Standing in the Cold

Standing in the cold,
persistent rain, Leslie
holds a large black purse
in front of her, clutching
it with one hand tightly.
With a nervous darting

glance down the street,
watching for the bus, she
sees it coming up the side of
the road. Cursing softly to
herself, she pushes back
strands of wet auburn hair 
that the rain has pasted to
her face randomly, and
goes back to digging
through her purse with an obvious desperation to her jerky
movements. A city bus, with a loud advertisement splayed across
its side about a popular radio station, pulls up beside the bus stop
with a loud squeal. Startled, and very anxious, Leslie rights her
heavy purse, and with a sigh, slings it over her shoulder. With the
rain falling down steadily, she tries to keep it  out of her face by
lowering her head, waiting at the back of the line to go  on last.
Feeling the cold rain hitting the top of her already drenched hair
and some drops sliding down onto her neck, she  shivers,
wrapping her  arms tightly around her chest, and tucking her
freckled hands under her armpits. As the line is reduced by people
flashing  bus passes or dropping a few coins into the slot ahead of her,
Leslie steadily  makes her way to the  sliding doors, holding tightly
onto her purse. For  some reason, this moment of getting on the bus
always makes her nervous. It’s not as though the driver, in his bored
redundancy will refuse her access, but she is unsure each time she
climbs the step – perhaps he will for some reason she cannot think of.
For example, maybe her pass will suddenly be the wrong one, or it is
expired and she didn’t realize it. Maybe he will stop her and demand
to get a closer look just to be sure it is real. She knows none of these
reasons are at all logical, yet nevertheless, her senses are
always heightened at this moment and she is hyper-aware of his facial
expressions, carefully measuring them so as to have some warning ahead
of time. However, unlike those other afternoons, this time Leslie knows
he likely will. She’s seen him do it to others. With a fluttering fear in her
stomach, she places her flat black dress shoe on  the first step and thinks
briefly about the second last person in front of her receiving their nod and
most likely, scanning the seats, calculating the best possible place to take
a seat. The heat from inside the bus hits her, and it causes her resolution
of simply stating her cause to falter, and just begins hoping he will allow
her on where she can be warm.

“I am v-v-very sorry,” she starts with a stutter, seeing the sudden cold look

come into what was previously a slack and bored face. She knows her

question is not likely to be received very positively, and although she
hates the shame that crawls up from her stomach to redden her face, she
must try anyhow, “I cannot find my pass anywhere. But you know I have
one, you see me every day at this time.” She added that last part in panic,
as she saw him starting to shake his head. As soon as she added it, she
regretted the assumption she’d made on her part that he’d even care.
She continued anyways, “Please allow me to ride home. I’ll be sure to
have a pass for tomorrow.”

“I am sorry for you. I really am,” the driver says carefully, “but you know

that I cannot let you on without money or a pass.”
“Please,” Leslie grimaced at her begging, knowing she was on display for

the bus to see her discomfort and unfortunate circumstance, “It is

miserable outside, I need to get home to my daughter.”
At the shake of his head again, she bowed her own slightly, letting her
long, wet hair fall into her face again, feeling tears start to prickle at the
corner of her eyes. Standing there for another few seconds, wishing he
would change his mind, she started to turn around to go back down the
scuffed and scratched stairs out into the pelting rain.

“Wait,” a woman called out from near the front of the bus. Leslie looked

back in surprise and hope to see an elderly lady, her walker to the side

of her legs, reaching into her own purse. The woman’s hands shook

slightly as she held a grey, fabric purse that was quite obviously
well-worn, with stitching sliding out from a few of the seams.

A man with a face carved by lines given to him by time, said with a tight

urgent voice, “Gracey, what are you doing?” The lady ignored him, and
with a satisfied grunt, brought a few coins out with her hand. Leslie looked
at her in shock, which Gracey snapped her out of with, “Well, do you want
a ride on the bus, Miss or not?” Looking at the bus driver cautiously,
Leslie felt even worse and really was not sure how to proceed.

