JUST A SHORT STORY

This is probably the most vulnerable I've ever felt penning a post.

On this platform I have discussed my rejections (both romantically and in the professional, publishing world), my many failures, my insecurities, things I wished could be different, abandoned hopes, paths that were altered, my times of trial, and the times my faith was tested beyond what I felt capable to bear.

I've laid it all out on the line. But, I guess it hasn't really felt that way. Sure, those posts were pieces of me, but they were also pieces of Him. The lessons He taught me, the way He supported me, the words He was giving me.

It was a team effort, forever and always.

This short story is still that, but there isn't a direct, discernible tie to Him. I feel He is involved in everything I write, but this one feels a little more like my own creation. It's a peek into who I am, what I like, who I want to become.

That's terrifying, and exciting. And, I'm dragging on.

Let's just say I've got all of the emotions circling.

This short story has no point or purpose except to make me smile and celebrate the music I love. I've included the title and author of each song, and left little Easter Eggs from some of the lyrics. See if you can find them all?

Also, these beats all happen to be from my 2022 Playlist.

Enjoy this odd look into my soul, and the little glimpse at what my books might feel like :)

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Two more weeks. Just two more weeks.

Perhaps if I repeated the mantra enough, it would trick the universe into thinking that those fourteen days had already passed. No harm in trying, right?

Glancing out the window of the bus, the sight of several high school girls setting sail on their own set of wheels, or perhaps gifted set of wheels, was a twisting knife in my rib cage.

And how were they using this freedom? To talk with each other. And laugh. And giggle. And flirt with the far-too-older man in the lane next to them.

Wasn’t it a world-known fact that car rides were made for jam sessions? For singing your hearts out? For jumping genres, decades, and perhaps levels of taste with a complete lack of regard?

Watching their taillights mesh with the many others in the sea of early-morning traffic, I fished my headphones out of my bag and placed them in my ears. A risky move, due to my understanding of what a commute was for, but one that was necessary at the moment.

Scrolling through the many, many playlists I had at my disposal, I selected the one originally labeled, 2023. What else would you name the rolodex of songs you discovered in 2023?

Taping the shuffle icon, I leaned my head against the window, picturing the life I wished for in the clumps of clouds in the pink-tinged, costal sky.

Unfortunately, the first track to come rolling through, “Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes)” by Edison Lighthouse, did not fit the morning’s mood. Could it have redirected that mood? Possibly, but unlike the safety of one’s own car, bus rides are meant for moping. Carted to Cross Country meets where one was destined to come in last? Field trips where kids drew on each other’s sleeping faces for sport? Or, a three week love-affair as one’s car sits lonely in the shop?

Bus rides were meant for sadness.

Skipping through and tucking my out-of-control hair into my hood, “Take Good Care Of My Baby” by Bobby Vee seemed a good compromise. Sad message with a boppy beat.

As the bus slid to a squeaky stop, an interesting interaction appeared on the sidewalk next to me.

Laying on the cool morning concrete, was a girl, bright red hair and freckles for days. She was giggling and smiling at the boy who was squatting above her. An empty ice cream carton sat next to him, one of those giant plastic ones where you get the most bang for your buck. Tossing something into its innards, he drew something out as well.

A bright, thick stick of purple chalk.

Reaching out to hold the girl’s head in place, he swayed his arm in a large sweeping motion, creating the last arc on the rainbow that surrounded the girl.

Didn’t these kids have school?

Scootching past the truant artists, it was frustrating to find that our next stop had already appeared, while mine was still one, two, three, four away.

Time to shift into full angsty mode.

Skipping out of the fifties, I returned to the sounds of my youth. “When It Rains” by Paramore was the perfect contrast to the sunny morning darting through the windows and blinding me. The rays made good attempts but were no match for the debris littered underneath every seat on the bus. Nothing could hide that, not even bright purple splotches of sightlessness.

Pushed up against the wall of the bus, almost camouflaged by the shadow of the seat in front of me, was a chocolate cupcake. The poor thing’s swirls were mashed down and destroyed, icing gushing out the sides and the clear plastic covering smeared.

Its final resting place was just on the edge of the cool shade, so, so close to protection and relief from the heat. As the bus driver slammed on the brakes, dodging a dog and his owner as they fled into the street, I prayed my fate would not be the same as the snack cake that had just smacked the underside of the chair.

A small mercy, the next grinding halt came at my stop. Standing up, I didn’t bother to say farewell to my fellow patrons. Like me, they all appeared to be lost to their own thoughts, imagining they were anywhere else but in a cloud of exhaust and other people’s body fragrances of choice.

Aptly timed, the moment my feet hit the cement, the song changed, like the seamless exchange of scenes and backdrops in a play. Setting my footsteps to the beat, I tried not to dance to the streams of “Strawberry Sunscreen” by Valleyheart, though I did let the snaps of the drums beat away my fog of a bad mood.

Taking the turn around the block that would carry me into work, I couldn’t help but admire a rendering of Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa painted on the wall of an alley. Depicted in bright colors of fuchsia, chartreuse, and tangerine, it was a happy spot in a rather dismal corner of the world. And, just as the original had done for centuries, no doubt it would be an inspiration of romance from here to the other end of the alley. The outline of the coast could just be seen through the opening, the salt air licking my face.

“City of the Dead” by Eurielle didn’t normally describe my work environment, but as I slid through the door left open by a rushing Donna, our perpetually late food critic, there wasn’t a title that could have better fit our little sea of cubicles. It appeared that almost everyone was out in the field, hunting down a story, apart from my aisle mate, Jeremy.

Who was sleeping. Not just sleeping, but twitching. Having a nightmare. Could that be because he was using his keyboard as a pillow?

Without removing my earbuds, I jostled Jeremy’s shoulder, resorting to earthquaking shakes until he sat up abruptly. It took several seconds for his eyes to focus in on me, my waving hands and my teasing grin. “Goodmorning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Ughhh.” A fitting response. Rubbing the remaining images from his eyes with the heels of his hands, Jeremy explained his untimely nap. “This piece is going to kill me! Seriously, I am drowning beneath testimonials. I am never going to finish it.”

Peering over his shoulder, I could see why he was struggling. “Who knew people would be so obsessed with the white editions of Twilight?”

“Me.” Jeremy groaned, not even bothering to look me in the eye as he expounded on that statement, his fingers feigning interest in the piece he was penning. “My sister was Team Edward.”

Leaving him to his interviews with late twenty-something-year-olds reliving their glory days, I took my seat, booting my computer to life as the song in my ears helped to continue the process of bringing me to life.

Country music was not among my top go-tos, but Thomas Rhett was always the exception. One of the few to ever include an ode to green eyes in his songs, “Paradise” was among my favorite of the bunch.

“Ms. Gladwin,” My boss startled me from my sudden, dreamed spin beneath the southern wind, the one where the handsome cowboy could make me believe that living off of summertime and the flings it brings was a possible feat. “Is that humming, I heard?”

Perhaps “City of the Dead” did describe my work environment well. Our newspaper was where music, fun, and personality came to die.

Much like our undead assigned topics.

Knowing argument was futile, I pulled the headphones out of my ear, tucking them into my case, into my backpack, and out of my heart.

Until this evening, my beloved friends.

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So, there it is.

Did you catch all the references? If not, maybe give it another read 😉

Hope this brought a little light to your day, as I hope my future works will also do.