Trish Beauchemin

“Lucid” by Trish Beauchemin

Submitted to Contest #95

The dream begins as it always does. I stand in a small room with 3 blank, white walls. On the fourth wall, directly in front of me, are two doors. The doors themselves are unremarkable. Simple, solid, wooden doors, white to match the walls, each fitted with a single knob. The knobs are not fancy, nor are they old and rusty. Just knobs. On just doors. In just a room. I’ve had this dream frequently, for ove...

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“I Dare Ya” by Trish Beauchemin

Submitted to Contest #94

We are both 24 years old. Definitely not kids anymore. So why does he still have the ability to goad me into just about anything with just three little words? Jimmy’s “I dare ya,” is something I’ve never been able to refuse. Best friends since kindergarten, we’ve gotten each other into more trouble with those words than I can tell you. And today is no different. I close the padlock to safeguard all my th...

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“Curves” by Trish Beauchemin

Submitted to Contest #52

I have always been a creature of habit. I like to crawl into bed each night just before the midnight train rushes by, blowing its whistle in the distance. My eyes snap open every morning at exactly 6:30. I honestly don’t even know why I bother to set an alarm. I get my coffee at the same little cafe at precisely 8:05 everyday, five days a week, as I have for the past 15 years. Three thousand nine hundred cups of coffee. ...

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“A Super Find” by Trish Beauchemin

Submitted to Contest #48

Sebastian just couldn’t resist a yard sale. He stepped off the bus at the end of a long night shift at the bottle factory. He couldn’t wait to get home, flop into his armchair and turn on the tv. As he turned the corner, he saw a driveway full of furniture and tables covered in books, clothing, and all the usual discarded items. Sebastian had found some fantastic things at yard sales, so he stopped to hunt for hidden tre...

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“The Fellowship of the Pen” by Trish Beauchemin

I take my change, tuck my wallet away in my backpack and hike the heavy bag onto my shoulder. I pick up my mug of black coffee. It’s a little too full to safely carry, especially with my gym bag in one hand and a cranberry muffin balanced in the crook of my arm. I carefully make my way through the crowded café to our usual table in the far corner where my writing group has met once a month for nearly two years. I’d been ...

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“Generations” by Trish Beauchemin

Submitted to Contest #45

My father was a racist. Not the kind that truly hated minorities or burned crosses in people’s yards, but the kind that, out of ignorance, would say insensitive and dismissive things. It was not really his fault. He was simply a product of his time. Out of fear or out of habit, I’m not sure which, he isolated himself within our mostly white, upper middle class community of God-fearing Christians. In order to isolate his children, he sent us to Catholic schools. He once said to me that he did so because at public schools we would be expose...

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