The TrueBlue Stages Of Not Dating PT 2

Don’t write that lonely, single girl crap. I hate that. Oh and Brad will love the piece if you make it funny.

-- Chty

Tessa looked at the clock. Four pm. "I guess I’ll just write something and hope that it can be carved into something better." She muttered to herself.

“So, why are you single?”

Everyone has heard that question at one time in their lives or another.

I want to ask, why?

Why do single people have to explain why they’re single if married people don’t have to explain why they’re married?

It’s such a common question. But a rude one that our society has accepted as okay.

No, No, NO! That is not funny. At all.

Tessa had been single for seven years. In 2019, it would be eight. After the first three to five years of explaining her single status it had become tiring. She noticed that after the first five years, people had started to wonder what was wrong with her because she had been single for so long. The questions became more frequent and more probing all of the time.

Her phone buzzed again.

One trick for writing a good humor piece is to write it like a monologue, like you’re speaking in a comedy club or telling a group of friends a funny story.

-- Chty

Tessa texted back a half-hearted: Thnx.

Tessa tried to picture herself in a comedy club. She’d never been to one so she decided to picture her cousin Samurai’s bar and grill. It was small and located in a remote village.
  Her cousin, Samurai, loved the family but he also believed that absence made the heart grow fonder. He also never played well with others.

Winters were long in the village. When the nights got too long people would hang out at Samurai’s. They would take turns standing in the center of the room and entertain each other. Tessa closed her eyes and pictured them in her mind. She remembered musicians, poets, jugglers, conjurers. There was a lady wearing unusually marked robes that called herself, “The Enchantress of Lost Species.” The lost species were always invisible. No one could see them but the enchantress herself.

A smile that began in Tessa’s eyes found its way to her lips and she began scribbling furiously. Within moments, she could see herself standing in the middle of Samurai’s bar.

She looks around the darkened room. She can make out shapes, figures. Not many faces, she had not been to Cousin Samurai’s since she was a young girl. “Hi. My name is Tessa. Tessa TrueBlue.”

Cousin Samurai grumbles from behind the bar. Apparently the TrueBlue legend has traveled to even the furthest reaches of her homeland. It was probably Samurai who had told them the tale. She ignores it and continues.

“How many of you here tonight are single?” Tessa looks around the room. About a third of them raise their hands. Most of them are ogres. Understandable. Ogres don’t generally play well with others either.

“Me too.” She smiles. “I have been single for about six years now.” Tessa focuses on a gentleman sitting close to the bar. “How long have you been single?” She asks. She puts a hand to her ear and pretends to strain to hear the answer. “Two years? Two months.”

The gentleman corrects her.

“Two weeks.” She nods. “Rookie.” She says with a grin. “Wait until you’ve been single for as long as I have.”

The gentleman nods, adjusting his cravat. She recognizes him as a member of the High Council. Tessa remembers a gentleman used to stop by Samurai’s regularly when traveling from home to the capital city, Kaleidoscope, he loved...the chili.

Tessa thought for a moment, looked at the audience, then turned back to the gentleman. “No, wait...I take it back. I don’t want you to be alone this long.”

She can hear “What’s so bad about it?” echo throughout the room. A member of the audience wants to know. She looks around the room to find the source of the question and sees an attractive woman sitting in the back. The gentleman turns to look at the woman and smiles. Good for him.

“Not too much is bad about it. Dealing with difficult stuff of life with no one to lean on (family is wonderful but  sometimes they're not the same) can be hard,  I get tired of deciding what to cook for dinner all of the time. When the long and cold winter nights start dragging on too long for too many weeks that’s a bear. Mostly...I’m okay with it. Then someone points it out to me and wants to talk about it. Someone always wants to talk about it don’t they?”

Some of the members of the audience nod in agreement.

“There is a process that one goes through during a long stretch of time alone. Tonight, I’m going to share it with all of you. People’s questions have changed the longer that I have been single.  Okay, I admit it, my answers have changed over the years too. Here it is. What I like to call, ‘The Stages of Not Dating’. These explanations for not dating work for varying periods of time depending on how many people you have asking you questions.

Stage 1: I Got Burned. My ex-really broke my heart.

That explanation can work for up to two years for some people. Sometimes it takes longer to get over these things.

Stage 2: I’m Taking Time Off From Dating To Get To Know Myself. 
If you’re lucky, most people don’t even notice that you never started dating again and don't stop to ask how you can need a break from something that you haven't actually been doing.

Getting to know yourself is a good thing. It can be a wonderful time. You will get to know yourself, really well. Unfortunately, you also get a freakishly clear picture of what you don’t want in a mate. You could find yourself seeing these faults in everyone who is attractive to you.

Stage 3: I’m Enjoying Living On My Own.

Enjoying life as a single person is a natural next step after getting to know yourself. There are many good aspects to living on your own. If you have a lot of close family and friends you could stay in stage three for an extended period of time.

But, even the happiest, most social person is going to run into that point where loved ones start to wonder about you. 
If you’re not the most social person, all too soon they begin to question how you can be having so much fun...alone. There seems to be some unwritten rule somewhere that a person is only allowed to have so much fun by themselves. I wish someone had told me that earlier.  I would have paced myself.

The TrueBlue Stages Of Not Dating PT 1

                                                      

         The Stages Of Not Dating And How To Explain It To Family And Friends

                                                        By

                                                Tessa TrueBlue

(Brad’s first note read) Title Too Long

When one has not dated for a while, parties and family gatherings can become quite uncomfortable. A regular day at the office can feel more like a dating site interview than a job.

(Brad’s other note stated) Story too detached. Make more personal.

Tessa looked at the lines running through her copy and sighed. She looked at the clock.

“He didn’t like it.” Tessa’s co-worker, Charity commented. “It’s nearly two. You’d better get cracking if you want to make tomorrow’s edition.”

“I wrote this piece the same way that I write everything. It’s my style.”

