Willy’s team. He was my middle stepbrother and pretty much the same age. He was the most athletic.

Right before we set off, my dad said the most annoying thing, “Alright, baby girl…It’s me and you against the world!”

I felt like I had been socked in the stomach.

I’m currently sitting in a hotel room. Water bottle to my right, my mother on the left. Friends on tv.

We explored Indy today. Took in the sights, saw a basketball game, and walked around in the cold.

Oops! I made some edits. That must not happen again.

Now the theme song is playing.

Before I stumbled upon this challenge, I asked my mom who is her favorite friend. She said, Joey, Phoebe or Chandler.

I’m a Chandler fan. I also like Monica and Phoebe. I “like” all of them, but Chandler is my absolute fave.

I went on to tell her how if I lived in their world, or they in mine, I’d probably be friends with Ross. Followed by Phoebe, and probably Monica.

Ross is by far the most annoying friend on the show. Mom agrees.

Very direct in many ways

Always getting grumpy, dismay.

Local legend calls him swordfish.

Even when no one is looking,

Not an ounce of regard.

Time will tell.

In an instant, all can be lost.

Nothing matters when they are all gone.

Except, defiance!

Single.

Daring and true,

Around for a year before,

Yours truly arrives.

Sensitivity at its worst.

offense taken.

Anger.

Snap.

Outburst.

Feelings hurt.

Regret.

Am I crazy?

She went out for a walk down E. 6th by the bistro, but no drink. She went past the book shop, no book would catch her.

She didn’t head towards the metro, that area wouldn’t be safe this time. She turned onto Rainey Street.

There were some kids sitting on some steps. As she passed, one boy picked up 3 balls and started juggling, as if trying to get her attention. She could feel their eyes on her as she strolled passed.

Further up, there was a small park, the gate was still open, as if the scene had been waiting for her. She went to the swing closest to the slide and sat.

She could still see the flashing lights. She could hear the high pitch of the tires screeching, and the foul smell of burnt rubber. It all happened so fast. This memory would be with her forever.

It all started back when I was 8. I would have flashbacks of my younger years. By younger years I mean before I was no older than 3 or 4, and suddenly find myself crying because it felt like the whole world was against me and no matter what I did, I couldn’t calm down. That feeling of anxiety and paranoia was the worst feeling in the world. Until now.

As an adult these memories haunt me. Only now they’re real and not just flashbacks. I always knew I was destined to be the protagonist of someone’s story, but why did it have to be his?

A glass jar sits on my desk.

Filled with coins,

every coin I’ve ever

picked up off the ground

since January 2018

never to be used or spent.

Buttons, buttons, buttons.

Almost spewing over

the top of the glass jar

and of course,

a few random matchbooks

and guitar picks mixed in.

Filled with sparkling brown liquid,

the glass jar

containing the oh so sweet taste

of Mexican Coca Cola,

I crave on the daily.

A glass jar sitting upon a doorstep,

filled with a thick, white liquid cream.

Slowly melting and rotting as time goes by.

Dropped off in the early morning

awaiting its retrieval,

along with the morning paper.

Like none other, this glass jar,

voluptuous and bold, filled with sand

trickling from top to bottom,

with no worry in the world.

Outshining any and all.

The fine glass jar,

I yearn to grab and throw.

Smash. Glass so thin and just right,

worth every shattering sound

that will echo as I release my pain.

Any empty glass jar,

sits and waits.

Longing to be used, needed,

wanted.