The voices were banging off the inside of my skull. Whispers, screams, all the secrets of the universe whirled around inside me. I thrashed in the sheets of my twin bed as tried to untangle myself from the twisted linens. I rolled out of the tiny bed with a dull thud. I reached for my hip where it met the floor but realized there was no pain.

I eased myself off of the floor and looked carefully around my studio apartment. Something about me had drastically changed. I now knew everything, well almost everything. I realized I have a full understanding of the most complex inner workings of, well, everything. The only thing I didn’t know was how I came to have this knowledge.

I can see everyone and everything. I can hear their thoughts and fears. I can see the future I can even tell you when you’ll die. But for the life of me I can‘t seem to see my own future. I don’t know what will become of me or even what I am anymore. With an unnecessary flick of my wrist the crumbling walls of my dingy apartment were whisked away. That was when the downfall began.

I was a poor kid living in a shoebox in Brooklyn. I did what any aspiring artist would do if they suddenly found themselves wielding this limitless power. The mansion, the cars, suddenly I had all of it and more. I would never go hungry again, anything I wanted I could eat, not that I needed too anymore. For almost a week I used my unearned abilities to spoil myself. My surroundings were now based on Hollywood's perception of a cliché dream life. On the seventh day I rested and thought, "there must be more than this."

After a week of fulfilling every desire my human form had ever wanted, I began to understand there was so much more that I had to do. There was no reason I needed to keep these spoils to myself. I now had the power to create a utopia for every living creature. I'd love to say it was difficult and that I worked hard to solve the worlds problems. But honestly it was was as easy as making a wish.

The real problem is, it was all gone in the flash of a neuron. I found myself in nothingness a blank slate of lonely consciousness. There was no white empty room or city in the clouds, just a void detached from all physical forms. I saw a light flashing dully in the distance. Not with my eyes, I had no eyes, but I could see the flashing.

"I feel your discomfort." Her voice was soothing yet horrible. "I don't know why you humans always have such problems letting go of your past." It was the most beautiful and terrifying thing I had ever heard.

"Who are you?" I felt my conscious ask.

She giggled and in the moment I wanted to die, that is, if I could. "I am the Creator," she said pleasantly. He voice made me want to rip my flesh from my bones.

"Who am I!?" I begged, I couldn't stand not to know any longer.

"Why you're the writer of course," she teased. "I can only create, you tell the stories." She sighed a moment. "But I must admit, the whole garden of Eden thing is so overplayed. It's boring, nothing exciting happens. Honestly, its not why I created you." Anger seemed to be rising in her voice.

My skull was being split violently down the center. "The-the-" I stammered unable to speak past the pain my conscious seemed to be experiencing.

"Pull yourself together," she mocked. It was then that I felt myself slammed back together and I woke up in my dingy studio apartment.

I looked around breathlessly clutching the pen in my hand. My whole body was shaking as I pressed the tip to the paper. Ink stained the sheet as I began to swirl my fingertips. I finished the sentence with a period and lifted the sheet to the sky.

"The writer held up his dagger and speared the Creator, killing her and ending her reign."

The wooden door to my apartment didn't open, it burst into thousands of sharp splinters. A body stood behind it, a woman who seemed to be made entirely of gray worn out rags. They draped down from her and fluttered in the wind that was now howling all around me.

"You DARE try and kill me!?" she shrieked as she took feeble steps towards me.

I felt the weight in my hand before I even saw it. The glistening dagger pierced the air so smoothly I barely even realized I was moving it. It reached her heart and tore through the stained and worn out rags. The hole in her chest became a vacuum. It expanded rapidly pulling the rags into it as the Creator screeched. I felt the vastness in her sucking me in. The dagger was gone and soon she pulled everything into an empty void.

I thought for what may have been a few thousand years about what to do, and then I wrote. I created the stories and they came to life. My own garden for all the people of the world. Time passed but it didn't matter in the Garden nothing was real here. I no longer had a concept of time so I don't know how long it truly was, but I found I was growing bored of the garden. I needed change, I needed stories.

I created a tree and gathered my people around it. "This fruit," I told them as I pointed to the tree, "this fruit is forbidden. You cannot eat it."

I wasn't a kid who dreamed. I'd love to play pretend, I'd be a dinosaur (due to an unhealthy obsession with the Land Before Time) or whatever Disney princess was in vogue that year. Mostly, I just did everything that my sister did, because she was two years older than me, and therefore knew what was cool.

We'd put on little skits for our parents along with our cousins, on those rare occasions when we all scraped together enough free time to see each other. I enjoyed it well enough, but I mostly took a back seat to my sister, the director or to my baby brother who could steal any show with his irritating cuteness.

