“What she needs are stories. Stories are a way to preserve one’s self. To be remembered. And to forget. Stories come in so many forms: in charcoal, and in song, in paintings, poems, films. And books. Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.” —The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab
For the month of April, my model was my dear friend Bonnie. I met her when she was just in high school and I’ve had the pleasure of watching her grow into a giving, talented, hard-working young woman. Bonnie is the kind of person who gathers others to her. She cultivates community, has a wonderful sense of humor, and is a fierce defender of kindness. Her friends call her a silly goose, which fits her, but she’s also the very thing Shakespeare talked about when he said “though she be but little, she is fierce.”
In addition to being a kind human, she’s a gifted editor. She whipped early drafts of my 52 shorts stories into shape, and recently edited her wife’s beautiful fantasy novel Wayward Magic. She’s currently studying to be a librarian. and so it was only natural for us to be around books. As it also happened to be National Library Week, we drove to the gorgeous Mill Valley Public Library. Tucked amongst redwoods, and brimming with golden light, it was the perfect setting for these photos.
Please leave Bonnie some love below and visit her fantastic IG page where she talks about all things books.
I’d love to know if you think my photography skills are growing. With each session, my confidence behind the camera grows and I’m starting to really enjoy putting together galleries as a new form of storytelling. Stay tuned for lots more work to come.
Are you looking for a unique gift for your friends and family? Considerbuying a Holiday bundle from me. Watering Words: 52 Short Stories is perfect for avid readers looking for unique short stories, for busy readers who are tip-toeing back into reading, and everyone in between. With 52 short stories ranging from serious to silly, readers are sure to find a story they will love.
Need a bit more convincing? Here’s some recent reviews from Goodreads and Amazon:
I’ve never really delved into the world of short stories, but if this is what they’re like, man, I’ve been missing out! Each and every one of these stories grabbed me in one way or another, with vivid depictions of different worlds and great character development, in so few pages! If any of these were made into full-length novels, I’d gladly read them all!
I have thoroughly enjoyed Watering Words. As a “busy” reader, to have a collection of short stories that I can pick up and put down easily is wonderful, but to have one like this that is so very well written and so varied in the stories told is a real treasure. The back of the cover says this collection “explores the complexities of being human,” and I couldn’t agree more. I have had the pleasure of reading Bridgette’s work online for several years now, and can’t wait to read more.
The tales in Watering Words travel across genres, tones, and themes, and yet each story– even the more far-flung, clearly fantastical tales– are imbued with a deep sense of the personal. If a story doesn’t speak to you on a deeper level, there’s more than a good chance it will help you see another’s experience with more of an open heart. At the core of Kay’s writing is an achingly tender yet tenacious humanity striving for connection.
The stories that stood out the most for me were “Waiting for the Bus”, “Final Goodbye”, “Water in a Dish”, “Dani and the Queen”, “One Thing”, “A Child Like Me”, “Carrots and Muffins”, “Chocolate Kisses”, “Island Blue”, “Apple Stars”, “The Peacock Effect”, “Inside the Trees”, “Coffee and Cloves”, “Stitches in the Woods”, and “The Mask”.
Short stories are somewhat out of fashion. De Maupassant, Joyce, O’Connor are from generations long past. Their stories are observational, based on the world around them. But the longer form of the novel has long held sway and its genres are many. Here Ms Kay returns us to the short form, and her collection is impressive. Each stands alone so the volume can be appreciated over time. Many of her 52 stories are infused with magical realism, and her imagination is impressive, as is her descriptive work. There are spirits here, there are demons. Animals talk and fly, inanimate objects spring to life. Often the main character or narrator is a young person, troubled by the world and finding answers in another dimension. The endings are generally happy, or at least hopeful. Some leave you wondering. But always there is worry and fear – few of these stories are cosy though they may lead to redemption.
Creating these remarkable stories is one thing, but the author’s observation, especially of nature in all its forms, is often breath-taking. Word choices and combinations enhance the offerings and one is immersed in each story.
The end of days, and post-apocalypse scenarios are also featured with the remaining humans trying to survive. Usually we are left hopeful.
Hard to choose favourites here but to pick a few:
The Old Man. Sick, confused, he is called to the light by his mother.