“Look, I have to get moving on this route. Take the lady’s money, put it in
the slot, I’ll give you a pass, and we can all move on with our lives,” the
driver said with a touch of annoyance in his voice.

Leslie looked back at the old lady, holding the coins in her palm. The
money jingled quietly as the woman’s hand shook. What galvanized Leslie
to act, was not the money sitting there, nor was it the annoyance from the
driver or even the expectant looks from other people on the bus, it was the
old lady’s steady stare that defied Leslie not to take it. So, she walked with
a squish in her feet from the pooling water at the soles of her shoes over
to the lady, thanked her quietly, then walked back a few steps and placed
the now wet coins into the slot to the right of the driver. He ripped off a
ticket from his stack, and passed it to her. Gripping it tightly in her hand,
she shoved it into her pocket and walked to a spot across from the lady,
feeling obligated to sit near her. With her face fiery red from
embarrassment, she looked squarely at the woman, apparently by the
name of Gracey, who had so readily rescued her.

“Thank you, ma’am. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t

helped me.”

The old man beside Gracey scowled at her and Leslie, catching the scowl,

was perplexed and wondered briefly what his issue was.
“You’d better be careful with that pass, Miss,” Gracey stated to Leslie,

ignoring her gratitude, “You’re liable to destroy it in that soaking coat of

yours. Unless you don’t need it, then I guess it doesn’t matter, now, does it?”
Looking from her pocket to the old woman, Leslie felt like a small child

being scolded by her grandmother, and without a word, took
it out of her pocket and placed it into her purse carefully. The lady was
right, it had already become damp, but thankfully not enough to wipe off
any ofthe data on the paper.
“Thank you. If you hadn’t helped me, I would have been late getting home
to my daughter. I don’t know how to repay you.”
Gracey laughed and Leslie was surprised to find it, although somewhat
raspy, throaty and full.

“I wouldn’t worry about paying me back, Miss, at least not yet.”
Leslie looked at her with a slight sense of unease. What could that
possibly mean?

“Well, thank you anyways,” Leslie replied carefully.
The woman nodded at her, and then closed her eyes. Assuming the

