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My best friend Bonnie just looked at me. “You're kidding.”
She'd kept her voice down even though we were in the high school cafeteria and there were many conversations going on. Most were louder than ours. The monitors were too busy talking with each other to fuss about the volume of the buzz in the cafeteria.
For the umpteenth time, I wished that I had brown skin, dark eyes, and short dark curly hair like she had. I wished that I was as slender and tall as she was. She would've made a beautiful model. Instead, I was just me: pale skin, pale blue eyes, long pale blond hair, plump, and a foot shorter than her.
I shook my head. “I wish.” I fiddled with the pens that lay on top of my laptop computer. “Think of it like a dormant volcano. The pressure just builds and builds, and then one day it blows. That was me and my stepmother.”
“Do you remember what it was about?” she asked.
I bit my lower lip and nodded.
“Can you tell me?” she asked.
I didn't want to. I really didn't. Then I sighed. “Remember the day when I didn't want to be a boy anymore? When I wanted to stop being Sean and wanted to be Grace instead?”
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “Boy, do I ever. You were like a powder keg ready to blow at any moment. No matter what I said or did, you would just give me angry looks. A hidden minefield would've been easier to deal with.”
“That was the last argument I had with my stepmother,” I said. “She said that I was being a fool. That I didn't know myself well enough yet to decide which gender I wanted to be. Wait until I was a few years older. There would be time for it then. I disagreed. So did Dad. He told her that either the subject was no longer permitted at home or she could move out and take her things with her. The choice was hers.”
“So she left,” she said.
I nodded.
“And now she wants to meet with you,” Bonnie said.
I nodded again. “She emailed the school office today while I was in French class. At least I didn't have to talk with her in-person or via Skype or Zoom. The school office printed out the message and one of the administrative assistants delivered it to my teacher.”
“And Madame Courbet really doesn't like to be interrupted,” Bonnie said.
“She walked over to my desk and handed me the message,” I said. “She told me, 'I hope this doesn't become a habit with you, Monsieur –.' Someone snickered. She frowned, cleared her throat, and then continued. 'Excusez-moi. Mademoiselle Nichols.' I shook my head. 'Bon,' she said, went back to the front of the class, and continued where she'd left off.”
“What did your stepmother say?” she asked.
“She wants to meet me,” I said.
“After five years of almost no contact,” she said.
“Homemade birthday cards mainly, and sometimes homemade Christmas cards,” I said.
“At least they weren't store-bought,” Bonnie said. “That's usually a good sign.”
“What do you think I ought to do?” I asked.
“Before I answer that, could I see her message first?” she asked. “You don't have to let me.”
I took it out of my purse and handed it to her. She said nothing as she read it.
Hi, Grace. I was wondering if we might meet after school tomorrow. I've already asked your father and he said the decision should really be yours. After all, you're old enough now. It's been a long time, I know. I still have photos of you when you weren't a teenager yet. I can only imagine what you look like now. If it's not okay with you, just let the school office know and they'll let me know. Hugs, Mom.
Bonnie handed the message back to me and I put it back in my purse.
She looked thoughtful for a few moments. “Would it be all right if I was there with you? Just in case?”
“I don't think she's planning to take me away from Dad,” I said.
“Just in case,” she repeated. “You never know. Sometimes it's fairly harmless. Sometimes it isn't. Remember last year, when we were freshmen, and there was that nasty divorce between Naomi Taylor's parents?”
I nodded. “They seemed to care more about who had custody than anything else. She would come to school some days in tears. I would hug her as much as I could.”
“Same here,” Bonnie said. “But next thing you know, she was gone. It turned out that her father had asked for visitation rights and picked her up after school one day.”
“She was gone for a while,” I said. “At least a few months. They were picked up by the state troopers at a rest stop halfway across the country after someone reported seeing them.”
“I don't want that to happen to you, Grace,” she said.
“To be honest, I don't either,” I said and sighed. “I really don't want to do it like they do at prisons when visitors come.”
“It might be the safest thing to do,” she said. “Meet on neutral ground. That way it's less likely that anything will go wrong.”
“You still want to be there with me?” I asked.
Bonnie nodded. “If you'll let me.”
----------
The next afternoon, neutral ground was chosen by my guidance counselor: her room at the school office.
I sat on the opposite side of her desk, Bonnie on a chair next to me. My guidance counselor sat on our right, perpendicular to her desk. One of the high school's security guards escorted my mother to the room, then backed off and stood in the doorway. My stepmother looked at everyone, then gave me a slight smile before sitting down.
“Is this really necessary?” Mom asked me. “I just wanted to talk with you.”
“Didn't you used to tell me 'better safe than sorry'?” I replied.
Mom nodded. “I said that to a little boy who sometimes hurt himself when he played with his friends. You wouldn't believe how many bruises and sprains he had.”
“I remember,” I said. “I wanted to fit in and did whatever it took to make it happen.”
“But a semblance isn't the same as the real thing,” Mom pointed out. “Like a building with a façade.”
“I know,” I said. “That's why I made this change. I wanted the outside to match the inside. Otherwise, I would just have to keep pretending to be who I really wasn't. Living a lie.”
“What did your father do when he saw the real you?” Mom asked.