Charity shook her head. “Not this time lil’ sis.” Charity pointed to Brad’s comment. “Make it more personal.”

“Why would he hire me to work the city desk and then turn around and have me write a personal

interest piece?”

Jed, one of the sports reporters, heard her and stopped to put his two cents in. “Relax.” He said with a smile. “The boss is just testing you out, seeing how flexible you are. You know, finding out if he can count on you to fill in on a different story if there’s a gap, that sort of thing.” Jed continues his trek to the break room.

“Don’t worry Tessa. The boss has everyone do at least one piece like this.” Charity reassured Tessa. “It’s important that he get as much information as he can regarding the new people.”

Jed reemerged from the break room just in time to nod in agreement.

“Besides this article is a great way for him to decide what his chances are with you.”

Tessa’s mouth went dry and she paled.

Jed laughed and looked at Tessa. “Not true. She’s kidding. Charity says that to all the newbies.”

“Remember that guy last summer?” She asked Jed.

“He sat across from me.” Jed recounted. “He heard the same thing from someone. I don’t know who. The next day, Brad told him to go and cover the bridal show. I remember watching him sitting at his desk, he lowered his head. Then he muttered for a bit, quietly wrote “I quit” in his notebook, set his pen down on top of it, stood up, and walked out.”

“He never even called in for his paycheck did he?” Charity asked.

“I don’t believe that he did.”

“I have never even written a personal essay.” Tessa announced. “I don’t know if I can do this.” Tessa felt the silence spread. She knew instantly that she had done it again. She had shared too much. Been too honest. This is going to be like The Expulsion all over again, she thought.

Jed looked at Charity, mouthed the word ‘Oops’ and quietly returned to his seat.

“It’s not that bad really. I’ll help you. There are some great benefits to working here.” Charity says. “For instance, did you know that you can work from home?”

Tessa shook her head.

“You can. Your friend Charity is going to buy you some time. Watch and learn, that way you can help the next newbie.”

Tessa nodded.

Charity lifted her head and yelled across the newsroom. “Brad! Tessa’s got the black plague! She’s gonna work from home!”

“She looked okay this morning!” He yelled back.

“She came home from vacation right before she started here.”

“She didn’t leave the country did she?” He called.

Charity looked at Tessa.

“I went home to see my folks.”

“Where are you from?” Charity asked.

Tessa paled and chose ambiguity, knowing that she could not begin to explain her homeland to any full blooded human. “Not from around here.”

“Why does anyone take a vacation? So they can leave the country!” Charity nudged her with an elbow. “Cough” she mouthed.

Tessa coughed.

“More, harder.”

Tessa coughed more, her face reddened at the effort.

“Yeah. Okay. Send her home.” Brad yelled. “Make sure she has the link to upload her story when it’s done.”

“Okay.”

Charity looked back at Tessa. “Okay you’re out of here until tomorrow. Pack up the laptop, go home, get comfortable, and put in your two cents about being a single lady in 2018. It needs to be uploaded by one a.m. and that’s a ‘my internet went down and there was a city wide black out excuse,’ keep in mind that people will look at you with disapproval until someone else screws up if you do get your story in that late.” Charity grabbed a sheet off of Tessa’s notepad and scribbled the needed link down. “If you aren’t uploaded by 11 pm call me. I’ll make sure you get the story in on time. Give me your phone.” She tapped quickly on the keys. “I’m listed in your phone. Now go.”

Tessa nodded. “Thank you.” She said as she left the newsroom, attempting to look appropriately unhealthy. She coughed a couple more times on her way out the door.

“Isn’t she out of here yet?” Brad called. “Someone get that desk disinfected. Now!”

Tessa sat down on the couch with her laptop after a quick shower. She looked at the screen. The cursor blinked on and off, encouraging her, urging her forward into her article. Eventually, taunting her.

Maybe I’ll do some stream of consciousness brainstorming to start.

Single

Not married

Not dating

Alone

Tired

Happy

Only watching movies that you want to on a Friday night

No one to argue with

No one to listen to

No one to snuggle

No one to cuddle on cold nights

No dirty stuff laying around everywhere

No one to cook for

No one to be nice to

No one to love

Her phone buzzed as she wrote. It was from Charity.

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 8

When I began writing this story, I thought that I knew what the end of it would look like. Writers always do. We all think that we are the captain of our ships. Mighty creators. Not usually.

Usually we are the pale, tired, slobs that get to run around behind those characters and write down what they do.

As it turns out, Vin had her own story to tell and Earnest who was supposed to have the equivalent of a walk-on in a film kept popping up. I would say like a bad penny but Earnest is not a bad penny. He never has been one so saying that would not only be untrue but be decidedly unladylike. Mom really emphasized the being a lady thing and the independence thing and the encouragement of intellectual thought thing. We didn’t talk about run on sentences enough apparently or it never sunk in. Take your pick.

At the end of the day, this was Vin’s story and I was just the pale slob following her. She is a character that I cannot ever imagine forgetting. I wish her and Earnest all the best. They deserve it.

--Most Sincerely HR Apostos

                                         For Vin and Earnest

“It sounds like a warning.”

“It does.” Hardy responds without looking up from his book.

“When did I write it?”

“Last week. Your husband had died, you were having a bad day.”

“I had a husband?” I ask.

“You did.”
 I study the antique clock that sits on the desk for a moment. “How old was I?”

“When?”

“When I wrote this?”

“I’m not the best judge of a woman’s age.”

I stare at Hardy until he looks up from his book.

“You are a handsome woman in your golden years. Cranky at times, but quite handsome.”

I look around. “Time isn’t continuous here?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“That makes two of us.”

“You’ll have to use it in a story some day that way you can figure it out.” He says with a grin.

“What do I do now that I’ve seen the warning?” I ask.

“Whatever you like. It is all in your head, my dear.”

“That isn’t the most helpful answer.”

“I know.” Hardy admits and returns to his novel.

“What happens if I heed my warning?” I ask. “To my body? To my stuff?”

