Why So Quiet??

It’s been quiet in the Wicked Orchard.  Why? Pray tell.  Since you asked so nicely I will tell you.  Not only is it the holiday season, but I also very recently celebrated a birthday, and on top of all of that, I was on vacation from work.  I only take one actual vacation a year, so I wanted to relax and spend as much time with my family as I could.  And I did.  Unfortunately, my vacation is over. I am well rested, but I would much rather be at home, amusing myself with my daughter, while playing games, watching videos and talking to my boyfriend about any and everything under the sun.

I gave myself a birthday gift, before my vacation, and finished my fifth book.  In doing so, it allowed my brain to take a rest, but the closer I got to returning to work, the more my brain began to storm about my next project.  I will be begin the editing process shortly for my latest, nameless, manuscript, and along with that, I will begin researching for my next book.

Christmas has passed and I hope that it was lovely for all of you who celebrated it and for those that didn’t; I hope that your days have been filled with all of the joy and cheer that we should have every day of the year.  Sorry for the excessive rhymes.

The Backlash Before Christmas – Short Story

It’s recess time, and all the first graders are led out onto a playground, where they are turned loose by their handlers.  As the shrieks of temporary merriment erupt from every eager child, five gather together underneath the little house that is connected to the slide.  All sitting with their legs crossed, they stare at each other with their hands, cradled in their laps.

“Ok.”  One little pig tailed girl speaks up.  “What do we got?

“My baby brother started sneezing with snot coming out of his nose.  So I rubbed my hands on his face, while mom was in the kitchen.”  A brown boy with glasses says.

“My grandmother said she got the crud.  Don’t know what that is, but we held hands and sang songs after she blew her nose.”  A little red-head with freckles relays.

“My big sister’s been coughing and coughing.  She got a sore throat.  I just stood in her room while she was coughing and stared at her until she yelled for me to get out.  She hates that.”  A little blond boy says, as he sniffs and wipes his nose across his bare arm.

“Everyone is sniffling and wiping their noses on my bus.  I just traded pencils with everybody.”  A dark skinned girl with black braids adds.  “What about you?”

“I touched the teacher’s grading pen.”  The pig tail girl answers.

“Wow, she’s really sick today.  You’re really going for it.”  The red head remarks.

“Are we sure we wanna do this?  I mean, we’re gonna get sick, too?”  The brown kid with glasses asks.

“Did you lose your candy?”  The pig tailed girl asks, with a frown.

“Yeah.”  He answers.

“What about the rest of ya?”  She asks the gathering.  “Didn’t you lose your candy?”

“Yeah.”  The blond kid says sadly, with his eyes cast downward.

“They threw away mine.”  The girl with braids says.

“See!  That’s what I’m talking about.  Parent’s hiding our candy, throwing it away or even worse than that, eating it themselves.  Just so we can’t have it.  Just cuz we want to eat it all.  It ain’t fair.”  The pig tailed girl exclaims.  “Didn’t you work hard for your candy?”

“Yeah.”  The boy with glasses says.  “We walked all over this big neighborhood for three hours.  I was tired and my feet hurt, but I got two big bags full.  But…  I ain’t seen them bags in weeks.”

“I wore a furry cat costume.  And it was hot and I sweated.  But that didn’t make me stop trick or treating.”  The girl with braids says.  “But it’s gone in the trash now.”

“My mask was so itchy. I had to take it off and then no one knew what character I was.”  The red head recounts.  “I earned mine too.”

“Parents and teachers tell us if ya earn it, then that’s good, but they took it all away.  So…  This is what they get.”  The pig tailed girl says with a nod.

“Yeah, but we’re gonna get sick too!”  The brown kid with glasses reminds them.

“I’m already sick.”  The blond kid says matter-of-factly.

“Listen up.  We’ll get sick but we’ll be better in a week, maybe two weeks.  Plenty of time until Christmas.  They’ll start to be better by then and in the meantime, those of us who know our candy is still in the house, can slowly get some when they’re weak.”  The pigtailed girl outlines.