“He was surprised,” I said.
“I bet,” Mom said. “One day you look, talk, and act like a boy. The next day, you look, talk, and act like a girl.”
“It was more than just that,” I said. “I wanted a complete change. Not just my physical appearance.”
“You should see her bedroom now, Ms. Nichols,” Bonnie put in. “Pink walls. Stuffed animals and a pillow with the initial G on it. Girls' clothes.”
“What happened to your old clothes?” Mom asked me.
“Gone,” I said. “Along with my baseball, mitt, football, basketball, and gym clothes. I donated them all to Goodwill. I didn't want any reminders of my male past.”
“Any regrets?” Mom asked.
I shook my head, then paused and lifted a forefinger. “That I didn't do it sooner. I wish I hadn't waited so long. But I wanted to be absolutely certain.”
“And you are?” Mom asked.
I nodded. “How did you know what my new first name was? Your email didn't say 'Sean'. It said 'Grace'.”
“Your father told me,” Mom said. “I asked about Sean. He said that Sean was gone. I asked where our son went. Did he run away? He said that we didn't have a son anymore. We had a smart and beautiful daughter and her name was Grace. If I had a problem with that, then I shouldn't bother trying to make contact with her at all.” She looked at my guidance counselor. “It's official? The name change, I mean.”
My guidance counselor nodded. “Everything says 'Grace Nichols' now. She's even allowed into the girls' bathroom.”
“Then the change is complete,” Mom said.
I nodded. “Dad paid for the reassignment surgery. It was his Christmas gift to me last year. He was hesitant until he could tell that this wasn't just a temporary thing. He wanted to know that I was absolutely serious about it. I was. In fact, I still am.”
“She's much happier now than she ever was before, Ms. Nichols,” Bonnie put in. “She smiles more, she laughs more, she enjoys life more. Why would anyone want her to go back to being a boy?”
Mom made a face. “I didn't say I wanted her to do that,” she told Bonnie. “I don't care which gender she prefers to be. If she wants to be with her father, that's fine with me. I just want her to be happy. Okay?”
“Why did you wait, then?” I asked, trying to keep my cool. “Five years of cards. No phone calls. No meetings, online or offline. If you really cared about me, I think you would've made more of an effort.”
Mom looked down at her lap. “You're not making this easy for me.”
“The feeling's mutual,” I said.
“When she was dying, your birth mother asked me for a favor,” Mom said.
This was news to me. I barely remembered my birth mother. She died when I was two years old.
“What sort of favor?” I asked.
“That I would take care of you as best I could,” Mom said.
“And that included marrying Dad?” I asked.
“Not initially,” Mom said. “That came later.”
“Please tell me what she told you,” I said.
“I'll have to tell you everything, then,” Mom said.
I nodded.
----------
We were in your parents' bedroom. It was either here or the hospice. Your birth mother preferred being here. You wanted to stay with her, but we both agreed it was best if you slept in your own bed. I sat on a chair nearby. Your birth mother looked older than she really was.
When your birth father wasn't taking care of you, he was in his home office, checking that you had your papers in order. Including your last will and testament. If we were really quiet, we could sometimes hear him softly crying.
“I don't have much time left, Allie,” your birth mother said. “Maybe another day.”
“I'll be here, Debra,” I said.
“You've always been there for me,” she said.
“Likewise,” I said. “After all, you're my twin sister. We've been best friends since we were little girls.”
She smiled. “What times we shared.”
“They certainly weren't boring,” I said.
She laughed softly. “Definitely not. And the boys we dated weren't boring, either.” She looked at me. “I always wondered why you never got married.”
“Never found anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with,” I said.
Debra reached out with her hands and I held them in mine. They felt so weak.
“I want you to promise me something, Allie,” she said. “Something I won't be able to do after I'm gone.”
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Still as cautious as ever,” she said. “Some things never change.”
“I don't jump into the deep end of a pool without making sure it's safe to,” I said.
“Isaac will need someone,” Debra went on. “A companion. A friend. Someone.”
“And you immediately thought of me,” I said.
“He knows you,” she said. “Maybe not as well as he knows me, but better than he knows any other woman.”
“Not only that, but I look and sound like you,” I said.
“I'm not asking you to marry him,” she said. “Just keep him company. It can be as platonic as you like.”
“What if he wants something more than platonic?” I asked.
“Tell him that he'll have to find someone else,” Debra said. “That isn't why you're there.”
I nodded. “Anything else?”
“Sean,” she said. “He's going through a rough time. I'm not sure what the future will hold for him, but whatever it is, please support him as best you can. Even if it means something you might not agree with.”
“Such as?” I prompted.
“I'd rather not say,” she said. “Please don't ask him. When the day comes, he'll let you know what he's decided to do.”
I nodded again. “Anything else?”
Debra looked thoughtful, then shook her head. “I think that's everything.”
“You do realize that Sean and I don't always get along?” I asked.
“I know,” she said softly. “Please tell him not to blame you. It wasn't your fault. Genetics are like gambling. You never know quite how things will turn out until much later. You just hope that you'll have a long, healthy, happy life. And just because one twin is doing fine, doesn't mean the other twin will also do fine.”
“We're proof of it,” I said.