conversation to be over, Leslie leaned her head back against the hard

metal railing lining the seat on which she sat in exhaustion. The day had

been a long one, her feet were tired and one of the patrons in her section

at the restaurant had thrown up while eating. She thought she still had that

sour smell in her nose, even with all the rain, and even thinking about it

again made her nauseous. The bus rocked her with its
jerky movements, and she bounced her head upon the railing a few times
beforegiving up trying to relax in that way. It didn’t matter anyway, Leslie
was too cold to rest and now that her immediate need for a ride home was
resolved, she had other things on her mind. As she dwelt upon those
things for the next short while, she nearly missed the landmark that was a
signal for her to pull the cord over her head. Reaching up, she happened
to glance forward to Gracey at the same time. Startled to find the old
woman watching her, she tried to smile at her, but it came out stiff and
not at all genuine. Nervously, she pulled the cord quickly, grateful to be
getting off the bus soon. For some reason, this old woman, with her
steady stare, shaking hands, and earlier expressed interest in having
Leslie repay the favour, made her more nervous than the man beside
her with his instant scowl the moment Leslie looked at him. What once
was gratitude Leslie had felt when looking at this lady had now turned
into simple fear.
As she stood up to get off the bus, very close to leaving her awkwardness
behind her, Leslie noticed the woman crook her finger at her, indicating
a desire to have Leslie come closer to her.
“Yes?”
“Come here, Missy. I have something for you.”
Reaching a hand towards Leslie, she held a small piece of paper between
her fingers. Feeling highly uncomfortable with the situation now, Leslie
stepped forward, took it from her hesitantly, and noticed a phone number
and address written on it. Leslie looked at Gracey quizzically, unsure of
how to respond.“That is my number and address. I expect to see you
there this Saturday at 1 pm on the dot. I did something for you in your
need, now you need to do something for me in mine. I expect we’ll
both learn a great deal from it. Will I see you there?”
Leslie looked at the woman carefully, as the bus slowed to a stop.
Knowing she had only seconds in which to respond, noticing the
woman’s earnestness now apparent on her face, Leslie nodded slowly,
though she rebelled against this feeling of obligation, disliking the
necessity of it.
“Bring your daughter,” and noticing the sudden guarded look rise in
Leslie’s eyes, she added, “There is no need to be concerned for her, she
will be kept quite entertained during your task.”
“Alright,” Leslie replied, completely mystified by this strange request,
but not seeing any logical reason to resist, “I’ll bring my daughter.”
As Leslie exited the bus, she could not help but glance back at the
woman still seated rigidly beside a scuffed walker, short white hair
hanging still somewhat wetly around her cheekbones, and a hand
once again in her lap holding onto the well-worn purse, while the
other one rested on her male companion’s own hands. The last glimpse
of her Leslie had, was of a relieved smile playing on Gracey’s wizened
face, as she looked off into the distance, seeing something Leslie could
not.
The bus pulled away, and Leslie realized she still had the phone number
held tightly in her stubby fingers. Opening it again, she looked it the
information with a confused expression, and carefully placed it into her
purse, not noticing the continuing rain pelting her cheeks as she went
on her way to catch the second bus on her route home.

A Charted Path to Success is Nice

Do you ever have the sense that what you are trying to accomplish is similar to grasping at the piece of tiny flotsam in water? It is inevitably frustrating and a very slow, deliberate process. And what if you are unable to determine what that piece of flotsam is? Do you really want to try and pick it up? Or would it be better perhaps to let it float on by down the drain? In other words, what if you really don't know what it is you are trying to accomplish? Should you let it go? Is there a point without purpose? But then if you do relinquish that attempt because you lack reason, you are likely to have missed an opportunity. No. If you don't know what you are trying to do with something, you need to figure out what it is before you get your hands dirty. On the other hand, you need to get your hands dirty before you know what you want. Decisions, decisions, decisions.

Ever wish for a conclusion before reading the plot? When you know what the ending is, it makes the journey so much more comforting and simplistic. In addition, if you know the ending of the journey, you can decide whether or not to take that ride. Some would jump on that rickety jeep, no matter where it goes, or how dangerous the road may become. Others would choose to wait for the fully-loaded vehicle that can tell them the weather on the way, how long it will take, and whether there are alternate routes. They then will decide to take the ride knowing all the particulars ahead of time or not. Removes the guesswork and may provide a massage on the way! It is similar perhaps to letting others decide for you.

When I think about writing. I like the idea of just having fun with the words and learning to explore the world of words again. It excites me. Then, I realize that I really do not have a roadmap for this process. There is absolutely no proven method that works to achieve success and skill. It is different for every individual writer. When I hear an author asked where they get their ideas or what motivates them, I don't get that connecting "Aha! So THAT'S how it's done!" There are just too many individual people, and there is no one person exactly like you. So, therefore, that route to success is all subjective and personal. This can make the process infinitely frustrating. I love the process of writing for myself, but then I realize there is so much I do not know about it, that how on earth can I ever find my way through it's maze to personal success?! I think I need that fully-loaded vehicle to help me determine where I am going and the reasons for it, before I take a chance and pick up that unknown piece of flotsam floating past me in the water and continue on another way, if there is one.

