Scarred

In looking back at what I wrote concerning my first miscarriage, I find myself reaching for the comfort and solace in words once more, only this time, there is no beauty in these words. Instead I find a rawness, a coldness that cannot be removed by searching for the perfect arrangement of words. I wish I could.

I expected to be sad. What I did not expect was the irrationally powerful anger and overwhelming bitterness. Certainly I experienced something similar last summer when I lost my first pregnancy, but we were so hopeful this time, so intent that this time it would work. I cannot speak for my husband, but I wanted to trust the numbers, wanted to believe that while miscarriage is common in the first pregnancy, that 85% of women will go on to have a successful, healthy second pregnancy. I am not one of these women.

We stared at that second pink line for several minutes, both of us disbelieving in that moment that what we both wanted had finally happened again. We wondered if we should tell our families. We laughed, we talked about how good we felt this time, how much faith we had in this pregnancy. We told our families. The day after we made the announcement, I began bleeding.

Along with the anger, what is most disturbing is that despite my grief, most of what I felt was a dullness, and even more frightening the acceptance that I somehow knew this was bound to happen. I had the thought that I had become used to this, and the idea numbed me.  The next day I found myself laughing and immediately felt ashamed. How could I laugh? How could I possibly find joy in anything given what had just happened? Some people might say that laughter is a part of healing, but it chafed at me regardless.

And the anger. It’s the beast in my belly, threatening to consume and drown. I see other women with their babies, their families clear faced and smiling; I see other women with swollen bellies, their skin stretched tight and eyes peaceful, happy with the life inside of them. These women are my close friends, my acquaintances, and every social nicety says I’m supposed to be happy for them, excited for the additions to their families. But I’m not. I want to throw back my head and howl. I want to curse. I want to tell them it isn’t fair. I want to ask them to take down their pictures, to not mention how wonderful it is to be pregnant or to have a baby. Don’t they understand? Their happiness cuts through me, and the wound is open and ragged. We’re supposed to coo over babies, marvel over pregnant women and their swollen ankles. I’m the monster who wishes they would disappear. And when I have these thoughts, I’m even more ashamed. My body is broken, and my capability to feel happiness for others even more so.

Tonight as I was running, Ben Harper’s “Amen Omen” began to play, and while I have always loved the song, I had to stop it for the fear that I would begin sobbing right there in the park amongst the other joggers. It goes

What started as a whisper,

Slowly turned in to a scream.

Searching for an answer

Where the question is unseen.

I don't know where you came from

And I dont know where you've gone.

Old friends become old strangers

Between the darkness and the dawn

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I still hear you saying

"All of life is chance,

And is sweetest,is sweetest when at a glance"

But I live,

I live a hundred lifetimes in a day.

But I die a little

In every breath that I take.

Amen omen,will I see your face again?

Amen omen,can I find the place within

To live my life without you?

I listen to a whisper,

Slowly drift away.

Silence is a loudest,

Parting word you never say.

I put I put your world

Into my veins

Now a voiceless sympathy

Is all that remains.

There are parts of me that will never be the same. There is a sense of faith and hope that has died, and while I wish I could say that I can trust in some higher power, that that force knows what is best, I find no solace in that. The only thing I know is that time may heal that which is broken, but, oh, how the scars remain. 

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Another one!

My story "Black Water" is up over at Flashquake. READ IT NOW. 

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New Story Up

My flash piece "Locks" is up over at Fear and Trembling magazine. Lyn Perry was kind enough to publish it, and I'd say it's a heck of a speculative magazine! Check it out!

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A New Year

The past few weeks have been a strange combination of highs and lows. The highs? A pub and very first SALE at Fear and Trembling magazine. A lovely personal rejection note from Corvus that was so genuine and kind that it was almost as good as a pub. My review of Elyssa East's Dogtown merited an incredibly nice note from the author herself. You can find the review here, and while you are there, take some time to read through the other contributors. It's really a beautiful magazine.

The lows? Form rejections from Bete Noire, and One Buck Horror. 


Still waiting to hear about the potential life of "Hole" from Electric Spec and Niteblade. Everyday Fiction is still ruminating over "Black Water" after 76 days, but I'm being patient. I really like EF, and I'm hoping that the longer the story is out the more likely they will actually publish it.

I haven't been writing every day like I said I would, but I did manage to push out a flash piece that I REALLY love and is currently entered in a contest over at Shock Totem. With all of that said, there's this novel that I need to get back to working on.  Hopefully when I finish it, the round of Nano queries will be out, and mine will be in the fresh batch.

This is totally my year, ya'll. I don't care what the universe says.

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A Noob's Guide to the Gym

Okay. I get it. And don't get me wrong, I can appreciate ANYONE's New Year's Resolution to get in shape and take better care of him/herself. In fact I applaud you. Trust me, the past year has seen massive swings back in forth in my own exercise routine.