I had only one passion--to be remarkable.

I just hadn't quite figured out what I was remarkable at.

I'm not sure if my passion for writing really began as such. I don't recall feeling some desperate need to put my words on paper. I didn't have a strong urge to pen the great American novel. The true story is quite boring, and actually quite vain. We did a unit of poetry in my sixth grade English class. And I was good at it. So good, in fact, that they hung one of my poems up in a frame--a forever relic of some faint talent I might have once thought I had.

That's all I needed. That was my ticket. My way to be remarkable.

Except, eventually the poetry unit ended. And the world moved on and I was left with writings that no one would ever read. But I never stopped.

I wrote my way through middle school, though I lost the confidence to believe that I had a talent for it. As childish optimism shifted into preteen moodiness, I felt a compelling urge to make everything dark, dour and depressive. I saturated myself in the Smiths and the Cure and considered the darkness to be a deep well that only I could understand.

I was a twat in middle school.

But it was also the place that I developed my second love, for music. My poems suddenly became songs, and as I fumbled an attempted accompaniment on a Cassio keyboard, I crooned lyrics that I thought would make Morrissey proud. I enjoyed crafting rhymes, and singing though I'm mediocre at best at the latter. But it wasn't enough. The lyrics were empty to me, they needed more context, more world building.

Enter Jonathan Larson. I watched the musical Rent and it changed my perspective on everything. One song glory became my mantra and I developed a fascination and reverence--not to the story of Rent, exactly--but to the story of its creator a thirty five year old who worked at a diner and then penned one of the greatest musicals of all time, only to die before he could truly see his dream achieved.

It's a tragedy that I took as a strange life purpose. I wanted to be Jonathan Larson. I wanted to pen the next great American musical. There was only one problem: I couldn't write music. I also couldn't play any instruments or sing very well, so this dream was always unattainable. But I came away with a singular sensation which was the dream to leave a legacy of art behind me when I die.

My focus shifted once again in high school, when I got my hands on a camcorder and began to fancy myself an amateur filmmaker. I spent my time watching obscure indie films and questioning the meaning of life within them. I annoyed my family by filming every waking moment of our family vacations. I really thought that this was the winner. I even talked about going to film school. This was my new ticket out.

But I let my parents beat reality into my head, and instead of going to film school at Northwestern or NYU, I followed my sister, like I had always done, to study nursing at Ball State.

It was the worst year of my life.

And more than a decade later, staring down my life as a college dropout, professional slacker, would-be writer, musician, and film connoisseur, I realize--admittedly a bit too late that my true dream was to be a prodigal.

I wanted to be some child miracle who rose above their lot in life, and through passion and determination, achieved impossible things.

I'm thirty now, far too old to be a prodigal. And the truth is I failed at everything I attempted to do. But now, looking back, in all that failure I found my true voice. Because when I was younger, everything I did was a show, for an audience. I was never truly driven, because I was only doing what I thought would make me remarkable to everybody else.

And the truth is, I'm not remarkable. I'll probably never be noteworthy. But I love the art of crafting words. I love the feeling of finding new music. I love to get lost in the worlds of musicals in the surprise of great cinema. I can do all of these things, just for me. And sure, I'll never be Jonathan Larson. He'd already achieved more in thirty-five years than I'd ever hope to in my life. But I can take his life-changing message to heart--there's no day like today.

I'm not the best, but I'm getting better the more I write. And I find ideas surge through me like electricity. I'm more alive and free now then I ever was as a child. It's not a profound passion. It's not a torch I can carry through a darkened tunnel. But it's at least a candle. And though the road is dark, I can just see it, enough to stumble my way into the light.

I don't expect anyone to follow me there. Why follow the girl holding only a candle? The torch burns bright with charisma and passion, it only makes sense to follow that brilliant light.

I never know where my dark road will take me. It's exciting within the unknown. I'm a jack of all trades and a master of none. But I finally figured out that the point is, I'll never be done.

The morning is peaceful and concordant, and all the cats are purring. Sunlight filters softly through the window, illuminating the room with a pink glow, casting light upon a simple life, a satisfied life. I am in bed, beside me rests the person I love, the person who loves me, my perfect puzzle piece. He sleeps soundly, his chest rising and falling to the melody of his dreams. I feel his warmth beside me, and I know that I am not alone. Our two cats sit near the foot of the bed, kneading blankets and humming their feline song. I feel their warmth through the blanket, and I know that I am not alone.