“Yeah.” The red head adds.  “Adults always get weak and don’t wanna be bothered when they’re sick.  Long as you’re quiet, you can get whatcha want.”

“That’s right.”  The blond says.

“But they threw my candy away.”  The girl with braids chimes in.

“We’ll give you some ours.  Or save some Christmas candy for you, so it’ll be fair.  Everyone in?”  The pig tailed girl asks.

Hearing the question and feeling the moment of truth, everyone nods their agreement to go forward with the plan.  After that, each child pulls their hands from the nook formed by their crossed legs and holds them out to the side, exposing their scabby palms, their marker covered fingertips and their dirt-impacted fingernails.  Next, they each interlock hands forming a circle of commitment, making sure to grind them together.  Then, they start shaking each other’s hand across from each other, until every bacteria and virus covered paw has been grasped and shaken by another.  Taking it one step further, the pig tailed girl takes her infested hands and rubs them up and down over her face, closing her eyes, but making sure to swipes them over her lips.  Equally inspired, the rest of the children follow suit until they hear the shrill voice of one of their handlers call out to them from ten feet away.

“What’re you kids doing under there?!”

“Nothing!”

All the children reply in unison, as if compelled by some telepathic cognition.  Immediately, all five children scramble from beneath the little house and begin playing with the other kids; and all of the adults are none the wiser.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cleaning House – Short Story

I have a barbecue sandwich before lying down.  I know it might fuck with my bowels, but when ya got IBS everything fucks with your bowels, so I say fuck it.  I get one of those extra large surplus hamburger buns and fill it with slightly spicy, grilled, smoky pulled Boston butt.  I add coleslaw and sweet pickles with mustard on the bottom piece of bread.  It’s good.  Since that last bout of bronchitis I’ve been having trouble tasting some things, but all of the flavor comes through with this sandwich.

With a full belly and the rest of the family already asleep; I finally lay down on the futon and after a little effort getting comfortable, I fall asleep.

Little did I know that the barbecue would affect my mind, not my bowels.

I open my eyes and I‘m standing in front of my old elementary school.  I’m full grown and everything appears so small.  The doors are rusted and falling off of the hinges, and it makes it easy for me enter.  The walls are coated with years of thick dust and stained with dirt, while the paint slowly peels away from the dry wall.  Long defunct bulletin boards sit unused while old rusted miniature desks are strewn about the hallways.  It smells dank and old and sad; laced with pain and plain evil.  As I blink a couple of times, I can see the ghost of children past moving through the halls in single files, led by a teacher now decrepit or long dead.  Second by second, the apparitions manifest in to solid entities, laughing and yelling, some cavorting together, others subsisting alone.

Then I see me.  I see me being led by the hand by my mother, the standard harbinger of my pain; pulling me out of my class.  The class I hated but the only one I’d known that year.

I know where I’m going.  I know where she’s taking me.  The land of the lost.  The land of misfit toys.  Where ‘problem’ kids are sent to rot and be forgotten.  I know where I’m going.  The label, the stigma, despite its falsehood.  Despite that huge lie that it is.  The retarded class.  That’s where I’m going.  That’s where I’m going.  It hangs above my head, even now.  It hangs above my heart, even now.  Coloring my every thought and aspiration, even though it is a lie.  A lie whose truth can never be told enough.

“Are we going home mom?” The little me asks.

“I’m taking you to a new class for smarter kids.”  She answers.

“Don’t believe her!”  I yell.  “She’s lying to you, like she always does!  Don’t believe her!”