So, no, I have no inherent beef with anyone who takes it upon himself to go out and purchase a gym membership, but there are RULES, people.

1. If I'm on the treadmill, and there are plenty of treadmills available, please do not select the treadmill directly next to me. It's not that I have personal space issues; it's just that if I don't have to be splattered with your sweat, I'd rather not.

2. For that matter, if you are running on the treadmill, please do so at a reasonable speed or a speed that you can actually maintain. If you have to hold onto the machine, or if it sounds like an elephant is skipping across the treadmill, you are doing it wrong. Your sneakers shouldn't be scraping against the belt because you can't keep up the pace. It's distracting. Not to mention, I'll make fun of you as soon as one of us leaves. Slow it down, people.

3. I understand that I can re-start the machine by simply plugging the heart monitor back into the machine, but what you need to understand is that by the time I've made it to the gym, I'm at the lowest possible denominator of mental capacity. There are probably rocks with higher levels of brain activity. So when I get to the machine and press Quick Start, I expect the machine to start...quickly. And if it doesn't, I'm all

Seriously. I understand that all I have to do is plug the cord back in, but please understand that it would make things SO MUCH SIMPLER if you would just do it for me. 

4. WIPE DOWN THE MACHINES. The gym has these wonderful stations with paper towels and disinfectant. They put it there for a reason. No one wants to touch or be surrounded by your dirty human juice. There's no reason for you to be so dismissive/lazy that you can't haul yourself to the station and back to wipe down the machine you've just spent thirty oozing minutes on. 

5. When in the weight area, there's an order to things. If I'm in the middle of my reps, please don't HOVER by the machine like a dog that's waiting to piss. I get it. You want the machine next, but NO, it's not going to make me go any faster. Go do something else until I'm finished. 

6. Slamming the weights and/or grunting, shouting, cursing, or all of the above does not make you look hard. It makes you look like a total douche nozzle. Sometimes you might need to make a little noise to get out that last rep, but trust me, the ladies aren't impressed by your neolithic grunting. 

7. It's fine to fill up your protein shake bottle at the water fountain, but if there is a line of twenty very thirsty people behind you, please step aside. Your Muscle Milk can wait. 

8. Ladies, standing around the machinery in full make up, immaculately styled hair, and the tightest yoga pants known to man while flirting with the personal trainers isn't cute. The gym is for working out, not for finding someone to take you to Applebees on Friday night. That appletini and then banging it out in his mom's basement better be worth it.

9. If you can afford a gym membership, but you can't afford a pair of sweat pants, you need to seriously re-evaluate your priorities. Blue jeans are for Casual Fridays, not the gym. 

10. WHY ARE YOU RUNNING BAREFOOT?? There is a distinct possibility that whatever foot fungus that's hiding between your sweaty toes will somehow eat through my sneakers and infect me. Put on some damn shoes. 

Please, noobs. Get your act together and let's make the gym a pleasurable experience for everyone. 

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Tiny Creepies

Working on a new piece of flash fiction for Shock Totem. The topic is AMAZINGLY CREEPY. Seriously shit your pants kind of stuff, and I'm in that first draft stage where you vacillate between the excitement of a kid jacked up on Mountain Dew and the promise of Santa bringing a new X Box, and the despair that every writer hits during the first draft stage.

Right now I both love and hate what I've done, and I'm scared about relying on my own judgement before submitting this piece. Usually, I try to have some other writer whom I greatly respect lay eyes on it before submitting, but the deadline is the 7th, and I don't really want to put that kind of pressure on a fellow writer.

But I'm glad it's flash. I love the nature of flash fiction, the smallness of it. The potential for making every word burn.

It's bitchin stuff.

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Finding a Home for Hole

"Hole," or as I more affectionately know it "Bree's Story" is still without a home. I've gotten a fresh rejection from Bete Noire today, and I'm not going to lie, this one stung. As a magazine that claims to pride itself on providing personal rejections, it hurt to open my email and see the same old form rejection that every other publication sends. Oh well. I like the magazine very much and will try again in the future.

So the grand total comes to three with rejections from Clarkesworld and Shimmer, my dream publications. I'm waiting on One Buck Horror, Electric Spec, and Niteblade. All of them have slim publication rates, but of all of the stories I've written, I'm most proud of this one and figured I may as well shoot for the big suckers.

Still waiting to hear back from Everyday Fiction about "Black Water," and it's been out for 56 days. I know, I know, wahh, wahh, wahh, waiting to hear back is hard, but really it is.

My goal for today is to finally install Word on my Mac so that I can get back to working on Find Me Here. My goal is to have the first draft finished by February.

Happy Writing!

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