Something in the Water. Quite beautiful writing.
Island Blue. Disturbing.
The Peacock Effect. A crotchety old pair learn to love again by an old memory.
This collection, and Ms Kay herself, deserves much more attention.
Bridgette Kay offers a massive debut collection of stories which cover a gambit of genres from the more speculative to the more mundane, but always remaining engaging. This feels like an incredible buffet which will continue to bring new readers to Kay’s work as the years go on. From stories which feel like classic American short stories to retellings of classic fairy tales–there is something in this collection for every readers who enjoys a delightfully crafted taste of the fantastique!
I began reading this book knowing I would enjoy every page. Bridgette Kay doesn’t disappoint with Watering Words.
Every story is an in-depth look into the lives of characters that morph into their very own pieces of beauty, beast, friend, and foe. I took my time reading this one, savoring it for close to a month.
I wanted to become one with the words, and I did.
I appreciated several things I recognized reoccurring in different stories as symbols or perhaps themes: the name “Theo,” the number thirteen, and familial struggles brought about from the mother/matriarch of the family.
You will find tales focusing on love, loss, and grief with hints of magic, witchcraft, and religion sprinkled in. To say that many of the stories had me on the edge of my seat is a crippling understatement.
Beginning the book with Waiting for the Bus and ending it with Rainy Day Recruit is pure unadulterated genius. Most, if not all of these stories are extremely powerful, they can stand perfectly on their own, but these two stories are placed exactly where they should be, and I believe they entice the reader to come back for additional reads.
It’s my favorite time of year—apple picking, pumpkin patches, fun tights, caramel apples, popcorn, beeswax candles and costumes. It’s the time of year I’m happy to linger beneath a tree or chase the setting sun. It’s also a time of change, letting go, and setting new goals.
I won a pitch session with an agent last week, and it didn’t go as planned. In fact, I learned it’s impossible to sell middle-grade novels at the moment and on the fly I pitched my YA novel from years ago. She loved the idea and agreed to read it when it’s ready. I’m proud of how I shifted gears in the moment, with only a brief stumbling of my words, but that story isn’t where my heart is right now. Should I pivot anyway? Is selling my books the goal? What if it takes me another ten years to write anything?
Obviously, this sent me into a creative existential crisis for a few days, but with the help of my incredibly creative friends, I found my way back to the truth. I want to write cool shit that makes me happy. My middle-grade novel is for my daughter. If nobody else reads it, then it’s okay. It’s her story, for her. Maybe when it’s ready the industry might be interested, and maybe not. If I start trying to write what I think will sell, then I’m going to be forever chasing a shadow that’s moving quickly across the ground. No thanks.
So, while I’m forever reinventing myself and changing, I do know wonderful things are happening all around me. I hosted a Halloween party at my home for the first time in years and it was a blast! My talented friend, who I’ve known since her birth, will be releasing her book on Halloween (CHECK IT OUT). I’m making strides toward my new health goals. I just listened to a story that reminded me how much I love twisted fairytales and writing weird things. I’ve got a bowl full of fresh apples on my counter and I cleaned out my garage.
So come with me to the apple orchard. Let’s see how the light hits the apples and hear the crunching of the leaves beneath our feet.
#1#2#3#4#5#6#7#8#9#10#11#12#13#14
Photos were taken with an Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
On the last weekend in April, I celebrated the release of my first book, Watering Words: 52 Short Stories, with a book signing and reading at my favorite independent bookstore, A Seat at the Table Books. I’ve been dreaming of this moment for most of my life and…it was better than I could have hoped for. Let me give you a brief rundown of how it went.
On the 40-minute drive to the bookstore, my family gave me a series of much-needed pep talks and distracted me with every stupid joke they know. My favorite from my daughter: Did you hear about the crime that took place in the parking garage? It was wrong on so many levels!
We got to the store a bit later than I wanted, so we had to hit the ground running. With the help of my friends and family, we got everything setup pretty quickly. A few people trickled in at first, but within twenty-minutes, the place filled up! The store had to make an announcement about not blocking the aisles, and many people had to stand. I honestly couldn’t believe it!
Our first speaker was Larisa Bryski, the director of my favorite non-profit G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento. She told the audience about our connection and the wonderful work her non-profit does to help young girls find their voice. A portion of my book sales and the speciality drink sales go to support their mission and I’m so grateful she could join us. Thank you!!