Suddenly I can feel the weight in my hand.  My hand wasn’t so heavy before, but it weighed so much, yet so little.  Things had slowed by then.  I could see us walking away, little me and mom, but so slowly.  When I look at my hand I see the gun, the dark metal, the slight glint from an unknown light source.  I don’t like guns, never have, but this feels comfortable in my hand.  Necessary.  I raise it naturally, as if I’d done it a million times before and I level it at my mother’s back.  Can I do this?  She is the only mother I’ve ever known.  But her betrayal, that painful betrayal seems everlasting.  How will I ever get up from under it?  And she has never paid.  Never paid like I paid.  Paid for a debt I didn’t owe.  I pull the trigger and it is smooth and easy. Easy.  The bullet flies through the air in an instant, striking her in the back of neck, instantly taking her down.  Faster than a wildebeest in the Serengeti.  She falls flat with an unnatural thud.  A mere twitch before stillness, but I know…  I know that her every sin was etched on that bullet, like it is etched on my tortured soul and when it struck her she knew.  She knew the whys of my pain.  She knew the whys of my rage and it cradled her through the expulsion of her final breathe.

Little me stands looking at me as I am.  No fear, not even confusion.

“She lied.  Didn’t she?”  The little me asks.

“Yeah.  Just like always.”  I answer.

When I look to my right, I see the class I was taken from.  I step inside and see the teacher and the students of 35 years past, all frozen in time, learning their grammar school lesson.  I see the teacher who did not respect my ills, who believed the bully over the bullied.  I see the girl who took my toys and began this downward spiral in to faux retardation because it was easier to assume lies rather than question for truth.  My arm rises smoothly again, naturally.  I deliver a slug to her temple.  She does not see it coming, but like my mother, her sins are etched as well and she knows.  The class stops and stares frozen and I deliver another slug to the bully, the girl; whose says they’re sugar and spice and everything nice.

When I step back into the hall, I can feel tiny fingers loop through my left hand and I can see little me; holding on tightly.  Calm and unalarmed.  He looks up at me, the same sad brown eyes that have stared back at me for 40 years.

“Did you save me?”  The little me asks.

“I did.” I answer.

“Will things be different?”  The little me asks.

“They’ll be better.  We can make things better now.”  I answer.

My hand is light again.  I look down and the gun is gone.  We walk together to the dilapidated exit and step into the dreamy outdoors.  No cars.  No people.  No wind.  No sound.

“Will you take care of me now?”  The little me asks.

“Now I can.  Now I can take care of us both.”

Mom brought pain and now she’s gone.  School brought pain.  Teachers brought pain.  Bullies brought pain.  And as we move into the school yard, distant ethereal images of my middle and high schools slowly fade from view.  Fade from existence.  The future is wiped and nothing is set.  The disgrace undone and the lie unfulfilled.  The label of shame, of diminishment, slowly fades from my heart; slowly fades from my mind.

“We can start over now.”  I say.

When I suddenly awaken I expect to be alone.  My covers are drenched, but the water pooling in my eyes isn’t sweat.  They are tears, flowing hot and fresh.  My head hurts but inside I feel light.  I can still feel the light touch of small fingers in my hand, but when I look, they are not the fingers of little me.  They belong to my daughter, who is lightly gripping my hand and staring at me in the dark.

“What’s wrong, daddy?”  She asks.

“Nothing baby.  Why are you out of bed?”  I ask her.

“I gotta pee.  Can you take me to pee?”  She asks.

“Yeah, baby.”  I answer.

I get up.  And take my daughter to pee, tears and sweat still running down my face.  My head hurts but I feel free.

As my daughter rubs her eyes, while sitting on the toilet, I look around and nothing has changed.  It’s my house, my daughter, my bathroom, but I feel different.  I feel better.

As she wipes herself and flushes the toilet, she grabs my fingers and we walk back to her bed.  She lies down and I tuck her in, wrapping her up.

“Goodnight daddy.”  She says.

“Goodnight baby.”  I say.

As she drifts back off to sleep, I realize… I saved myself.  Through my pain, through my rage and with a solid, handful of violence.  I saved myself.

Finally.  I saved myself like I wished so many would have or could have…

Finally, I saved myself… And as I stand over her in the dark, I know now that finally, I can take care of us both.