“I should think that someone will find you. You will be taken where you can be cared for.” Hardy suggests.

“I’ll be put away.” I have a strong urge to push myself out of the chair and run through the door as fast as my legs will carry me. That would be an immediate response. An emotional one. My warning was so...I sit back in the chair and think, swiveling back and forth. Back and forth.

After several minutes Hardy looks up from his book, “Are you staying?” He asks.

“No.”

“Are you going?”

“No.”

He looks at me. I can tell that he doesn’t quite know how to respond to my ambiguity.

“Annoying, isn’t it?” I ask.

“It is.” He admits with a smile.

After I pass several minutes in my anxiety and on the fringes of borderline panic, he speaks. “You know Vin, every point of view has at least one, if not several other angles.”

“Because any one life can take several different paths.” I continue. “I take it we’re talking destiny as opposed to free will?”

“It is true,” Hardy says, “that there are many ways to look at the path that one’s future can take...and the free will thing.”

“So the Vin that wrote this may not be the Vin that I become?”

As usual Hardy does not give me a definitive answer. “It will be a culmination of your choices that will lead you to your future.”

“There are no guarantees?”

“Very good.” He says.

I watch the fire for a bit. “Hardy...did I leave any others?”

He looks up from Don Quixote.

“Notes? In this room?”

“This is your room. Only you would know my dear.”

I begin searching the desk for more notes. Another clue. Another bread crumb something that will help propel me forward, back to Earnest, the gazebo, the difficult changes that lay before me.

“Nothing?” Hardy asks after I make disagreeable noises. As well as muttering, opening, and closing drawers. I check the clocks, a box on the fireplace mantel, the piled up newspapers from years past. There is only one place left to look. The bookshelf.

“A daunting task.” Hardy says from his seat.

I turn and look at him. “Unless there’s something else that I don’t know I’ve got nothing but time.” I return to the books and the hunt for a glimmer of hope among the stacks. “Washington, Wells, Wilde.” My finger slows at Oscar Wilde. There’s something here...then I see it. The Importance of Being Ernest. “Does Earnest have anything to do with this?” I call behind me.

“I cannot divulge the future.”

“Don’t tell me there are inter-dimensional rules or something.”

“No, you made me promise not to.” He says with a chuckle. “Besides it’s fun watching you look.”

I glare at Hardy.

“I made a promise.” He says.

I continue glaring. He returns to his book.

“If you wanted to know these things you wouldn’t have made me promise.”

“What about free will?”

“This is your journey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

Deciding against checking The Importance of Being Ernest, I run my fingers along the top of each page feeling for an irregularity, before I move on. About twenty pages before the back cover, I feel something. It’s thicker than the rest of the surface, stiffer too. My hand stops moving and I lift the book from its place on the shelf. There it is. An old note card with a picture of Earnest Hemingway on it. There’s a quote that reads, “Why, darling, I don't live at all when I'm not with you.” – A Farewell To Arms. I turn it over. A note is written on the back:

Yes, a life of chasing material possessions, living for accomplishments, waiting for things or people that never come will ruin your life because needing that next thing to complete your life becomes a way of life. You break your own heart over and over again. Not all of reality is bad. - – Lve Earnest P.S. I’ll be right back.

I return to the fireside and the leather chairs with the card in my hand. “It’s Earnest.” I say handing the note card to Hardy.

“Well what do you know?” He says with a smile. “How about that.”

“You knew the whole time.”

“If I gave you the answer that wouldn’t have been much fun.” He says.

“Why does he keep disappearing?” I ask.

“You’re never going to find out hanging around here.”

I smile and head for the doorway. I see the desk. The parchment sitting on the desk. The warning note. I stop and look at Hardy. “I’m going to lose him aren’t I?”

“You might.”

I try to toss the feeling away but I can’t seem to take the next step.

“Don’t.” Hardy says. “Don’t give up a lifetime of good times to avoid a single bad one. You will never forgive yourself.”

“You’ve seen what happens if I stay.”

“I’ve been here for a while my dear. This future that you’re headed for...it’s my favorite.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I look at Hardy. “This had better be a good one.”

“It is my dear. It is.”

“Here goes nothing.” I exit the room and open my eyes to find Earnest staring at me. His face is pale.

“Vin?”

It takes me a minute to find my voice, “Yeah.”

“You’re back?”

“I’m back.”

Earnest smiles.

Sirens are going off in the distance. “What’s that sound?” I ask.

“An ambulance. Your roommate Kelly called a couple of minutes ago. She freaked out when I told her why you weren’t answering your own phone.”

“She called an ambulance?”

“I’m surprised she didn’t call a S.W.A.T. team.”

I look around.

“Tulio should be here any second to kill me.”

I smile.

“Tulio wouldn’t harm a fly. He might muss your hair while trying to kick your ass but only because Kelly would kick his ass if he didn’t at least rough you up a little bit.”

“Oh. That’s good to know.”

“You were gone a long time.” Earnest says. “What brought you back?”

“You. I found a note in the room from you.”

“From me?”

I recited the note to him.

“I began talking to you when I started to get worried. Those were almost my exact words.”

“It helped. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Voices are coming closer to the gazebo at an alarming rate. Earnest and I both watch as ambulance attendants and a stretcher race towards us.

“Shall we let these gentlemen know that you’re okay?” He asks.

“Yes. Let’s do that.”

“I hope that you have a good story for them.” Earnest says.

“I don’t know what to tell them. I’ve been a little bit busy. You’re the mysterious stranger shouldn’t you be able to come up with something quickly?”

“You’re the writer.”

I look at Earnest. “Mysterious stranger.”

“Not a Spaniard.” He counters.

“Are you going to use that excuse for everything?”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 7

“Because you are a person or something? Free will and all of that?”

“I’ve been dead for about twenty-five years and...the free will thing.”

“You’re a ghost?”

“I’m a memory. Your memory. I was a colleague of your father’s when you were just a little thing. Four, I think.”

I study his face and try to remember.