Next, my childhood best friend Angy Cring told stories about us as middle schoolers, including a story of us sneaking out in the middle of the night to meet boys, and how we changed our names to reinvent ourselves before high school. She traveled from Las Vegas to assist me all weekend, handling backend promotion and even filming the event. I’m so fortunate to have her in my life! Thank you!!
Fantasy author and close friend Jason Denzel, author of the Mystic books, then introduced me. He talked about our writing group, playing D&D together, and watching me grow in confidence through our time together. Jason inspires me daily and helped make the entire event run more smoothly. I’m so lucky! Thank you!!
Finally, it was my turn to speak. I was incredibly nervous and forgot I was going to thank a bunch of people to start off, but once I got talking about the book, I calmed down. After reading the short story Striders, I took questions. This is where I truly surprised myself. The audience asked such thoughtful and amazing questions, and I found it easy to talk about my writing. Far easier than I thought! By the time I read my second story, Coffee and Cloves, I really felt good. I thanked people and then setup for the book signing.
You guys! The line went ALL THE WAY around the store. It took me over an hour to sign all the books. So many hugs and pictures and joy! I’ll honestly never, ever forget the feeling of this first author event. My heart is still so full more than a week later.
To date, I’ve sold over 100 books! Thank you to everyone who has supported me. If you want to help support me further, buy a book for a friend, or consider leaving me a review on Goodreads or wherever you do such things. Also, if you’ve read the book, I want to hear from you! Tell me what you liked. Do you have a favorite story? Tell me!
Hope you enjoy these pictures from the event:
My table at the author market on Saturday (the day before the big event).Me and my childhood friend Angy about to start the event.Larisa Bryski of my favorite non-profit G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento.Fantasy writer and good friend Jason Denzel introducing me.What is this face?Me signing books for over an hour!A portion of the book sales, as well as this special drink, went to support G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento.My amazing writing group! I’m so lucky to have these people in my life.My fantastic editor Laurie Fox.My dear friend and writing partner Anna Loscotoff. She made me the beautiful scarf I was wearing.My nephew Wyatt brought his little gnome to the signing and his scarf matched mine!Me and my beautiful friend Jenny.My momma!My daughter, her bestie (my second-daughter) and my husband busy at work. My son was behind the camera and took video.When I’m with my brother, I apparently make silly faces.Not sure why I’m making this face 🙂The after-party crew!I sure love my beautiful writing friends. Thank you!
Real talk: I try to be honest and vulnerable with my readers, so I’ve got to mention two things.
First, even though I’ve sold over 100 books, I’ve still not broke even. Self-publishing is expensive and I couldn’t do this at all without the support of my husband. I’ll never be able to support myself financially with my writing, but it’s still worth it. Creating and putting my words out into the world is something I’ll forever be proud of, regardless of any monetary success. As a friend reminded me earlier this week, years from now, some distant relative might read my book to get a peek at their ancestral lineage. That’s pretty amazing to think about. So, future great-grandchild, this is for you.
Second, and this one I say with a bit of hesitation, it was hard to see myself in these photos. I’ve put on a lot of weight since a hip injury a few years ago, and it is hard looking at the reality of it. My hair has started to thin, something I inherited from my mom, and I noticed it. Big time. I’m so freaking proud of myself for putting this book out into the world, for being brave to share it at the bookstore, and for everything I did…but man…it’s hard to face our changing bodies sometimes. But you know what? I’m glad I’m where I am right now. I’m in the best place mentally I’ve been in my life and I’m surrounded by inspiring and talented friends, so I’m going to embrace myself—flaws and all.
Let me leave you with this: Love yourself right where you are, friends, and write the words, paint the painting, do the thing! Don’t wait. It’s never the right time. I’m here to cheer you on! Tell me about it! We are in this together.
I’ve taken another leap forward in my creative journey and self-published my first book. I’ve spent the last few months rewriting every story, working with a book cover artist, figuring out how to format a book, and taking on each challenge as it presented itself—and there were many! I had no idea what this journey would look like, and although I’m still in the weeds of doing new things, I’m ready to share it with you.