She nodded. “Do the best you can. I've willed as much as I can to you, to give you as much financial help as possible. That might be another reason that Sean is mad at you. He probably thinks you don't deserve to inherit anything from me.”
“Maybe you should give the money to him instead,” I suggested.
“Too late,” Debra said. “It's been signed and notarized. However, you're welcome to give him as much as you want to. But that choice will have to be yours, not mine.”
I checked the clock on top of Isaac's dresser. It was after midnight.
“You shouldn't have stayed up so late,” I said. “You need to rest.”
“I'll have plenty of rest soon enough, Allie,” she said. “Maybe you should get some sleep.”
“I'm not tired enough,” I said, but yawned in spite of myself.
Debra smiled. “You're a lousy liar. Another favor?”
“Depends on what it is,” I said.
“Please go to bed,” she said. “There's no sense in you wearing yourself out for my sake.”
“You sure?” I asked.
She nodded and looked at the bedroom doorway. “Besides, I won't be alone.”
Your birth father stood there, looking at her.
I stood up, leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “Sleep well, Sis.”
“You too, Allie,” she said. “See you in the morning.”
I gave Isaac a hug and left their bedroom, shutting the door behind me. I got into bed in the guest bedroom and did my best to fall asleep.
But halfway between then and sunrise, I woke up suddenly. I knew why. My twin had just died.
----------
“I owe you an apology, Grace,” Mom said. “I should've told you all that years ago. It might've prevented the arguments we had when you were still Sean.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” I said. “I'm grateful that you didn't wait any longer.”
Mom looked at me, but said nothing.
“Is there anything else that needs to be discussed?” my guidance counselor asked us.
“That's probably everything,” I said.
Bonnie nudged me in the ribs.
I frowned and turned to her. “What was that for?”
“Go on,” Bonnie told me.
“What?” I asked.
“She's waiting for you to say it,” Bonnie said. “Don't let her leave with it unsaid.”
“I thought it was supposed to be voluntary,” I said.
“Don't you want to say it?” Bonnie asked me.
“She doesn't have to,” Mom told her.
“I know she doesn't,” Bonnie told Mom. “I just thought maybe she finally felt like saying it of her own free will.”
“Maybe she doesn't want to,” Mom said. She stood up and rubbed her lower back. “My tailbone definitely needed a rest break. One of the downsides of growing older. The joints just aren't as flexible as they used to be. I guess I'll be leaving now.”
I took a deep breath, let it out. “Mom?”
My stepmother looked surprised. “Yes?”
I stood up and walked around my guidance counselor's desk. “Do you think … maybe … you could come over and visit Dad and me this evening?”
“If it's all right with him,” Mom said. “He might not want me to.”
“I'll ask him and see,” I said.
“Anything else?” Mom asked me.
“Just one thing,” I said, and hugged her.
I felt her arms go round me, holding me close. Tears were wet on my cheeks. When I was a boy, I'd been afraid to cry in public. But now that I was a girl, I knew I could cry whenever and wherever I needed to.
“I've missed you so much, Mom,” I said softly.
“I've missed you too, Grace,” she said and kissed me on the forehead.
“I wonder, though: do you ever miss Sean?” I asked her.
“A little bit,” Mom said. “I'm sorry for what you had to go through when you were Sean. You deserved to be happy and now you are. I've lost a son and gained a daughter. A wonderful, amazing daughter.”
“And I have my stepmother again,” I said. “This is even better than Christmas and my birthday put together.”
“It sure is,” Mom said.
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It was sooo good. This story was type of unique plus amazing.
Keep it up. :)
Reply
Glad you liked it so much. As I told my mother in a recent email, this is probably more personal than I originally thought it was. It's weird that I can look back almost 40 years sometimes and it feels more like yesterday than 40+ years. I wish I'd had a best friend like Bonnie in high school. I did have good friends (mostly guys), but nothing like her.
Btw, I had to edit this story a few times today (I reread it and noticed three missing words, which thankfully didn't take the total over 3000 words). An editor's job is never finished, as I have to keep reminding myself.
Also btw, sorry I've been so silent on this website the second half of this month. It's not been an easy two weeks for me. When Grace mentions that she's grateful she can now cry whenever and wherever she wants to, that's a fairly strong echo of how I've felt at times this month (my female best friend would say I was "moody"; I think that's her way of saying that there are times when my moods flip around and she has trouble adjusting to them). The more popular my creativity gets, the more scared I get, the more I want to hide inside my "shell". I kept telling myself, "They won't bite. Just go back there. They're probably wondering what in the world happened to you. They might even be worried about you. You can't just drop off the 'radar' and disappear for as long as necessary. Not when there are people who care about you." So when Bonnie in the short story nudges Grace, that was like me nudging myself.
Another thing I've noticed: The more I write in messages, the less I'm creative. When I stopped writing messages here, I found I was able to write stories again (and the quality in them went up to their usual level). Somehow I need to find some sort of balance where I can do both in equal amounts. If you have any suggestions about that, feel free to throw them my direction.
Reply
Firstly, you're welcome and if u want me to read your stories than anytime!