“It’s no use my dear. You were four.”

“Why do I think of you warmly?”

“I always wanted kids of my own— I never saw you or any of your siblings without gifts in hand. I needed you all to like me because I wanted to feel confident that I would be a good father some day. Being the youngest, you were my favorite. I am a little bit ashamed to admit that your gifts were just a little bit nicer than those of your siblings.”

A silence falls between us.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“I have another question. What about the others?”

“The others?”

“The men in my stories.”

He...Hardy, for some reason I want to call him Hardy. Is it Hardy or Harvey? No...it’s Hardy.

“I would think that they might be variations of one man.”

“The man of my dreams?”

“The type of man that you think might be the one for you. You’re...figuring things out.”

“They’re all so different.”

“Are you sure?Think about your romantic male characters. Is it possible that you write different backgrounds for them, give them different careers, interests, likes and dislikes but at their core they are all essentially the same man.  They’re all kind, they care for others, and have a great capacity for love.”

“You’re suggesting that my characters are my dream man but since I don’t know the specifics the surface details vary?”

“Something like that.”

"Why?"

“Panic, fear, impatience. You have been working very hard to get it all ‘right’.”

“I have. I never seem to.”

“You will.”

Hardy. I’ve decided to call him Hardy, looks down at the volume that lays across his lap.

“It appears that I have finished with this one.” He says as he closes the book and holds it up.
I can see the spine of it from where I am sitting.
“Many thanks to you Lord Byron.” Hardy says to the book. He looks back at me. “I think I’ll go with an adventure this time. I’ve always enjoyed a good adventure.” Hardy rises from the chair to replace Lord Byron and choose his next bit of company. He stops next to the chair that I am sitting in and says gently. “Do not cry my dear, you’re doing the hard work.”

I look up at Hardy and wipe a renegade tear from my face.

“What did your father always say about the hard work?”

“That the hard work is what gets the best results.” I answer, my voice cracks a bit. “Any more advice?”

His mouth turns up with a gentle smile. "Give your love to the man who will care for your heart like the treasure that it is my dear because you have a beautiful one." He gets a wistful look, the kind smile returns, "You know my mother used to say that men are a little bit like cats. You can call, cajole, cry, and offer goodies all day long, but a man will not show himself until he decides that he wants to be seen, and not a second sooner. There is nothing that you can do to change that.”

Unsure how to respond, I raise an eyebrow.

“She had cats for my entire life. A gentleman friend or two too. The woman would know.” Hardy continues his walk to the bookshelves.

“Is that it?” I ask as Hardy peruses the shelves.

“Is that what?”

“Are we done here?”

“That would be up to you.”

I sit back in the chair and watch the fire for a few minutes.

“Eureka.” He calls.

I turn in my chair and watch as Hardy retrieves his treasure from the its resting place. He holds up the leather bound volume.

“Don Quixote.” He announces. “A wonderful book. A bit difficult to get into at first, but definitely worth the time.” Hardy practically skips back to his chair and settles in.

“Have you read it?” He asks.

I shake my head.

“Please try to make time to my dear. You won’t regret it.”

Standing up, I walk around taking in everything. One long last look before I have to go.

“It was nice to see you again my dear.” Hardy says. “I hope that you come back some time soon.”

“Thank you.” I respond as I begin to walk past the wooden desk that sits directly opposite the fireplace and affords a view of whomever sits in the reading chairs. I see something and stop. The gargantuan desk itself is quite ugly but what is sitting on it, calls to me.

The first thing that I spot are the books. A stack of my favorites. Some copies are very old. An old dance card still lays between the pages of Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I assume it is a leftover favor from a young lady’s party as Mr. Darcy’s name is written in for every other dance. A copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte lays in the center. A battered copy of The Maltese Falcon by Dashiell Hammett is at the top of the stack.

 Then I spot the writing implement. “A fountain pen.” I whisper. I sit down on the chair behind the desk and grab it up like a greedy toddler. A fountain pen is something that I have always wanted and dream or not I am finally going to get to use one. Without thinking, I put the point of the pen to the thick piece of parchment on the desk in front of me and prepare to write. The surface has already been used.

                                                                             Never Choose Reality

You will waste your life fighting battles that can never be won.

Against demons that never take physical shape.

Eventually disease of the body, spirit, or the mind takes over and you will die alone.

Never finding the happiness that you have been seeking.

It was signed “Vin.”

I look at Hardy. “I wrote this?” I ask.

“You did.”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 6

...will give life to my insanity. It will confirm everything. Or it will scare him away. On the other hand, I can’t sit in this gazebo forever.

I close my eyes and see the library with the French doors leading to the sunny garden just beyond. I watch the fire burning in the fireplace. If I concentrate, I can smell the burning wood, the brewed coffee on the side table, the food. Most clearly, I can see him. I watch in amazement as he looks for me, sees me standing in the entry, and smiles. Taking an unexplainable leap of faith, I close my eyes and describe it all to Earnest.

“That’s good.” Earnest says. “Why are you standing in the entry?”

“I’m always standing in the entry. I never go inside completely.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s not real.”

“How do you know that it’s not real if you never go inside the room?”

“It's beginning to sound like we’re both a little bit off our rockers.”

Earnest smiles.

“I’m not crazy and you’re not either.” He says. “Have you ever wondered why you went to all of this trouble to create this room?” He asks. “Maybe you stored something important in there.”

“What?”

“Your deepest, most secret dream for the future, your purpose, a piece of you that you’ve never let anyone else see. Something important that you want to keep safe. You’ll never find out if you don’t go inside the room.”

“What if I go in and can’t get back out?”

“You’ll always be able to come back out as long as you remember that anything that’s stopping you from leaving is all in your head. I’ll be with you the whole time.” Earnest reassures me. He thinks that he’s reassuring me at any rate.

“How many organs will you be harvesting while you wait?” I ask.

“Do I look like the kind of man who would harvest your organs?”