I’m thrilled and grateful to present my debut book, Watering Words: 52 Short Stories.
Isn’t it beautiful! The official release date is April 27, but you canpre-order it now! What you get if you pre-order:
Autographed copy of the book
Bookmark with links to a photo collage and Spotify playlist for all 52 stories
A printed and autographed copy of an additional story not in the book titled Through the Glass Windshield
A portion of my book sales will go to support my favorite nonprofit, G.I.R.L.S. Rock Sacramento. My daughter attended their camps for eight years, and it changed her life. Please, check them out and consider a donation. Right now, more than ever, we need organizations helping girls find their voice.
If you ARE local, you can also attend my book release partyat 1 p.m. on Sunday, April 27 at A Seat of the Table Books in Elk Grove, California. Not only is this my favorite independent bookstore, but they strive to create a “place that is safe and affirming for all identities.” Seriously, I’ve never felt so comfortable in any store. They’re tremendous supporters of local authors and will carry my book on their shelves.
Did you catch that? My book will be IN A BOOKSTORE. {Pinch me}
Now, what’s this book all about? Readers of my blog will recognize most of these stories from the writing challenge I did two years ago, but they’ve all undergone extensive rewriting and editing. Here’s the blurb from the back cover of the book:
The Blinking Day arrives for a mother after she drops her kids off at school. A starving child follows a rabbit to a house of candy. Orange trees kill a father. An alien must learn one true thing. A girl wants to be a fish tank. An old couple paints with blood. Apple stars unlock memories. Goldilocks gets what’s coming to her.
Written over one year, Bridgette Kay’s debut collection crosses genres and time as it explores the complexities of being human. With a unique ability to capture deep emotion, she tells fictional stories through the lens of lived truth. Read one story a week or devour them all at once. Your next favorite adventure starts now.
For a sneak peak at the stories, check out my Instagram
Real talk. This post feels big and scary. While I’m excited to have this book in the world, it also comes with all the insecurities and fear of being a creative. Will people buy it? If they do, will they read it? If they do, will they like it? I’ve had many moments over the last few months where I’ve said, “I’m not ready for this.” I’m not. I’ll never be.
There’s a creative on Instagram I love named Amie McNee. She just published a book titled We Need Your Art: Stop Messing Around and Make Something. I’ve got a copy beside me as I type this, and I keep flipping through and reading her words. “Imposter Syndrome is a clear sign from the universe that you’ve leveled up, baby.” “Other people will have made art similar to your art. It’s not a cause for panic. It isn’t a threat. It’s proof of market. There’s room for you.” “Nothing truly wonderful is made without first being a little bit cringe.” Her words are exactly what I need to read right now. Thank you, Amie.
It feels cringe to ask you to buy my book. It feels scary to say I’m proud of myself. But, I’m saying both. I finally finished a creative project and I’m going to let myself celebrate.
If you are considering self-publishing, starting a blog, or any act of creativity—go for it! I’ve got people coming up to me excited about my book. A friend posted on FB, “You are bringing light into the world, light that will help me on my way. Congratulations!” and another said “Just the best thing ever!!! And it’s about time!” How cool is that?
We need art right now. Make your art. Use your voice. We need you.
And buy my book. It will look pretty on your bookshelf 🙂
If I do my job right nobody can tell. Get in. Clean up. Get out. Nobody builds statues honoring my work or carries my symbol around their neck, but it is important. I’m important. The universe needs me.
I tap the tiny brush over the red and blue spots left behind by another sloppy job and remind myself their anger is at themselves and not me. Still, Terrence didn’t have to yell in my face. It’s always urgent. It’s always now. It’s always dire.
“You don’t understand,” he screams. “This can’t be seen! You have to do it now. Right now!”
His breath smells of sour milk and his pupils shrink until they are black pinpoints in a sea of cloudy grey. His lips are two rotted plums. They are all children who break their toys and stomp their feet in disappointment. I make it so they don’t have to face the consequences.
“I’ll take care of it,” I sigh climbing out of bed.
He shows me where to go and slinks away without a “thank you” or a “we couldn’t do it without you.” Most likely he’s drinking it off now with the others and laughing at what he did. He won’t think of me or my work again until his next mistake. His next “right now.”