Bad Choices

He leans over groggily to shut off the stupid alarm as it blares mercilessly into his foggy brain, but not knowing where it is, misses it a few times before finally catching hold of it. For a stunned second or two he is unsure of where he is. Then it comes to him: in pieces and flashes of images first, then rushing like a flood over him. With a sigh he falls back into the stiff mattress, and he curses from the shots of pain that spread across him like rapid gunfire. Grunting softly, he gingerly moves his bruised body, wincing with every motion. "Stupid idiot", he mutters to himself. Sighing again, knowing that cursing himself won't do any good, he just lays there with frustration settling on his grizzled face. Then, "What in the bleedin' hell you bouncin' aroun' like tha' for buddy?!" shatters a metallic voice beside him. Laying there, he prays silently she won't speak again, but will let him attempt to gather his brain at his own pace."Oh, don't tell me you are rockin' for some more o' that lovelness from las' night?! My goodness, I figured you was plum done out!" continues the nasal sound beside him. Dreading to look over, the weary man just lays there in silence, hoping this is simply a gaudy nightmare that will dissipate eventually. He decides on his own that he is mistaken based on the grey-faced looking woman that suddenly covers his vision of the spotted ceiling. Instinctively, he cowers away from her and wonders why on the round green earth that he inhabits comfortably enough, he would choose this lovely creature to while away an evening of drunk and high amusement. He mused to himself, aware her mouth was moving but not caring what inanities came out of it, perhaps it had something to do with the promises of lemon pie she had made among other suggestions that appealed to his morbid mind at that time. He always was a sucker for pie when high! He chuckled to himself, then winced again. Deciding it was time to end this macabre situation, he slowly rolled away from her, ignoring her insulted look. He couldn't be bothered to care. This tired and suddenly nerved man simply wanted to escape her pawing hands and what looked like a spiked belt dangling off the edge of the bed. Deciding to make his exit immediately and before any other promises were made, he continued rolling and swung his legs determinedly over the edge of the bed. Ignoring the shooting pain that jumped into his legs when he hit the ground, he grabbed his things, rapidly got into them and ran out the door with a final, "Thanks!" over his shoulder. His last glimpse of her was of dirty sunlight escaping into the room through a partially covered window, lighting up her shocked face and a prone body still reaching to him. With a guilty conscience, he didn't stop however. He ran, without a second backwards look to the now shut door. "Coward", he thought bitterly to himself. "What will it take for me to learn?"