When I first read your reply I was a bit confused but then I went to your bio: ok so u r 53 year old man and do u like to compose poems but in prose form, u know what? I also compose poems and they too are in prose form. And I wold love to give a peek at your poems only if u wanna share.
I WISH from my heart that u find a friend like bonnie tho I don't know what u hv gone through but believe me there are times when life sucks when life is worst than hell and sadly we can't do anything about it.
And of course there are people who care about you, and u shouldn't be afraid or anything, I know I am not someone to give u suggestion as I am not that experienced as u are cuz I am still a teenager. But whatever a small advice like u shouldn't be afraid of revealing your abilities, write for yourself and let people say what they want to.
In the last para I didn't get what u said.
Anyways, again I loved your story cuz it had a whole different story and especially a new one:)
Happy writing <3
Reply
You are most welcome to read my stories. But please let it be a choice, not because you feel that you must.
Sometimes I look at the calendar and think, "I'm 53 1/2 now. So why don't I always feel like it?" Physically, I know I'm getting older. My eyesight definitely isn't as good as it used to be (I've been nearsighted since 5th grade). But it gets more mixed up when it comes to emotions and thoughts (kind of like a crazy quilt).
I've shared some of my prose poems (they aren't usually the rhyming kind) with others on this website. I would have no problem sharing them with you as well. They're mostly rather long (at least 1000 words each), but a few are very short (about 10 lines at most).
It's been a bumpy ride through the years. Which I think is true for anyone on Earth. That might be why I have so much source material to draw from when I'm writing creatively. It's kind of like going to the spice cabinet and/or the refrigerator and saying, "Hmm. What ingredients would work here? Maybe a little of this, maybe a little of that, and maybe a little of that over there, too." And then just mix it up and see what comes out of it.
I was reading yesterday about something I'd heard about several years ago: imposter syndrome (aka fraud police). The more I read about it, the more I realized that I've been suffering from it for most of my life (and, apparently, so has my mother). It's hard to take ownership of what I do really well. It has rarely felt like it came directly from me. It's felt more like waiting for a door or window to open, and then getting to peek inside and write down what I see and hear. Whatever is "inside" is obviously inside my head, but it's often hard to accept that as a fact. It's easier to say, "It came to me", as if someone else handed it to me, rather than "This came from me. I did this. These are my thoughts and feelings."
I'm not sure what I said in the last paragraph of my last message to you. I'm answering this via the email that said I have new messages at this website, rather than going to the list of messages on this website that I haven't answered yet.
Again, I'm glad you liked the story. When I get lucky, the stories come easily and don't need much editing. Others are more like hard work (like a sculptor working with a block of marble or stone). I've had some take me several hours to write and then over the next several days (after each reread) I've had to correct mistakes and rewrite parts. I finally had to tell myself, "I did the best I could. I just have to let go of it and go on to something else. The more I reread, the more I'll fuss about how it reads, and I might start making it worse rather than better." But when I read the responses to such stories (and the time and effort I put into editing them), I find that the time and effort was definitely worth it, because the readers really liked what I wrote. Maybe if I outlined my stories at first and then fleshed them out, I probably wouldn't need to do so much editing. But I'm more of an improviser than a structured thinker. So I just wing it, hope for the best. If it looks good enough, I'll try to tidy it up, and then submit it to this website. Because, I've learned, if I hesitate too much before submitting a story, I'm likely to avoid submitting it at all. The fear that I'm sharing something that's not good enough can take over.
Anyway (like you said in your message), here are some of thepoems that I've written over the past few years:
CALICO KITTEN
Calico kitten,
With whom I'm smitten,
Fur of black, orange, and white,
Purring with all your might
I know in time you'll get older,
For now you're still small enough
To curl up and sleep on my shoulder,
A ball of soft fur filled with love
(written 6-3-2020)
BEAUTY IN KYOTO
There is beauty in Kyoto all year long,
I can see it even with my eyes closed,
When it rains, the petals fall
From the cherry trees,
When it is sunny, the trees
Whisper to each other,
And when it snows, it's like watching
The cherry blossoms falling again
(written 6-10-2020)
THE DOVE AND ME
I lifted my hand
A dove landed on it
And I asked it
“Where have you been?
Have you been east to the sunrise?
Have you been west to the sunset?
Have you been up into the sky
Where it's noon and midnight?”
The dove looked at me,
Then out to sea
And said, “I have seen
A world of wonder
That you've only dreamed of.
I have seen the fountains of the sun
And the frozen glaciers of the moon.
If only you had wings
So that you could go where I go.”
I sadly shook my head
And sat down on a rock,
Watching the waves flow onto the beach
Only to stop inches from me,
And then slip back into the sea,
An endless pattern like eternity.
“I have no wings,” I said.
“I only have my imagination.”
And the dove said, “Silly human.
Did you think that I meant wings
Like mine, covered with feathers?”
“Didn't you?” I asked.
“Of course not,” the dove said.
“Now imagine your arms are wings.”
I did and they were.
“Now imagine that you're lifting them,”
The dove said. “Now sweep down
And jump into the sky.”
I did and I was suddenly
Rising above where I'd sat.
“Now come with me,” the dove said.
“There are thousands of places
That I have been to, places
That I want to show you.”
I did and we did.
“Is this what heaven is like?” I asked.