“No. You look friendly. Serial killers are usually those friendly, quiet men that help out with community events. The ones that no one ever has anything bad to say about and then one day...poof! Twenty bodies are discovered in their basement. What do the neighbors all say? ‘He was such a nice guy. Always kept his trash cans put away.’ You disappear without warning and reappear without explanation. It doesn’t exactly scream boy scout.”

“Close your eyes.” He repeats. “Turn it off. Turn everything off that’s going on inside of your head.”

As I’ve said before this is not a typical day and at this point I’m willing to try anything. I close my eyes. If something does go wrong, I hope that whatever happens to me is quick and that the police find my body right away so Kelly has some sort of closure.

“Turn it all off.” He says again. “The random thoughts, the insecurities, the criticisms. Turn every last bit of it off.” Earnest says. “Have you turned it off?”

“Yes. Most of it.”

“Okay. Now I want you to picture that room.”

I’m still conscious, I don’t feel myself bleeding. Good. I decide that Earnest might be trying to help.

“Where are you?” He asks.

“Standing in the entry, as always.”

“Go inside.”

“What if I can’t come back out?”

“You said that it isn’t real. If it isn’t real then you can’t get stuck inside, can you?”

“Don’t crazy people get lost in their minds all the time?” I ask.

“There’s a difference. Crazy people don’t wonder if they’re crazy. You do. You’re practically obsessing about it. You aren’t crazy. Now go into the room.”

I slowly slide one foot over the threshold.

“Keep going.”

“How far?”

“Far enough that the man sees you.”

“Where are you going with this?” I ask.

“Just do it.”

I stop sliding my feet and step inside. Looking around the room, I don’t see the handsome stranger immediately. Then something moves along my peripheral vision. I turn towards it and see a foot. He must be sitting in a reading chair.

Two deep brown leather wing back chairs sit next to the fireplace.

“Feel free to come closer, it’s your dream after all.” A voice says. It’s gentle, yet deep.

I feel comforted when I hear it. I follow the voice to the handsome man in my dream, sitting in the chair. He is tall, on the thin side, with fair hair and blue eyes.

“So tell me, what have you been up to since we last met my dear.”

I sit down in the matching chair that faces him and calmly tell him everything.

"Earnest, the name of a serious soul." He says.

"Earnest says that I have something important stored in this room and that I should come in even though it's not real."

"What do you think?" He asks.

"I don't know whether it's safe to trust the man."

"You can always trust a man named Earnest to be serious, steadfast, and honest with his pursuits."

"So he's not a serial killer or anything?" I ask.

"I didn't say that. But if a man named Earnest means to do you harm, you can be sure that he will tell you up front. Did he?"

"Did he what?"

"Indicate that he means to do you harm."

"He insists that he wants to help."

"Then he must be helping my dear."

“He’s not. Earnest can’t be helping as long as he encourages me to return here. To return to my dreams.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I have to stop dreaming. I spend too much time in my dreams. They’re not real. They’re never going to be real.”

The man looks at me with a thoughtful expression. “No, not entirely.” He admits.

A sound of disapproval crosses my lips. “That’s not the most helpful answer.”

“You wanted me to tell you that you’re wrong to dream. I can’t do that. I won’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because you can make it real.”

I look at him.

“Before we get into that, think about this, if you don’t dream what will you write about? Maybe you have these dreams for a reason. To tell stories.”

I begin to argue.

“I’m not finished yet. What about this room, this house? If you always dream of this house and really want one like it, look for a house like this one, when you find it buy it, rent it, lease it...heck build one like it and move in. Put a desk over there,” he says as he makes a gesture with his head. “Put a side table along the entry wall, put two chairs like these in front of a fireplace, plant a garden outside just beyond a pair of French doors. Voila, the dream is real.”

“That would take a long time.” I point out.

“Making dreams come true takes a long time. It’s a lot of work.”

“What about you? You’re in my dreams.”

“I can’t be a part of your reality.”

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 5

As we begin walking Earnest’s phone begins to ring. He looks at the display.

“I have to take this. I’ll catch up with you?” He asks.

I nod and with a turn begin walking away. Slowly, but not so slowly that I can overhear. I am not sure if it is out of a need to be polite or because Earnest is a hallucination and I don’t want to add any more details to the mess that has emerged so far. The less that I know at this moment will make things easier later. You know, when I’m in the nut house and they're deciding on treatment, not hearing his conversation may save me from electric shock therapy or something worse. Can it get worse than electric shock therapy?
  I walk at my chosen pace and find calming thoughts. When I hear his footsteps come up behind me and feel him come into step at my side I start asking questions. “So what is it that you do for a living?”

“What does it look like I do for a living?” An irritated voice asks.

I turn and find myself looking at the groundskeeper. He’s not happy.

“Where did he go?”

“Where’d who go?” He asks.

“I’m sorry. I thought that you were someone else.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” He grumbles and continues his way down the walk, collecting discarded bottles, containers, juice boxes, and empty potato chip bags.

I turn and look back at the bench Earnest was headed to when he left me. No one is there. I make a slow 360 turn, studying my surroundings. He’s gone again. Panic pushes at my insides. Fight it...fight it. Whatever this is...fight it!

Deciding that I’m stronger than whatever is happening, I continue on as originally planned. This time opting to enjoy the park instead of going to the art museum. I walk around for a bit until I spot the gazebo. A large white gazebo sits alone on a peninsula in the center of the park’s lake. No one appears to be sitting in it. I walk out on to the path leading to it and study the lake. There are couple of kids on paddle boats, no one seems interested in the beautiful gazebo. I decide to claim it for my own if only for a time. I have an urge to run to it, secretly wishing that I had the supplies necessary to lock myself in, indefinitely. Into peace, solitude, and safety. I settle for a seat that affords me views of the park, the lake, as well as the gazebo’s entry, and a long meditation.

“Are you ready to trust me?” Earnest asks.

I open one eye. Earnest is sitting next to me and looking at me intently. He’s studying me. My eyes, my face, the angle of my head, my body language.