I have the option to rise from bed, to shower and prepare a warm cup of coffee. I have the option to remain in bed, warmed by love and feline affection. There's no worry about missing work, I am secure in life, love, and livelihood. I don't need to be anywhere; where I am is exactly where I'm supposed to be. I feel my partner shift slightly, and I know I am not alone. I hear the cats purring, and I know I am not alone. If I were to look at my phone, I would see messages from the people I care about, and I know I am not alone. I am connected with other human beings, I am not alone.

The morning light is beautiful, I see hints of pink clouds from the little gap between window and curtain. If I were a painter, I would paint the morning sky. If I were a photographer, I would document these heavens, commemorating forever the softness of the morning. If I were a writer, I would write about the loveliness of the natural world. I sometimes create art, but I am not a painter. I sometimes take photos, but I am not a photographer. I sometimes write prose and poetry, but I am not a writer. So I lay still, content with experiencing and committing the morning beauty to memory. I am myself, and I am not alone.

I decide that it is not quite time for me to rise. Later in the morning, after the pink clouds have faded and the sun hangs high in a bright ocean of cerulean blue, I will make coffee, I will feed the cats, I will read the morning newspaper and respond to my friends. Later in the morning, I will wake beside the love of my life, and we will share a smile. I am not alone.

I am in love with the wonder of life, and this love has transformed a simple and mundane existence into a fantasy. I am grateful to be alive. I close my eyes, ready to sink back into the soft embrace of sleep. I am not alone, and all the cats are purring.

I fantasize about going off the grid. Leaving social media, society, and cities behind, choosing a life of tranquility. I fantasize being woken up by the Earth's clock, instead of being jolted out of bed by a soulless alarm, making every morning essentially a fire drill. No wonder I am stressed. I go about my days, dreading meetings at work and worrying about what people I do not even know (or truly care about) are posting on their social media accounts. In this world, I consume, I don't engage. I am isolated. The pandemic made it worse. I am no longer uncertain in just myself, I am uncertain in everything. How do I break out of this? I want to be set free. I want to feel whole and infinite. I want to internalize the balance that the universe is built upon. I am not a machine-robot-consumer role I am being forced into! I fantasize about nature, a landscape with mountains, and a garden by my home. Home. That is a fantasy in itself, considering I am still paying off my student loans and definitely cannot afford a down payment. Even if I could, I cannot even build a house by myself without having to pay someone for it. Every square foot on earth costs money. Who owns it? I dream off turning off my fancy iPhone. But, if I did that, I would miss that afternoon team meeting, and I need this job. So I go back to consuming, fantasizing about a simpler life, and tolerating the convenience of my existence.

There is a bustling silence that comes with the setting sun. Creatures of the day start to rest their heads as night festivities begin.

There is a peace in the inbetween, two worlds meet for only a vibrant moment. On beautiful days like these you can hear the laughter bounce from buildings crowded together- friends meet and rejoyce in their free moments given only in the dark. Music plays as natures melody of the sun fades to silence.

The sun hangs on as long as she can before releasing the land to nights cool hands. Darkness comes in hues of purple, orange and pink- even the sky dances in joy to see her mysterious sparkling sister.

At the very tips of the horizon the stars twinkle in excitement, one day they dream to shine as bright on a planet so lively. Some simply smile- recognizing their brief importance to life so far from their homes.

I’ve seen these type of challenges before where someone suggests of creating a book where all participants contribute a chapter to the book. I'll be honest I usually don't enter in those challenges. It's a neat idea, however, there is one issue: not everyone is on the same page (no pun intended). The problem I find is that everyone has there own idea of how the story should go. Sure, you can communicate with one another but not everyone is going to have the same idea of how to tell a full story. One person is probably going to want to focus on character development while another is probably going to focus on worldbuilding.

Picture this, let's say that a character is introduced and this character as a great backstory that a writer really wanted to explore later on in the story. However, in the next chapter, the chapter that another writer is working on, that character is suddenly killed in way for another character. Again, I'm sure the different writers can communicate with one another about this, however, but this scenario shows that each writer has a different idea of how a story should be told.

Another concern I have is conflicting writing styles. If each writer was going to write one chapter each, that writer is going to write in their own style. A writing style is much like a fingerprint. It's only unique to the individual. If one chapter is written by one person and the second chapter is written by another, any reader will pick up on that. Sometimes that may throw them off, which is something a writer wants to avoid. Again, sometimes different writers working on a project together can work. Look at Good Omens, a novel by two of the best fantasy writers Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. While it is a good read, you tell which section of the story was written by which writer based on the style, if you're family with their works.