“Where did you think we were?” the dove asked.
“But what about my body?” I asked.
“You won't need it anymore,” the dove said.
And I didn't.
(written 5-14-2020)
A TREE IN THE GARDEN
There's a tree in the garden,
A tall, beautiful tree,
Its leaves are big and bright green
Most of the year and then
In the Fall its leaves turn red
And fall, like butterfly wings,
Only to turn brown and the wind
Blows them away, “clearing the table”
So that the tree is ready for
New leaves in Springtime.
This tree was planted by my
Great-grandfather, a gift to my
Great-grandmother, a way to tell
Her that he loved her, when he
Usually found it difficult to say it,
I heard that it made her smile
And she hugged and kissed him,
Thanking him for being so kind
And thoughtful, especially during those
Times when life was difficult for them.
This tree is more than fifty years old
By the time I'm writing these words,
Sitting on the bench across the garden
From the tree. I can see children playing
In and around the tree, and one
Of them is my daughter, Lucia.
Tall and beautiful like the tree,
I watch her run over to me,
She gives me a hug and a kiss,
And I feel like I've been given
A gift more precious than life itself.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Lucia asks.
“I'm writing about us,” I say. “Mostly about you.”
“Can I read it?” she asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “Maybe when you're older.”
Years later, I watch her walk down the aisle
In the village church, arm-in-arm with her
Father; she smiles at me as they pass my pew;
They head up to the altar where a young man
Is waiting; her father gives him Lucia's hand,
Says something, and the young man nods;
Her father walks back to my pew, joining me.
“I can remember when she was born,” he says.
“Me too,” I say. “And I can remember her
Climbing in and playing near that tree
In the garden. It feels like yesterday.
Hard to believe that it was ten years ago.”
“Wish her well,” he says.
“I already have,” I say. “You do it too.
“After all, it took both of us to bring
Her into this world. With God's help.”
He nods. “With God's help.”
The couple says “I do” and the priest
Declares them husband and wife.
They kiss and everyone claps, even me.
Arm-in-arm, they walk down the aisle.
As they're about to pass our pew, I hand
Lucia a sheet of paper with writing on it.
She smiles and gives me a big hug, and
Then gives her father an equally big hug.
After that, she and her husband continue
Their walk to the front door of the church.
Rice is thrown into the air above their heads
And the crowd cheers. I've never seen
Lucia so happy. Her husband looks like he's
The luckiest man in the whole world.
An old white Fiat rolls up, decorated
For the wedded couple. It used to belong
To my parents, and now it will belong
To Lucia and her husband. I watch as
They wave to the crowd and kiss each
Other again. Lucia turns away and
Tosses her bridal bouquet into the air.
I'm pleasantly surprised to see it land
In my hands. I hold it carefully. One last
Gift from Lucia before she starts her new life.
I hope that she won't forget us. Or the tree
In the garden. The poem that I wrote and
Gave her a copy of should help her remember.
Maybe she'll read it to her own children,
Reminding them of their grandparents.
This is the price of being a parent. You raise
Your child or children as best you can.
You watch them grow up. You watch them
Meet the person they eventually marry.
You watch them move to their new home.
There might be a slightly empty nest
Where my husband and I still live.
But it's definitely full of years and years
And plenty of memories. Until there's
A knock on the door, and there's Lucia,
A little older, but still happy, her husband
Next to her, and their first child, a son,
Standing between them. They named
Him after my great-grandfather.
His mother and I watch him play in the garden.
“He's so happy here,” Lucia says.
“He loves both his parents and the tree,” I say.
She nods. “Thank you for your poem,
Even if the thoughts and feelings are
Really mostly your own. Were I to
Ask Papa, I think he would say
That he agrees with you. You just
Find it easier to say them than he does.”
“Just like my great-grandparents,” I say.
“Did they ever write poems to each other?” she asks.
I nod. “I borrowed a little from theirs.”
“Let me hear yours, please,” Lucia says.
I happily do so.
Live well, live long, live happily.
You are the joy of my life.
You are the tree in the garden.
Reach up to the sky, breathe in
Fresh air, soak up the sun and rain.
Grow strong, tall, and beautiful.
You are the happy product
Of the love that your father and
I share each and every day.
We would not have you be
Any other way than as you are.
We're so proud of you, Lucia.
Love, Mama and Papa.
“Thank you,” she says, hugging me.
“You're welcome,” I say.
Soon after, her son runs over and jumps
Into her lap. He hugs her and kisses her.
Then leans over and does the same to me.
As he does so, he puts something into my hands:
It's one of the leaves from the tree.
(written 3-11-2017)
THE PORTRAIT
Women used to come to me to get their portraits
Painted – they said that I make them look more
Beautiful than they were in real life – they won't
Go to a photographer – He won't improve their
Looks – but somehow I have the ability to do so.
They even claimed to look and feel younger than
They have in many years – but I'm just a painter –
I paint what I see, and what I see is the woman
Inside them, the woman who never grew old, the woman
They became after leaving their childhood behind for good.
The week I remember best was also one of the worst,
Most unproductive f my life: No one came into my studio –
Not on Sunday, not on Monday, not the rest of the week –
By the time Saturday rolled around I was ready to close up
Shop and go on vacation for the first time in years.