Their urgency and terror used to excite me. I considered it a thrill to glimpse behind their imposing masks—an honor to be trusted with fear. I’d catch their falling bomb of worry into my hands and watch them transform back into their confident boastful selves. It felt like magic.
Now, I see it differently. They trust me, yes. They never ask if the job is too big or check my work because they don’t see me as equal. It’s the chaos they love not the order. I’m not a trusted friend. I’m the clean-up crew.
I wonder what it would be like to be them? Running through time and space they combine stars, explode worlds, create, destroy, and transform matter with their ever-changing whims. Galaxies rise and fall at their fingertips yet they can’t do what I do. Nobody else can.
Tap. Tap. Tap. I brush away particles of space dust until mistakes become nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. What they don’t realize is nothing, my nothing, is growing larger and larger. The darkness spreads with each mistake they make and can grow faster if I want it to. I don’t have to be careful.
My love for them has held me back, but I’m growing tired. Each harsh word. Each unkind look. Each time they ignore me, it’s getting harder and harder to restrain myself. What happens when I can’t take it anymore? What happens when I stop caring? I will erase them all.
Kat sees the button first. A bright green light tucked into the corner of the wall. It pulses and calls to her. It knows her name.
“Do you know what day it is?”
The voice speaking loudly beside her ear is all blue and has no face. Only eyes. Where is the green? What day is it? It’s not her birthday. At least she thinks it’s not. The voice keeps speaking and moves now to her other side. She can see the button again. It glows brighter and Kat wants to press it. Instead, burning heat presses into her. It travels from her scalp to her toes. It quiets everything.
Time moves. Kat can feel minutes turn into hours. Days, she thinks. A small window to her right remains closed and covered with thick slatted blinds. A parade of blue figures touches her. Pushes things into her. She points at the green button over and over. Nobody answers her soundless question.
“Did you know Tutankhamun died 1,000 years after the great pyramids were built?”
A voice comes from across the room and Kat sees a figure leaning against the wall beside the green button. Clad in blue, his face isn’t covered. He’s got deep brown eyes with thick lashes, a large sloped nose, thin dark lips, and a small trimmed beard flecked with grey. He says his name is Ebi and Kat smells rain and wet earth when she looks at him. She hears hooves kicking sand.
“The Great Pyramid is made up of over 2.3 million stones, weighing 2.5 tons.”
Kat closes her eyes. Two million. Two tons. The majority of the universe is made of dark matter. It’s made of nothing. She opens her eyes and the green button is still there. Ebi is still there. A question vibrates inside her gut and bubbles and bubbles until the words form and come out as a whisper she isn’t sure carries sound.
“What happens if you press the green button?”
Ebi hears from across the room and smiles.
“It releases air in the isolation room, but don’t press it Kat…it will start things over.”
He winks at her. The number of trees worldwide is greater than the stars in our solar system. She once walked in an old-growth forest and felt the trees leaning forward as if wanting to speak to her. She’s not the center. Everything is connected. Don’t press the button. Press the button.
“The Great Pyramid was the tallest building in the world for 3,500 years.”
Ebi’s eyes are still far away but she can see the reflection of a round clock in the black pupils. The second-hand moves too fast. Dangerously fast. Kat tries to match the rhythm by patting the thin mattress with her hands. Sound can create patterns in sand. It can break things apart. A storm bangs against the shuttered window. Knocks loudly. Is Kat making the storm?
“The pyramids originally had a bright white smooth stone casing which sparkled in the sun.”
Ebi holds a thick book in his hands. Hands covered in thin white scars, and slash marks, like etchings on stone walls. Kat pictures those hands knowing true north and finding what is missing. The book opens and closes. Quiet and heat come again and the smell of rain is replaced with metal.
Kat wakes to find the room empty except for the green light. It calls to her. It knows her name. She can’t ignore it any longer and pulls tubes from her arms and a mask from her face. Her feet find the cold floor.
Stumbling and breathing heavily, she crosses the room in two steps. Or is it two plus two steps? She reaches out her fingers and presses the smooth, round surface of the button. Relief comes as darkness. Her body falls onto the hard floor and her head makes a terrible cracking sound. The air smells of nothing at all.