So I have a different suggestion on creating a book. How about making it an anthology, a collection of different stories. There's a ton of free range with anthologies. An anthology can have an number of stories all centering around a single theme or genre. Personally, I like anthologies. I like having to read a bunch of different short stories from different writers, that way I can search for those writers and check out more of their work, if they have any more. Many great writers started off writing short stories for different anthology series such as Weird Tales. Writers like H.P. Lovercraft or Robert E. Howard or Arthur Conan Doyle. That's where I stand. Of course, this is just my personal preference and my thoughts on how we could all contribute in writing a book. Give it some thought and let me know.

#book #writing #anthology #idea

I really had no idea what I was doing here. Here, in this city, yes but not here. I don’t even remember pulling over to park my rental car. Somehow in an unaccounted for lapse in time, I ended up just standing on the sidewalk; looking straight up into the neon light of an unassuming bar’s sign.

Usually I would’ve looked online to see what the reviews for this place were before ever even considering stopping in. I would have changed my outfit according to the user review photos to make sure I would fit in. I would have looked over the menu options first to be prepared. I would have weighed it among the other local options. Instead, I looked like a lost kid out here on the street. I felt like I needed an adult’s assistance.

I reached out and pulled open the heavy wood door. They don’t make doors like this anymore. Well, my brother does. He makes custom, expensive, elaborate doors. He makes doors you could never find in one of the big box stores that are in all the new construction. This door was one of those kinds of special doors that showed its age when it creaked and groaned at the hinges.

I numbly shuffled in and picked the closest seat on a tattered barstool. My feet hung and kicked. I didn’t instinctively take out my phone to check in, or take any pictures to tag with explanatory captions. I just sat unusually straight with my hands on the bar. I don’t know why but I had this welling anxiety that I looked suspicious. I slumped over a little to lean on the bar to look more casual and debated internally whether to take my jacket off. I wasn’t used to this cold anymore so I decided to keep it on but unzipped it. Maybe it would show that I could, at any moment, relax and stay awhile.

A gruff looking man made eye contact with me from behind the bar. He was the absolute epitome of every cliché bartender I’d ever seen in movies. He was wearing a faded black t-shirt and stained jeans. I could see aged tattoos sticking out from his sleeves; indescribable writing and what looked like the bottom half of an eagle. He had a waist apron on, but it looked like it had already been a long night based on how used it was. He came over and stood with his arms crossed for a few seconds, leaning against the bar back before he initiated conversation.

“I’ve never seen you here before”.

“I don’t drink” I instantly replied. Why did I say it that way, like I was in trouble? “I never have actually. I never really wanted to until ... about two minutes ago”.

“Hmm. Well, you’re kind of in the wrong place for not drinking.” Luckily, his tone didn’t seem to inflict he was offended that I was basically trespassing in his establishment.

“Can you make me a White Russian, please?” I was surprised I still managed to be polite while blurting out my order.

He tipped his head to the side. Our dog does this when he doesn’t comprehend the command. “You have a specific drink request even though you don’t drink?”

“It is my mom’s favorite drink” I bashfully replied. I wished he would just stop looking at me now.

I closed my eyes and listened to how lively the atmosphere was in here. People were laughing, shooting pool, playfully riffing each other over really poor aim throwing darts. Music was playing from a jukebox somewhere in the back. I knew there was a strong likelihood 80′s bands were in record queue, specifically Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. Journey was palpable in air. Evitable. That will be problematic for this visit. Journey is my mom’s favorite band. I couldn’t handle Journey right now.

The bartender cracked one of his knuckles and I realized he was still standing there, just looking at me with a puzzled look on his face.

“I need to see some ID first before I can make you anything” he said, his tone very official. I’m sure he could tell based on how wrecked I must have looked from the last few days that I was obviously of age but I understood the formality.

I nodded and mechanically reached into my wallet. I handed over my ID and he flipped it back and forth.

“Arizona huh?” he asked, now realizing just how out of place I really was.

“I’m originally from here” I admitted.

“Not exactly the ideal vacation spot for January, wouldn’t you agree?”

I raised my big hazel eyes up to meet his and then lifted my head until it almost fell back in a nonverbal way to say I did very much agree and was not here for vacation purposes in the least.

Message received. He handed me my ID and walked over to the far side of the bar.

A man came up, noticing the break in conversation with the bartender, and put his very warm hand on my shoulder. I could feel the warmth even through my jacket and fleece. Maybe he was drinking to warm up from the cold outside. He reeked of smoke. He spoke clearer then I was expecting but he told me that they would be starting karaoke in five minutes and I should join them. I gave him a half smile and he stumbled away. I love karaoke normally and if I had come here intentionally, I would have willingly partook. Even as a sober person. This offering would definitely be something readers would be interested in if I was doing a review.