Then the front door opened.
The doorbell rang to tell me someone had finally come.
I went to see who it was.
It wasn't a woman. It was an old man. He looked even
Worse than my grandfather had when he was in his 90's.
“What can I do for you, monsieur?” I asked.
“I need you to do a portrait,” he said.
“Of you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Of my wife. She's dying, and wanted
To leave me a memory of herself: A painting of her by you.”
“You don't look like you can afford my rates,” I told him.
He made a face. “I have better clothes than these,” he said.
“But I tend to dress according to mood. I don't want my
Wife to die, but I don't want her to suffer anymore.
She knows. So she sent me to find you and bring you to her.”
I nodded. “I'll do it. Where is the hospital?”
“No hospital room,” he said. “She's lying in her own bed.
The doctors have done all they can. They think that it is
Unlikely that she has more than a day or two to live.”
I gathered my easel, a fresh canvas, palette, and what
Hopefully was enough tubes of paint to do her justice.
He drove me to their house. It was large, hidden behind
An old, ornate gate. The grounds were open, plenty of space,
Many old, tall trees, flower gardens, and even an orchard.
He helped me carry my equipment up the stairs to
Her room. It had a large, open window, and through it
I could smell the mixture of salt air from the nearby sea
And the scents from the orchard and the flower gardens. It
Didn't seem like a room for the dying. More like Limbo
Before the soul is released to either heaven or hell.
She looked up, saw me and smiled. “You came.” Her voice
Was soft, but weak. Not much more than a whisper.
I nodded, setting up my easel, putting the canvas on
It, choosing a set of colors to pour out onto my palette.
“Should I try to sit up?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Stay where you are. I want you to be
As comfortable as possible. This may take awhile.”
“In hospitals they say that cats know when you are
Going to die,” she said. “Are you going to be my cat?”
I shook my head. “I'm your painter,” I said.
I looked at her tired face, the wrinkles, the bags under
Her eyes, the double chin, the bedraggled hair on the
Pillow under her head – but her eyes – her eyes were
Still alert – and since they were, so must her mind be.
Maybe my portrait would be of good cheer to her.
Whether it would do anything else remained to be seen.
I sketched first, and then used a thin pale green as a base color,
Adding other layers of color, building up the painting as I went.
It wouldn't be of her as she was in that bed, I knew,
But as she had been all those many years ago.
While I painted, we talked.
“Were you always an artist?” she asked.
“A poor one when I was a child,” I said. “I improved greatly
When I went to an art school. Sometimes the paintings I did
There seemed more real than reality itself. Or so they told me.”
“Did you believe them?” she asked.
I shrugged. “When all's said and done,” I said,
“I'm just a painter and I paint what I see.”
“What do you see here?” she asked.
“A beautiful bedroom,” I said. “Renaissance paintings on
The walls. A mirror above a vanity. A closet full of beautiful
Dresses, hats, shoes. The sounds of a party downstairs.
Guests are arriving. Your first party since getting married.
Your husband is wearing his best tuxedo. The small
Orchestra he hired is tuning up, deciding what music to play.
“A princess leaves this bedroom and heads downstairs. All the
Eyes below are watching her descent. They have never seen
Her look so beautiful, arm in arm with her handsome husband.
The music starts and the princess and her prince lead the
Dancers onto the dance floor. One dance after another. A break
For dinner – champagne, escargot, truffles, and then more dancing.
A night of joy and wonder that none of them will ever forget.
“Outside, the moon is pale and full, bathing the housing and the
Grounds in its light. The princess and her prince stand together
On the terrace, enjoying the night and each other's company.
“At midnight, rockets climb into the sky and fireworks erupt in
Spreading flowers and booms as each shell reaches its apex
And explodes. It feels like a dream, one that neither wants to end.
They kiss and return inside, to rejoin the happy guests.
“As the party winds down, they are there at the front door to
Say good night to each and every guest. They watch each car
Start up, their headlights lit, driving off into the darkness.”
The painting is almost done. Just some tweaking here and
And there. Then I sign it in the usual place near the bottom.
“May I see it?” she asked.
I nodded and turn it toward her.
She froze when she saw it. “No – that's impossible –
How could you – mon dieu! – turn it away – please!”
I did so, and hear her sobbing.
“I'm sorry, madame,” I said.
“I should never have asked you here,” she said. “I was told
What you were capable of, but I found it difficult to believe it
Until I saw it for myself. No one else can do what you do.”
“I'll have it destroyed if it displeases you,” I said.
“No – keep it,” she said. “You see what not even
My husband has probably ever seen. –But how?”
“I do not know,” I said. “I am just a painter.”
“Not 'just',” she said. “You are something more than that.
Much more. It was as if the hand of God Himself guided
Your eyes and hands. To reveal what I am deep inside.”
She took a deep breath, let it out.
“Thank you for coming,” she said. “Au 'voir.”
I nodded, gathered what I had brought, along with her portrait.
Her husband also didn't ask to see it. Not yet, anyway.
He did finally ask when we arrived back at my studio.