 

Written By:  Sidra D. Owens

Date:  October 30, 2016

 

An ‘E’ for an ‘E’

When we are born, it’s all about us; our needs, our comfort, our sleep.  Human babies have needs and they usually have their needs met by screaming their heads off, when they’re not met.  Most people know this and I have mentioned it in past posts.

As we grow, one of the various roles of our parents is to teach us empathy.  Empathy is defined as the feeling that you understand and share another person’s experiences and emotions.  I have taken the time to include the definition because many people behave as if they have no idea what this word is, what it means or how it is shown….  But I digress.

As we get older, we should learn that our own individual wants and needs are not all that matters in the world.  We are not the center of the universe and all does not revolve around us.  This is how you can learn to show love for you parents and family, and feel sadness for their ills and misfortunes.  This, in turn, leads you to be able to comfort those around you.  These emotions can then extend to people outside your social and familial circle, allowing you to feel the pain of strangers in your own city, your own country and even abroad.

These feelings of empathy can lead one to charity work, wanting to help the disabled, the less fortunate, the sick and the destitute.  It could lead to participation in professions that aid others; doctors, nurses, teachers.

Empathy can lead other to give money out of their pocket, or food out of their kitchen, because sometimes money and food can run out just days before the next pay day.  And rather than let another go hungry, people will give of themselves.  Empathy allows you to identify with the misfortune of others, whether physical, mental, emotional or financial, because you understand that just a single flip of the cosmic coin and you might find yourself in the same position.

Unfortunately, empathy in our society is on the decline, a sharp and fast decline.  It is rapidly being replaced by entitlement.  Entitlement has a couple of definitions, but the one that I am focusing on is, the belief that one is inherently deserving of privileges or special treatment.  There is a growing number of people in our society, who identifies with this definition.  It is deeply associated with instant gratification.  As children, we have no real sense of time.  A child asks for a treat and mom says, in 20 minutes.  Two minutes pass, and the child asks for it again.  The child is reminded that 20 minutes hasn’t passed and they need to wait.  Five more minutes pass and the child asks again.  Having no sense of time, they don’t understand having to wait.  The patience of waiting comes over time with proper instruction.

The problem is that teenagers and adults that are well past this stage of development, exhibit the same behavior.  Not because they have no sense of time, but because they want what they want, when they want it and feel that they should not have to wait for anything, just because they’re them.  They think that they are better or special.  They think that their plights, problems and desires come ahead of everyone else’s.  This sense of entitlement leads to a complete and total lack of empathy.  They don’t know what it’s like to be sick without insurance, so the idea of needing public assistance for medical care is ludicrous.  It’s costing them.  They have never been disabled or associated with anyone with disabilities, so they don’t care for programs to help them.  They’ve never been persecuted because of their race, sex or age, so they go so far as to believe that these things never happen, just because it has never happened to them.

Apathy is the bedfellow of entitlement and it is eating away at the conscience of society.  It is a bigger problem than racism, classism, sexism, terrorism and money in the political system.  It is a bigger problem, because if people don’t give a damn about other people, they are liable to do anything to them without remorse.  We see it all the time.  A kid gets drunk, gets in a car and runs over people on the side of the road, killing them.  He gets house arrest and even after a light sentence, he breaks his probation and tries to flee the country.  His life is more important than the lives he took.  A police officer pepper sprays peaceful protesters and ends up suing for emotional trauma.  The supposed Democratic Party sabotages the campaign of one of their own; one who cared for the rights of all people, rich, working and poor, in favor of someone who has the interests of those who already have enough over those who barely have anything.

Empathy has always been a rather ethereal, wispy concept, sometimes slipping right through the fingers, but from time to time in the history of our country, we, as a society, have been able to grip it firmly and lift each other up; but it was never easy.  It took hard work and sacrifice, pain and death.  But now, empathy can’t even be seen floating on the winds.  More often than not, we are every man for themselves and to hell with the rest.