Kat rolls onto her side and presses her cheek into the warm sand. Voices call around her in celebration. Drums pound out a rhythmic beat like raindrops. Hands hook under her armpits and lift her onto a pair of broad shoulders.
“Stay close Kat,” her father says.“There are many here today to see the Pharaoh off and I don’t want to lose you.”
They stand at the base of a giant pyramid gleaming white with a bright gold top. Voices sing around her. Starting over is scary. Kat grabs the small green stone hanging from a gold chain around her neck and presses it tightly.
Author’s note: I spent a few days this week in the hospital beside my sister-in-law. She’s okay and home now, but I was inspired to write this story by a brief conversation with a nurse about Eygpt.
Authors note: A little somethin’ different today. This might be a children’s story or it might just be nothin’. You decide.
Ma says toads are magical but ain’t no reason to fear ‘em. She says people make up stories bout what they don’t understand all the time and I should be thinkin’ for myself. All I know is the big brown toad livin’ beside the cobblestone well at the edge of our garden does a whole lot of sittin’ and starin’. I like him and I think he’s got eyes for me too.
I ain’t had a friend in a long time and I get to thinkin’ toad is the answer. When nobody is lookin’ I pull off all the flies from the sticky trap in the kitchen and put them in the pocket of my calico dress. It’s hard work and I don’t get all the pieces, leaving behind bits of legs and wings, but I don’t think toad will mind. He seems a likable fella.
He’s not like me at all. I’m either “makin’ too much ruckus” or “I’m so quiet I could scare a ghost out a grave.” Nobody much wants me around. I try to be middle-like. Brother was middle-like. He’s gone now and all my parents have left is me. Ain’t none of us happy bout that.
With a basket of wet laundry under her arm I see Ma headin’ behind the house to where the rope is for dryin. She don’t see me though because I’m slippin’ quiet-like behind the trees and through the hedges. I want to keep this meetin’ secret—just me and toad. Nobody else needs to be botherin’ about us.
When I get to the well the toad is where he always is, tucked close against the ancient crumbling rocks. He sits half in and half out of a smelly green puddle of mud and slime. You’d miss him if you didn’t look twice even though he’s as big round as Ma’s Sunday loaves. Ca-mo-frog. I move closer and curtsey low-like.
“Fine day for a meetin,” I say. “Fine day indeed.”
Toad says nothin’. I find a flat rock for our table and move it slow-like until it’s positioned close to his round chin. I lay my pink and white lace handkerchief out like a proper tablecloth. I use a couple strawberry leaves as plates heaping them with flies for toad and blueberries for me.
Squatting low, like toad, I pull my dress up to my waist exposing my thin legs covered in mosquito bites. We stare at each other for a long time waitin’ for the other to say somethin’. A crow laughs in the pine tree.
“Rude,” I say.
Toad says nothin’. I eat the blueberries but toad doesn’t touch the flies. I try a few topics of conversating—weather and the like but he stares ahead uninterested in me or the meal I brung ’em. I wonder if I got it all wrong. Perhaps instead of a friendly toad he’s a wishin’ toad. Like a genie or somethin’.
“You a wishin’ toad?” I whisper.
Toad says nothin’ but I close my eyes tight and make my first wish anyway. I’m concentrating hard but when I open my eyes toad is lookin’ past me and into the forest. With a small “croak” he leaps into the air splashing mud all over my calico dress. I’m about to give him a talkin’ to about Ma’s and keeping dresses clean but he’s hopping away and disappearing into the forest.
“Wait!” I cry.
Maybe I got it all wrong again. Maybe he’s a kissing toad! One kiss and he’ll turn into a prince and whisk me off to a palace for a life of happily ever after. That’s got to be it! I walk on silent tiptoes until I’m close enough to grab him with both hands. He’s heavy and slippery but I hang on tight and force him toward my face.
“Let…me…kiss…you!” I scream.
He doesn’t cooperate but I manage a kiss anyway right on his toad lips. Nothin’ happens except my dress gets dirtier. I drop him, wipe my mouth on my arm, and spit into the dirt. Not only did I not get a friend but now I’m gonna get a paddlin’ cause of my dress. Double probably for leaving the yard. It’s not fair.