I hesitated – remembering his wife's reaction – and then
Turned it so that it faced him. he looked haunted at first,
Then nodded. “Yes, that is her. Not as she is now, but as
She was when we first met. You are truly gifted, monsieur.”
He paid me, and drove away.
I still have the portrait. It has never been framed.
I only look at it when I must, as I pass by it. But it is the
Proof that I can do what others gave said I could.
The wife died the next day.
But she will always live on in the portrait.
She is kneeling in a field of wildflowers, picking some
Of them. She is wearing a beautiful dress, her hat –
Its string tied around her neck – has fallen backwards,
To lie against the back of her head and neck. The sun
Shines down on her face. She is smiling and seems to
Be singing to herself. Then she looks up, as if she
Knows that I'm looking at her. She smiles and waves.
I have never painted another woman's portrait since.
(written 4-13-2017)
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Of course!
I especially loved this one.
And thank you so much for sharing your poetry with me. I read them all and the most i liked is 'the dove and me'. I really felt that one.the others are awesome too.
I don't know the poem u write are reality based or not?
Anyways the tree one was amazing too.
And yes ' the potrait' BRILLIANT. I LOVED it.
Amazing pieces.
:)
Btw, I usually write poems when I am in a bad mood.
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I'm glad that the three days of uncertainty (keep writing the story or abandon it) resulted in a completed story that you really liked. There are some things in it that are based on real life: The cafeteria, for instance, is borrowed from a junior high school I went to in Fairfax, VA; I didn't have a French teacher like Madame Courbet, but I did have a German professor in college like her. The guidance counselor in the story is nothing like the worthless one that I had in junior high school (my middle brother also had her as a guidance counselor and didn't like her either). The school office is based on the one at that same junior high school. The parents, however, aren't based on mine (at least not 100%). I pieced them together from different parents I've known and met over the years (including my own parents). Kind of like making a mosaic from a lot of different pieces. Grace isn't me, but she doesn't think, feel, and say some things that I think, feel, and say. Bonnie is completely fictional (I never had a friend like her, but I sure wish I had).
The poems are mostly fictional. Like with the short stories, I start hearing the first line or two in my head and I either write them on paper or type them on-screen (the ones on paper get typed up if I think they're good enough). Or I might have an image, like with the one about the tree in the garden. "The Portrait" was partly inspired by a story in the book "Strange But True": A man is traveling on a train and meets a sad young woman. They talk a bit and then she asks if he could draw a face from memory, and (because he's an artist) he says yes. She gets off at the next station stop and he continues to his destination. He visits a man and while they're talking, he tells the man about the young woman he met on the train. The man turns white and asks him to sketch the young woman's face. The artist does so. The man explains that the young woman is his daughter, who daughter a few years earlier. So did the artist meet a ghost on the train? Maybe. I also liked the idea of "moving pictures" (also the title of the 1981 Rush album, a favorite of mine). So I combined those two sources as I wrote my prose poem. I did try to write a sequel or two to "The Portrait", but wasn't entirely happy with them, so I've never gone back to edit/rewrite them and share them with anyone.
I rarely write when I'm in a bad mood. I do write sometimes when I'm in an unhappy mood, though. Sometimes it helps a story or poem, sometimes it doesn't.
If you want some more poetry to read:
ZEN GARDEN
I carefully place the rocks
In a sea of grey sand,
Creating furrows of parallel lines
Around them with an old rake
The bonsai stand in their pots
At either end of the rock garden,
Their sleeping spirits resting
As a gentle rain falls from the sky
My wife comes outside to join me,
Carrying a bamboo tea tray for us to share,
We sit down on a bench along one side
Of the rock garden, sipping hot tea
This is the peace and contentment we cherish,
Which makes our marriage and retirement
Well worth the effort we have put into them,
Until we are no longer driven by the need to earn
I lean towards my wife,
Kissing her softly on the lips
As our arms encircle one another,
No sound to disturb our happiness
We are not ignorant of the fact that somewhere,
Twenty miles away from here, lies the bustle and noise
Of the modern-day city of Tokyo, but we prefer
Our stronger connection to the ancient city of Kyoto
The sight and scent of cherry blossoms in springtime,
The sight of koi swimming in the tree-bordered lakes,
The inspiration for this zen garden, our quiet oasis,
Its gentle harmony guided and arranged by fung shui
If only everyone on this overcrowded world
Could feel as we do at this moment,
Experience the intimate interconnection
Of every living in the universe with one other
In return, we offered our prayers of thanks
For the gift that we have been given here,
A gift we hope will be shared with everyone,
A sign of hope that somewhere beyond the chaos
Of modern life there will always be a garden
Like our own, filled with peace and contemplation
(written 8-19-2015)
A BARGAIN WITH MADAME
There is always a cost,
Whether the prices goes up
Or down is of no consequence.
The question for the buyer is:
Are you willing to pay,
And take the risk that
The vendor might not be entirely
Trustworthy – or will you walk away?
Sometimes it is best to
Turn down the offer, because there
May be a hidden trap awaiting
The unwary – other times it is
Still better to accept and cross
The threshold, to see what lies
Beyond and if it be of use to oneself.
One fine day in late September
I found myself in precisely such a
Position – straddling the gap between
Certainty and ambiguity, the latter
Supported by casual indifference
And lazy ambivalence – wondering
If the offer were genuine and if
I would be in receipt of it if
I placed my payment on the
Table standing between us.