Illusions

Sophia stares into the blank screen in front of her, seeing only her pale reflection, and wonders what it might help her understand of her mind. It stares back blankly, never changing, never offering her assistance, just reflecting her own image - static, cold, empty. What is wrong with this ridiculous thing that it will not do as it should? Why won't it change? Why doesn't it help her understand? But it remains still as ever.
Sophia reaches out to the screen, her hand trembling as if something will jump out at her, yet still moving towards it, sure she will remain safe behind this wall of real and make-believe. The screen suddenly shimmers, and she yanks her arm back with an alarmed yelp of shock. It was not supposed to do that! Or perhaps, as the thought dawns on her, it is trying to teach her something. She looks closer at it, leaning in until her pocked nose touches the chilly wall. Yet, now it does nothing. Sophia begins to get angry at it. Why isn't it moving now? As she contemplates the screen, she realizes, the change did not come from the screen. Merely, there was a reflection from behind her of something shifting. She turns her head around carefully, her straggly blond bangs, partially covering her view, to look behind her.
It is an orderly, shuffling past with several containers precariously held in his two fragile arms. This looks like a dangerous activity for him to be attempting in her opinion, so she uncurls her scarred legs to stand up and help him.
Her legs don't respond. Why can't she get up? Confused, Sophia tries again to shift her legs. Yet, her body will not respond. Why can't she move? What is going on?! Beginning to sense the old panic and fury welling up inside, she jerks her head suddenly to the side as if to shake it off her. Yet angry now, and intensely frightened, she tries to move her hand. It flops to one side of her, barely responding. Wasn't she able to move it before? What is going on? Bewildered and frightened, she yells out suddenly, afraid that her voice has faded away without reason.
To her instant relief, the orderly looks up in alarm at her gutteral yell. He puts his items down carefully, regards her for a moment, and as if trying to decide whether he should do something about her obvious distress, moves carefully towards her, putting out both his hands, palms up, to let her know he means her no harm. Not actually touching her, Adam gently motions with his hands to be calm. "Breathe", he tells her and snaps his fingers in front of her face.
Startled, she jerks away from him.
"Breathe", he says again to her.
Sophia lets out a gasp, and realizes she had been holding all her air inside. Fighting tears, she tries to do as he says, and takes a shaky breath in.
"Again", he commands, this time demonstrating with his hands, breathing in and out.
She does as he suggests, and realizes the panic is subsiding a bit. She continues doing this under his direction for a few more minutes, until she breathes normally once more.
Once she is relaxed, he gently touches her shoulder. Sophia jerks back again away from his touch, freezing her body. Watching him warily, her breath comes once more in jerky gasps. Backing away from her obvious alarm, he motions for her to again breathe. She draws breath in slowly, staring at him, watching his hands cautiously.
"I am going to help you stand, Sophia", he says calmly.
She nods at him almost imperceptibly, and with revulsion watches his hands come closer.
"Sophia, I am only going to help you stand. Please let me know if I can touch you."
"Yes," she breathes out reluctantly. Fighting her terror, she allows him to take her arm and help her up off the floor where she had fallen.
Once standing, he immediately pulls his hands away.
In confusion at his sudden withdrawal, she stares at him, "You are afraid of me?"
He gives her a shadowy look, and comprehension dawns on her, "Oh", she whispers softly, "You are afraid I will bite you as I did Markus." Then with a matter-of-fact tone, "No, he held onto me too tight and was pushing me."
Looking doubtful, Adam still kept his hands away from her reach.
She smiles at him humourlessly and then with a voice tinged in cold venom at the memory of Markus did, "If I wanted to hurt you, I would have done so much sooner than you could have prevented, as Marcus found out rather painfully. How's his fat finger doing anyways?"
Turning away from Adam towards her chair without waiting for his response, and not really caring to, Sophia begins to understand a little bit of what has happened. She was not actually paralyzed, for she is able to move without difficulty. The problem is with her head. She cannot understand why her mind does such things to her. Why it confuses her so. But with a sigh, she knows: it's the whirling anger and panic that consumes her and leaves her breathless.
She allows him to help her back into the chair, although cringing against his touch through her thin white gown. She does not want to alarm him enough to push that little black button on the back of his wristband. She's had that experience before, and will not go through it again, unless it is necessary. Shaking off the memory of all those arms around her, holding her down, aware of the anger already building up inside her, she instead focuses on the fact that she is in control after all, and is only in this hospital until she heals both in mind and body. The accident (though, she knows it was not technically an accident) will require a great deal of time before she is ready to face her other worlds again. Frowning, Sophia admonishes herself aloud for letting such a thing happen again.
Looking up quickly she notices the orderly looking at her with worry reflected in his eyes as he helps her down to the tattered green chair. She winces from the searing pain she was slowly becoming aware of that is travelling up her legs and arms from the fall to the ground. She hopes those burns will heal soon.
Sophia looks back at the items he had been carrying before coming to help her, and he shakes his head in the negative.
"You are much better off sitting down and letting your body relax after such a fall. I will be just dandy carrying the boxes back myself."
Sophia snickers at his use of the word 'dandy'. She hasn't heard it used since...well...those other times, "I wonder if he would still use that term around me if he knew," she muses to herself.
She hesitates lightly, considering telling him just to ruin his day, then her eye catches what she hadn't noticed before. The puzzle is shimmering at her, as one piece off to the side flashes brightly in the gentle sunlight, which is cascading over the newly built green pool on the table in front of her. Looking at it, the damaged woman realizes why it was she became focused on the screen The puzzle had become too challenging, the sun was making her tired, and so she let her eyes and mind wander, then dragged herself from where she'd fallen over to the television, while in that usual trance. Sophia understands how she is supposed to try and not let such things happen. She remembers the consequences of such actions. Yet, sometimes she gets confused and cannot help but revert to old habits. It is comforting in so many ways, at least until the panic and anger sets in. She firmly tells herself she will try harder next time. She has so many tools, both physical and mental, she can use to help her avoid such a distraction.
With new determination, she looks back at the shimmering piece she suddenly noticed that will fit so nicely into a perfectly shaped hole. Moving her arm carefully over the puzzle, afraid to disturb the pool of fish she has already brought to life, she picks up the errant piece that lay off to the side and then just as cautiously, places the piece with a satisfying click into the correct position. Sophia sighs contentedly, then finds the next one.
Sophia hears him grunt and with a quick look around, sees Adam pick up the boxes he was carrying earlier. She turns her back to his mundane task, letting this beautiful world of glittering fish in a deepening pool consume her thoughts and mind once more.