The bartender came back with a stocky glass, full of what looked like chocolate milk made by one my kids; the syrup-to-milk ratio was extremely unbalanced, highly in favor of the chocolate syrup. There was a little black stir straw sticking out. I crinkled my nose apprehensively and twirled the straw around a few times and blended it all together.

“Can I ask you a question?” I said, still staring into the dark milky mixture.

“Shoot.”

“What does this taste like?”

“You ordered something you've never tasted?" I assumed this was rhetorical."Well, to me, it’s always tasted like a melted chocolate milkshake.”

“So, it’s the kind of drink you drink when you don’t want people to think all you do is drink? Like, with wine or beer, the cans and bottles can really pile up, and that’s a dead giveaway you have a drinking problem, but this? This is a little more classy and discreet? Like, it’s fun and casual, not a big deal?” I could hear myself rambling and saying “like” way more than I should have been. I would have been penalized so heavily by Toastmasters right now.

“I guess you could say that”, he started to squint one eye and raise the other eyebrow.

The hot burn started of held back tears in my eyes. My jaw clenched. My thumb spun my wedding ring around, which my husband hates that I do when I’m nervous because he thinks it’ll fall and get lost. It’s an unconscious fidget. I usually twirl my hair but I was holding onto the glass so tightly.

“Do you think, um, someone could ever love this particular drink more than anything else in the world? Is this drink better than love?”

He leaned onto his elbows and scratched his scruffy face. He inhaled deeply and then in a breathy exhale said, “I honestly don’t think so”.

Without taking my eyes off his, I drank the entire drink and slammed the glass back down. I drank it so fast that I could feel a little milk mustache was left over. I wiped it away with the back of my hand.

The tears broke the levee and were streaming now. “You were right. It does taste like melted milkshake.”

I have no precedent for how good this drink was, but he seemed like a five star bartender. Really knew his stuff, master of his craft. Gave accurate expectations. Wasn’t too judgemental.

“Want another?” I’m sure he knew the answer before he asked but it was second nature, force of habit.

I reached for my wallet again to pull out cash and the bartender tapped the bar with his knuckle to catch my attention again. He took a long pause …“I’ve never had, or made, or know of this drink, or any other drink, that was better than love. Never even anything that came close.”

“I wish you had been my mom’s bartender then. You could have told her that.”

He winced, like when you get a nasty papercut. Something so small that just sends that piercing shock wave through your whole body. I tucked my hair behind my ear and turned to leave.

I put a ten dollar bill on the bar. I didn’t even know how much drinks at a bar cost but I assumed ten was enough. I hope I wasn’t insulting him if that didn’t include a tip. He was deserving of one. Maybe once I was out of this literal and figurative fog I could give him the review he deserved.

“Thank you for your assistance.” I gave a small silent wave past my shoulder, zipped up my jacket, and walked back through the impressive wood door. I wish I was in the mood to take a picture of this door; it had character.

As predicted, as soon as the door closed behind me, I could hear karaoke kicking off with those first tone deaf notes being belted out into the microphone of none other than Don’t Stop Believing by Journey. If I had come here under any other circumstances, I think I maybe would have given this place a solid “likely to return” or “local charmer” and used hashtags like ”#staylocal#shopsmall”. I hate that forced fakeness about the work I do but that's the work.

Instead, I walked back outside, stood under the neon light of the sign and felt lost on the street all over again. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I had no desire to answer it. Not now.

Title: Five Calls in a Row (excerpt)

Genre: Non fiction, narrative

Age range: 16+

Author Name: Nicole J. Dunn

Project: Novel

Hook: What warrants a real emergency when eveything is treated like one?

Synopsis: Nickey is stuck in the perpetual middle between the family she grew up with and the one is trying to raise. Her mother is a constant source of contention, comfort, crisis, and confusion. Nickey is the same age now her mother was when everything changed. Will Nickey come to understand who her mother is and why she is the why she is? Through a series of events, all is revealed but will anything be resolved?

Target Audience: Adults

Bio: Nicole J. Dunn “Nickey” lives in Phoenix, Arizona with her husband and three kids. She works full time, and in what nonexistant free time she has, she is busy taking kids to sporting events, school functions, and traveling to see family. Writing has always been her passion and continues to provide a creative outlet outside her very regulated full time job.

Using transparency and humor to shed light on issues she faces on an everyday basis help make her writing relatable.

Education/Experience: B.S. - Sociology, Northern Arizona University.

Hometown/Age: 36, Marysville, WA