“And I should trust you, based on what?”

“I’m not a Spaniard.” One corner of his mouth raises in a grin.

I do not smile back.

“I’m not the Spaniard in your story.” He corrects.

“That is still a weak argument for trusting you. What is it that you do? For a living? The thing that makes you disappear for random bits of time without explanation?” I ask.

Earnest’s eyes change. I feel like I’m watching a wall go up.

“That’s classified.” He says.

“As in what?”

“That’s classified.”

“Why are you following me? Why is it so important that I accept that you exist?”

He looks away and studies the lake in front of us. His eyes return to mine before he answers.

“Let’s just say that it's important to me that you know that you’re okay.”

“Why?”

“Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”

“Once or twice.” I answer, attempting a sly grin.

My lack of control over my facial expressions must not have changed because Earnest smiles. It's a lovely one. I use the lull in the conversation to calmly communicate what's most important at this moment.

“You need to go Earnest. I need you to go.”

He looks at me. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.” I say looking at the floor.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes. I do.”

“Why?”

I look at him. “You aren’t real. I need you to leave so that I can accept that you aren’t real.”

“I am real.” Earnest says. He smiles reassuringly.

“You’re a hallucination, an eerily good hallucination, but still, a hallucination. I need to challenge the hallucination. I can’t do that until you leave.”

He reaches out, takes my hand, and places it to his chest. “I’m real.”

“No.”

“You can feel my heart beat. How can I not be real to you?”

“I have never hallucinated before. There could be tactile aspects to a hallucination. I don’t know.” On the other hand, his heart is beating at an alarming rate. “Have you been...running?”

There is no response.

It is my turn to raise a wall. “It’s time for you to go. It was nice meeting you Earnest.”

“No.” Earnest says. “I’m not going. I agree that you believe something that’s not true. I agree that you need to challenge it. The idea that you’re hallucinating is what’s not true. Challenge the hallucination, accept that I’m real.”

I shake my head.

“Vin. Listen to me, if I go, no matter how the rest of your life continues, you’ll always worry, something inside of you will always be a little bit less than sure of whether something is real or not. You’ll always be questioning. You need to accept that I’m real. That others see me as real. It’s the only way to get through this. It’s the only way to move forward.”

I find myself unsure of what to do. This could be a moment to call for help and be in and out of therapy for the rest of my life or a chance to change things. Do I trust him?

“Let me in a little bit Vin. Let go of the burden that you’re carrying. Tell me about your world. The one in your dreams.”

I want to let go of it. It’s difficult. I feel as if I’m adrift. I have crafted a beautiful dream world. The ultimate fantasy, but to describe it to someone...

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 4

After a few moments, I feel like I can breathe a little better. I look around. People are still smiling and walking around me. No one is showing concern. I must be hiding things well. I need to get out of the way, find a quiet place. There’s a park close by. Where? I join the rest of the foot traffic and head east. I walk two...no three blocks. I turn to the left and find the open space of the park and notice a narrow trail on the far side of the parking lot. I take it. A pair of kids ride up the trail on their bikes in front of me. I follow quickly hoping to find a secluded spot and end up on the outer fringe of a rose garden. This must be part of the museum grounds. There’s a stand of shade trees and a bench at the garden’s entrance. The bench is empty until I claim it.

As I sit down, the panic that I have been holding back pushes forward. The waitress’ words echo in my mind, “He left. Ten minutes ago.” Oh my god, I was talking to someone who wasn’t there. What do I do now? I let go of the thought as quickly as I can and substitute it. I settle on. It’s never happened before. It’s never happened before. It’ll be okay.

Eventually, I shorten it and ‘it’ll be okay’ is the phrase that I hold on to. I start to go home with a plan to lock myself in the apartment with Don Quixote and concentrate on not having a full blown melt down. I stop myself in the middle of the park. Isn’t there this thing about challenging things that you believe to be true? At the moment, I believe that for some crazy reason I spoke to someone that wasn’t there. How do I challenge that belief? By proving that Not-Necessarily Mean Man is real. I shake my head. There’s no way that he’s real...why? It reads too much like my story notes. Hiding really won’t help. I decide to continue my outing and put my mind to work on the problem. That will give it something else to do besides panic. I turn around and retrace my steps, walking through the rose garden and around to the front of the art museum.

Not-Necessarily Mean Man stops me just outside the door.

“Where did you come from?” I ask

“Where did you go?” He asks.

“The waitress said that you left ten minutes ago. I went to look for you outside and you had disappeared. I’m fighting off a panic attack right now. If you don’t mind.” I say gesturing towards the door.

“Don’t go in. Please.”

I look at him. Normally, I would have ignored him but today...“What do I get?”

“A piece of candy.” He says with a grin.

I glare and reach for the door.

“Oops. Not funny.” He says and reaches out to stop me. “Sorry. I am sorry about everything. Will you please talk to me? I’m Earnest, by the way.” He smiles.

It is a charming smile. Disarming to many I’m sure. I am not one of the many. “Earnest..like anyone names their kid that anymore.”

“It is my name.” He says. “I can offer you another if you’d like.”

I think for a minute, wondering whether I should believe him. Who goes around offering other names, hookers? Maybe. But on the other hand, who would admit to having a name like Earnest if it wasn’t really their name? Against my better judgment, I let Earnest lead me to a nearby tree with a bench under it, explaining his lack of physical existence to him all the while.

“I am a real person.” He says.

“If you’re a real person, explain this.” I order, handing Earnest my notebook.

“If I wasn’t a real person could I be doing this?” He asks as he sits down and flips through the notebook’s pages.

“Probably not, but on the other hand, I do have a vivid imagination.”

Earnest looks at me. “Where is it?” He asks.

“At the front. You have to go back to the front.”

“It just says, ‘Vin’.”

I sigh. Explaining my insanity is becoming frustrating. “The page before that one.”

He turns another page. “This one? With all the writing on it?”

I give him my ‘duh’ look.