Finding Hope

I sit here at my computer in my most recent classroom, thinking about the little girl I once was, and how she believed so strongly that she was a fabulous writer. To that little girl, stories were her own private little world, and she developed a passion for the written word. She became the girl who sat in the back of the classroom with a rather volumous book in her hands, hidden beneath the cover of her desk. Rather than listen to her teacher talk irrelevance, she would dream constantly in her seat. It often got her into trouble, yet nothing her teacher could tell her compared to the incredible worlds leaping off the page and pulling her in, demanding she become part of it. She would drown herself in these worlds, one after another. Her mother would ask her, "Tell me what the story was about." Because she could not say, the belief was that she was not getting any meaning from what she was reading. Yet, it was rather because she did not know how to verbalize what she had read, at least not in the few words her mother insisted upon. As she was reading the brilliant worlds that were not her own, she would dream about doing the same thing herself. This child would wonder at the possibilities that could be created from simply thinking about them. What was not possible when it came from the simple will to believe in it?

A child can dream and make those dreams possible. Can I? I have become so far removed from that girl, who at the age of 13 or so gave up what she once loved to do, even though it once provided her with so much unadulterated pleasure. It was entirely her own, requiring only time, and the simple tools of a pen and piece of paper. I wonder what happened. I wonder why I have never seriously tried to do it again. There have been a few half-hearted attempts to do it again. However, without faith in the purpose or meaning in it anymore, that girl grew into a woman who became afraid to dream as an adult. The mere thought of attempting such a task is daunting now and creates dread at the idea of sitting down to attempt writing again.

Recently, I began thinking on what matters to me and how I could improve my constantly evolving world. Sadly, I realize that there is very little I have attempted to pursue with passion beyond work and bills. However, now I find myself in a position where I would like and am able to expand my horizons. I once again have found hope in the future. Thus, the cautious woman I have become has begun thinking about what matters to me, and if I were in a position where I could do as I wished - what would I choose to do? A truly powerful question if one pauses to honestly consider the possibilities. For me, I realize that I would write to improve the lives of, and offer consolation to, others. Whether I was successful or not (though it would mean a great deal to know I am successful at this mountainous, and possibly frivolous, dream), I would choose to do something I have layed aside and kept dormant for many years. I realize it would indeed be a sad regret to me, should I (out of fear or insecurity), choose to spend the remainder of my life without at least trying as hard as I could to achieve a dream I once had, although a child: To become a published author.

The child I once was had so much to tell the world. The adult she has become, has so many stories to share. The child believed in the power of the written word and what it could achieve. She believed it was a gateway to other places, and the adult I am realizes it has a healing or enlightening power. The girl believed she could be the kernel of truth that might grow sideways as well as up that could excite others, and make them laugh or cry. A story was fun, even if sometimes sad. It took you away, and allowed you to dream without borders or boundaries. Maybe if I learn to dream again, I might be able to show others how to as well.

Wish me luck and help me open the door I closed so long ago. Share ideas, thoughts, and your own dreams. I'd love to create something with you in mind.