Since brother left I’ve been trying not to breathe too hard or too soft or my parents get to cryin’, yellin’, or hittin’. I can’t do nothin’ right. Wish I’d fallen in the river instead of brother, but Ma says I shouldn’t be sayin’ such awful things. I wish I could be doing and sayin’ nothin’. Can’t be wrong if you ain’t here no more.
The sun moves across the sky and I follow toad. I don’t even know why anymore because all I’m doin’ is thinkin’ about how my chest has felt since brother left; the hole sittin’ right where my heart should be. Pressing fingertips to my chest, I wonder if a heart really can be broken into pieces or maybe it disappears when you get to hurtin’ too bad.
An excited voice makes me jump.
“Are you a friend of toad too?”
A girl stands in front of an identical cobblestone well to the one in our yard. The puddle here is more grey than green. She’s wearing overalls and pressing her bare toes into the mud.
“I am,” I say. Her eyes are the color of the sky.
“I’m Addie,” the girl says holding out her hand.
“Kate,” I say and we shake.
We get to talkin’ and walkin’. Addie doesn’t have any friends either. We decide we should be best friends. We pick wildflowers and make crowns. Her Ma gives us fresh lemonade and her Pa says he’ll let my folks know I’m safe. We play until the stars come out. On the walk home, I stop by and find toad beside our cobblestone well. Real quiet-like I tell him “thank you” but toad, toad says nothin’.
My spider has a moon on its back. It’s not a big one. Don’t be silly. It’s small, like my spider. In fact, you might not see it unless you get close. Really, really close. I know you won’t because of the eight legs and eight eyes thing, but you’re missing out. The moon is translucent and shiny—a rare precious gem. You might even call it pretty. I like to stare at it before bed and sometimes even touch it. My spider doesn’t mind. It likes me.
The moon affects the way my spider moves and feeds. Full moon days it must find a quiet place to lay because it’s weighed down by the gravity of it. On new moon days, it hunts. Some insects have learned this cycle and can avoid becoming prey. They are the smart ones. Plenty aren’t so bright; my spider finds them and fills its stomach. Drinks them up.
Now, dear, you must ask yourself an important question on this dark, dark night. Do I have a moon on my back? You see, we are alone in this room. You are close enough I can hear your heart beating and feel the warmth of your skin. Am I the kind of creature who feeds in the dark or the light? You tell me.
Author’s note: This tiny story was inspired by the second day of Inktober prompt “spider.” It’s my attempt at a campfire tale. Let me know what you think!
You carve our names “E+K” into the ancient oak behind your daddy’s church in hopes I’ll see, but I’ve grown tired of playing your endless
games. My drawers overflow with your teeny-tiny top-secret messages penned on newspaper scraps— “I miss you,” “meet me behind the old Bulto Market,”
and “kiss me, dearest Kate, I’m dying for you.” Just words. I need more than blue-eyed winks and brief hidden embraces. My love needs
sunshine—warm, bright, radiating fire so vibrant it can’t be stoppered or hidden. Explosive volcano love, running thick down our bodies. Popcorn love, loud hot
buttery passion devoured with both hands. Instead, you give me your blurry photograph standing at 301 Caroline Street, our secret kissing place. You write in
sweeping curvy letters “this is not very clear, but it’s still me. Eddie.” Blurry love is what you offered, thinking I’d accept, but I deserve
someone who wants our love to be broadcasted, shouted, screamed into the streets. Bullhorn loud love. Free to be me love. So, I chased you
onto the old bridge, calling out through hot tears, “choose all of me or none of me.” The bright moonlight stretched my dark shadow so
it covered you entirely as you walked away without looking back. My young love never wavered, but yours wasn’t brave enough to fight. It’s funny
now, finding your thoughtless dare scrawled in ink, “see how long you can keep this.” I kept it forever, blurry Eddie. Not for you, though
for me.
I stayed in focus.
Shoebox Poetry: This is the second poem in my series based on an old box of photos I inherited when my grandmother died in 2004. I don’t have any idea who Eddie was, but I wanted to rewrite a possible old love story as a moment of empowerment for my grandmother. She was a fierce woman and I like to think she kept this photograph as a reminder of her strength. If someone out there happens to know Eddie, sorry. This is pure fiction and I’m sure he is/was a lovely man.
Bridgette Tales 