“From the top?” He asks.

I nod.

“Okay, from the top.”

He reads without making a sound. “Very interesting. This is almost our exact conversation.” Earnest looks at me. “How do I know that you didn’t write this after our conversation in the diner?”

“Let me think about that, write it after, claim that I wrote it beforehand, and then freak out? Why would anyone do that?”

“Attention?”

“Getting carted off to some hospital while half the city watches is not the kind of attention that I would want. Under any circumstances.”

“Nor I.” He says as he looks at my story.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“The difference between your story and reality. Something that proves to you that I really do exist. Ah! Here it is. The handsome stranger in your story is described as a Spaniard. I’m not a Spaniard.”

I lean in close and read over his shoulder, “What else?”

Earnest offers no other supporting evidence of my sanity.

“That’s it?” ‘I’m not a Spaniard’ is your entire argument?”

“It’s what I have for you.”

A feeling rolls through my stomach, one of pure fear. My hands begin to shake.

“Whoa. Whoa.” Earnest says when he notices my response. “Wait a second. That’s not everything. There’s something that I want to tell you.” He gestures towards the trail in front of us. “Shall we walk?”

The Eleventh Hour

There’s a famous quote about writing: Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed. 

   Last night upon arriving home from work, I counted the days before my next blog post and I realized that the two weeks that I had so looked forward to in which I planned on finishing “Untitled” had quickly evaporated. It was time to push that puppy out and my project was due tomorrow. I put on my work clothes and angrily proceeded to mow my yard. It was hot but the heat index was predicted to shoot up dangerously high on Saturday and I wanted to see the work done before then. As I said. I angrily mowed my entire yard. Taking stock of everything that put me in this position, after five minutes, yep the storms are big but they tend to be short these days, I began to look at what was really keeping progress from being made. I was blocked. Yes, blocks do exist. Not in the way most people imagine. But I am one of the writers that knows first hand that writer’s block does exist. 

   Why do I normally become blocked? I usually become blocked for one of two reasons. 1. I don’t have the story fleshed out in my mind enough. 2. Emotional block. The cure for the first block is fairly simple. When the mind is thinking, put it to the story. Flesh it out. The second cure is difficult but easier than one might think. Find the emotion(s) causing the blockage and release them. 

   It did not take long to identify my offenders. During the last several weeks I have been working on some personal things. Trying to make changes, be a better me, live a happier life. All that happy crap. Sorry I had to throw that in. It’s negative, but I love that expression which might be part of my problem. Any who, I opened up some deep vulnerabilities hoping for a change that did not come about. A couple of days ago I decided to tuck a few things back in, temporarily at least. The problem is that some of the emotions that helped me to craft and propel the story are intertwined with the vulnerabilities. Oops. You see the problem. How do I change it? 

   I came up with a solution. It was a messy one but I was pressed for time. I let myself open up a vein and bleed. I usually keep that crap in the house. I was tired and frustrated. I was already sweating anyway. I let her rip. I cried all over the damn yard. As I mowed, I have a push mower just so you know by the way, the sweat from my head diluted the tears that fell allowing a stream of consciousness to come forth. That and one really bad poem.

  With the vulnerabilities out there again, I am feeling better and I can focus on what I want to say. There were already notes before eight o’clock this morning. I don’t know if I will get to the end by nine o’clock tonight, but I will work for as long as I am able. As my mother always says, “We’ll see what we get.”

     May your day be sunny, your temperatures mild, your journey easy.

--Respectfully Yours,

   HR Apostos

   A Writer Lady, Teller of Tall Tales, Weirdo

Unexpected Gifts

I woke up to one of the greatest gifts that I could have hoped for this morning. I am not sure how to describe it. About six years ago, I decided that I got so much enjoyment out of writing that I wanted to make a conscious effort to hone my skills. I wanted to treat it like a second job. I wanted to do the work and find a way to make my way in this world as a writer.

I cut back on the baking, I put away the quilting, I put less thought to fun activities and focused as much of my life as possible to telling good stories.

I also set up a five year plan. A plan to be supporting myself with my writing at the end of five years. Five years came and went. The ultimate goal had not been reached. I kept at it. I decided that if I dedicated myself more fully to the work things would happen for me as I had planned. I started thinking about changes. Am I doing too much of what everyone else is doing? Is it just the wrong time? Am I just not very good at this? Going into year six, I found myself at a crossroads.

I have been standing at that crossroads questioning everything. From approach and Internet accessibility and geography, to officially choosing my audience and actively pursuing them.

I have put in the time, the hours, the work, began learning marketing, cover art, and other essentials. I have even delved into the world of YouTube. I have had lots of fun with all of it but still, as my sister Vonda loves to say, no joy. How could something that is giving me new skills, helping me to grow as a person, and generally makes my life fun and meaningful not be my purpose? How can I not be reaching the goal completely? What am I doing wrong? What is wrong with me?

This morning, I realized the most important thing. I am still here.

It is something that I ran across while grieving the death of my late husband, Sam.

The concept is that you accept that one of the worst things that you can imagine has happened to you. You also recognize this one thing. I am still here. This morning I was able to do that.

I worked out a specific plan for my future that did not work out. I am still here. All of the hours, the weekends and vacations spent writing. I am still here. Lightning has not struck me down because the pursued success was not achieved within the preset time line. I did not wake up one day with a second head. I am not a pariah of society because the first plan failed. It was just the first plan.

I looked at what these last 66 months have gotten me. Over 200 posts on my fiction blog, two novels, the beginnings of two screenplays, and ideas for two more novels. Two novellas as well as all of the lovely other bits and bobs that have popped up randomly over the years. I have never been without something to do on a Saturday night, my clothes are always comfortable, and shaving my legs is my option. The venue is also always my option. I never have to argue with someone over what music I decide to play. I have laughed and cried a couple of times. I get a sense of accomplishment and I know that something solid will still exist long after I am gone.