So…

What can we do?

Well, we could just be better, but that takes effort that the apathetic and entitled don’t want to exert.  So, it’s up to us who give a damn, to be mindful and vigilant and take every opportunity to inspire a change in our world; one conversation, one phone call, one post; one vote at a time.  Taking these strides may change things from the smallest interaction between you and a co-worker to the world stage which governs our society.  Close your eyes and for once, picture yourself in someone else’s shoes.  Train yourself, as we should train our children; like we used to train our children, to be patient, understanding and kind.  Bullying children turn into bullying adults; but adults can choose to be better, they just have to want it be better.

Keen Senses

It was winter when she was born.  Just over six pounds and lungs like a four month old.  I had never experienced instant emotion before.  When the tears sprang from my eyes at the sound of her first cry, I didn’t know the gravity of the subtle changes to come.

Those first five days were a whirlwind of speedy education and searing pain, like a red hot poker being jammed into my abdomen; a consolation prize of the cesarean section that ushered her into the world.  I didn’t start to feel the nerves and the worry until day four.  How can we go home?  What’re we going to do with her?  Finally, I felt the worry that her father had been feeling for nine months.  Scared shitless, but never letting on to me.  He kept me laughing the entire pregnancy; so much so that in the coming months my laughter would comfort the newborn into a sound sleep.

The incision stopped me from being able to care for her adequately.  Her daddy was the first to change her and I was the first to recognize that stubbornness of the Chinese ox under which she was born.  All attempts to nurse were met with the tiny strength of a day old baby, who could hold up her own head and pull away enough to let us know that breast feeding was not for her.  All of the in-utero head butts seemed to have paid off.

And then, we were home.  Five days before there were two of us and now there were three.  The result of fifteen years of love, pain, struggles and understanding.  Now we have embarked on a brand new adventure.  Birth is a difficult task and her little body required all of the rest afforded to her.  And so did he.  Five days in a half-assed recliner is a lot to ask of anyone, but he did it with little complaint for his girls; his family.

In the night, despite the prescription pain medication, sleep was fleeting, like dust in the wind, because of all the sounds.  Lying in bed in the pitch darkness, my eyes were wide, snapping my head to the right at the slightest sigh.  I could hear her.  Sharp and more acutely that anything I’d ever heard, I could hear her.  Her quiet breathes; the wisps of her small movements against the cotton fabric of the bassinet.  Low whines and whimpers.  Even her daddy seemed to shift and breathe in an identical manner.

Over the coming days and weeks, and even for the next year, as I marveled daily at being a mother and at being her mother, I learned her every utterance; from the high pitch hoots of a bowel movement to the rapid exhalations at the joy of awakening.  She would smile and laugh sooner than the experts say she should and burp the less than enjoyable fragrance of formula into my face, before resting her head back against my shoulder.  She would cry with a very distinctive L in her voice and looked baffled when her dad would startle her out of a tantrum with a simple puff her air to her round face.

Six years later, nothing has changed.  Her every shift and sigh gains my attention.  The yawn of the six year old is identical to the yawn of the newborn, despite the growth and changes in the years between.  She will still lean her head into your hand, if you gently caress her face, while she sleeps.  She still laughs when she farts; and I still stand over her and look closely at her body to insure that the involuntary rise and fall of her chest is unimpeded.

In my bedroom at night, I sometimes think I hear her; or when she is off at school, I expect to see her on the futon or think for sure that I heard her sigh; like I would hear her cry when she was a baby, just to inspect her bassinet and find her sound asleep.  I listen with a sense beyond simple hearing, seeding concern where there need not be any; stimulating that rational and irrational need to protect at all times, even when she is beyond my reach.

My daughter has brought change, but none greater than the ones that have occurred within me.  More than just my senses, I am stronger, sharper and more acute; growing with her, as she grows; becoming the best me I can be, so that I can help make her the best that she can be.