If the writing is the potatoes and the plan for being successful is the gravy...I may not have gravy, but I do have one helluva pile of potatoes. Gravy is nice but you don’t have to have gravy to enjoy a good batch of mashed potatoes. Good cooks know that.

Do I have a second plan? I am glad that you asked that. I do. The second plan is to call over one of the flying bubbles that is so common in Faerie and let it guide the way. Flying by the seat of my pants has been working so far with the fiction, why not let it help me in other areas as well? Things may not work out but at least I get to see more of Faerie this way. I know that there will always be potatoes waiting for me. There is nothing like a good batch of potatoes.

Today I would like to raise my fork in acknowledgement of everyone with naked potatoes. We’re still here.

VIN (a.k.a. "Untitled") PT 3

“Vin. Is that short for Vincentia?”

“No.” I answer. “Vema.” I look down at the table.

“Vema? I don’t think that I’ve heard that name before.”

“It means, ‘goddess of sex.' Hopefully there aren’t too many people out there lined up to name their daughters Vema. Which would be why you've never heard it before."

“Where does the ‘Vin’ come from?”

I could say something rude. It really is none of his business. Today things are not what they usually are. I decide to answer, honestly. “When I was in high school I had trouble telling the difference between the brake and the accelerator. There were a couple of really wild rides during Driver’s Education. The Fast and the Furious had just come out.”

“Vin...as in Vin Diesel.” He says aloud, trying out my explanation. “Interesting.” 

Not-Necessarily Mean Man shifts from foot to foot. I can’t help but wonder if he was on his way to the restroom when he stopped at my booth.

“We’ve had a nice exchange of words here. It would be customary for you to invite me to sit down.” He says.

Really? “Or you could ask permission to sit down.”

“Not a people person?” He asks.

I could take his cue, apologize, and ask him to sit down. But, he did invade my space by looking over my shoulder uninvited.

“I didn’t say that I’m not a people person.” I answer. “I’m...choosy.”

“Choosy?”

“Yes.”

“So when you see someone that you want to befriend you reach right out and start talking to them?”

“Yes...no.”

“So you don’t get out much which makes you not a people person.” He concludes.

I could lie about such matters. I am tempted to lie about my social life several times a day. I don’t. “Growing up was unique in my family. As a child, I recognized the need to learn how to be alone for several hours at a time. So I learned how to be alone. And be okay with it. Even happy.”

“Doesn’t it feel empty to spend so much time alone?” He asks.

“Yes and no.” Not-Necessarily Mean Man is quickly becoming Nosy Man.

“My life doesn’t look like everyone else’s does but it works for me, much of the time.”

“If you don’t spend time with other people, doesn’t that go against nature? Human beings are a social species. It’s why we live in communities.”

Nosy Man. He has definitely become NOSY MAN. I think about his comments and decide to hit him from the other side of his own argument. “Let me ask you this. If I spend my afternoon today at home in my apartment with a cup of tea, and a book and you spend the afternoon in a coffee house surrounded by people but you spend the whole time with your face to your phone...what’s the difference?”

He doesn’t stop to think before answering, “I’m with other people.” He says.

“You aren’t talking to them. You aren’t interacting with them directly.”

“I have the option to interact.”

“True.”

“You don’t.” He counters.

“I still do. Granted, I do have to gather my things, lock the apartment, and take a walk to get to a place with people that I can interact with. But it is only a brief walk.” I ask again. “How much of a difference is there, really?”

He didn’t have a quick comeback for the question.

“Let me ask you something else. Do you know how to be alone and be comfortable with it? Do you know how long you can be alone without any human interaction whatsoever before it has a direct effect on you?”

“No.” He answers.

“I do.”

“Does that make you better than me?” He asks.

“Not better, just different.” I counter without looking up. Part of me is hoping that the conversation is over, another much smaller part of me is alert and enjoying the exchange of ideas. I wait for Nosy Man to say something else. I decide that if this stranger had been dangerous the waitress or the kid would have given off some physical cues or he would have stabbed me by now. Plucking up some courage, I ask. “Would you like to sit down?” I look up to find the waitress smiling at me.

She refills my coffee cup as she answers. “That’s real sweet of you but I get done here in about five minutes and Timmy has been waiting for me for the last two hours. I’m not sure that he can take much more of this.

“Timmy?”

“Timmy. My son.” She gestures to the boy sitting at the counter with a nod of her head.

“Where’d he go?” I ask.

“Where’d who go?” The waitress repeats loud enough for the firefighters down the block to hear.

I compensate for this by lowering my voice further, hoping the cue that this is a private conversation will be picked up. “The man that you were talking to? You and your son?”

“Oh him. He is the nicest man. Kind of handsome too. Why? You interested?” She asks.

I shake my head. This is not going well. “I just want to know if you know where he went.”

“He left...about ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you.” I answer meekly. I don’t move. My hand starts to shake, I leave it in my lap. I don’t want the waitress to see it.

“Are you okay?” She asks. “You’re getting a little pale.”

“No. I’m okay.” I offer up a less than convincing smile.

“You didn’t eat the ham did you? They always keep the ham longer than they should.”

I shake my head. “There was a death in the family." The story doesn't fit the situation at all but it's the best I can do at the moment. "I must have gotten out and around people a bit too soon.”

“That happens.” She says, patting my arm. “We all want to get past the hard stuff as soon as possible. Too soon sometimes. You take yourself home and lay down. I’ll sure you’ll feel better in no time. 

 I wait until the waitress leaves to pay my check with shaking hands. It’s difficult to stay calm. I practically run out of the diner. The waitress was kind and had good intentions but talking to men that aren’t there is not likely to be fixed with an afternoon nap. 

  I stand on the sidewalk as people walk past me. They're on their way to movies, festivals, dog parks...or whatever else. Most are smiling. I wonder what it's like to be them. To have a quieter mind. 

To not see all the possibilities to the point that it's overwhelming.  

To be focused on the present moment. 

To not need daydreams about handsome Spaniards.

 I envy them.