“You must be new to this, are you not,
Monsieur?” she asked, briefly lifting her
Dress to reveal her ankles before hiding
Them once again, and smiled at me
As she approached and sat on the bed.
“I am the veteran, you are the recruit.
I can only offer what is mine to give –
And you are free to accept or refuse.”
“Correct,” I said. “But to assume that
I was visiting merely to acquaint myself
With your place of business and the
Charms of the proprietress herself
Was a mistake, Madame. You are in
Possession of valuable information.”
“And you would like access to it,” she said.
“A bargain seems to be in order. Begin
Your haggling, Monsieur, and I may yet
Decide that what you offer is sufficient.”
I walked slowly about her “office”,
Noting the bookcase filled with books,
The telescope at the window, partly
Hidden by the curtains, the harpsichord
With sheet-music on it ready to be played,
The bed with its singular occupant, and
The desk with an unfinished letter on it.
“Pray, do not pry where I would not have
Your eyes be,” she said. “There are sides
To me that need not be revealed to you.”
“Your – cousin – asked me to come
Here today,” I said. “To speak with you,
To see if you would be willing to assist.”
She laughed. “My cousin? Is that
What he thinks he still is? Once my
Lover and now kept at a distance.
O how the mighty have fallen.
My cousin is a frightened child who
Rarely sets foot outside of Versailles,
Constantly surrounded by the
Hustle and bustle of courtly life.
What would he care about a
Poor relation earning her keep,
Here in the slums of Paris?
If he believes me so easily persuaded,
He has sent you to me in error.
I have nothing to tell him.”
The wind had changed; another
Tack was obviously needed,
Else there was no way to
Progress this close to the wind.
“Your brother rots in the depths
Of the Bastille,” I said. “What you
Know could be enough to free him.”
She narrowed her eyes at me.
“That recalcitrant malcontent?
He is even more worthless than
Our cousin. His gambling debts
Are legendary. Surely you must
Have heard that even the most
Dishonest of gambling houses
No longer permit him entry.
If not for our cousin, he would
Have been rendered destitute
Much sooner. It would be better
To save a drowning rat, even
At the risk of contracting plague.
Only a fool would help him.”
One last card to play;
I prayed it would suffice.
I reached into my coat and pulled
Out a medallion on a chain. I threw
It to her; she caught it easily, and
Laid it in her lap. She looked at me.
“How did you come by this?” she asked.
“A bargaining chip,” I replied. “One
That I was assured you could not refuse.”
“Indeed, Monsieur,” she said. “For it
Used to be my own. Until it was stolen
One night, and I thought it would be
Unlikely that I would ever see it again.”
She opened the medallion. “The miniature
Within is a painting of myself many years ago.
When I was far prettier than I am now.
When I was permitted to visit Versailles
As often as I wished to, and this was the key
That opened doors that nothing else would.”
“Then I believe we have a bargain?” I asked.
She made a face, said nothing, and got up
From the bed. I watched her walk over to
Her dresser and open the bottom drawer. She
Pulled something out and closed the drawer.
With her back to me, she asked, “I have your
Word that these will go to my cousin and
No other eyes will peruse their contents?”
“You do,” I said.
“Take them, then,” she said and I did so.
“Lest he delude himself, I can only
Hope that my cousin does not believe
That my thoughts and feelings for him
Are as they once were. I have aged.
My heart has changed, as has my
Position in society. I am not the
Little girl he once knew. Still, I am
His subject, as you are. I am his ally.
I will support him publicly, even if
I do not do so in private. But love –
That will not pass between us again.”
“I understand,” I said. “My thanks, Madame.”
I bowed. She showed me to the door –
No longer the king's favorite – discarded
By the changing whims of royal attention –
Descending to earth to become just another
Middle-aged woman struggling to survive
In a world that had passed her by – manager
And working-girl in a house of ill-repute.
I found it in myself to pity her. She
Deserved a much better life than this.
If only I had some way to assist her.
The door closed behind me, and I silently
Bade farewell to Madame Pompadour.
(written 3-14-2017 and 3-15-2017)
MIDNIGHT RAIN
It was midnight, and
The rain fell steadily,
Neither gently nor heavily,
But it did hit my bedroom
Window hard enough to wake me
I kept the lights off,
So that I could see
Outside without any reflections
Getting in the way
My house was far enough
Away from the nearest town
That traffic was rare,
Whether during the day
Or, as now, at night
In the moonlight I could see
The farm across the road
From where I lived,
And it seemed to have gained
A temporary stream that
Flowed downhill from the
Cow pasture to and through
The bard and finally alongside
The road before emptying into
The steadily growing duck-pond
The ducks had already abandoned
Their pond, waddling up to the road
And then over into my front yard
Where they sheltered as best they could
Under the branches of an old holly tree
I wondered where the cows were,
And if they were still sleeping
Inside the barn, wherever it was
Still dry enough to lie down on,
The chickens were probably huddled
Inside their coop, heads tucked down,
Because I didn't see them either
The overflow from the duck-pond
Followed the road still further,
Down to where it met another road,
One that led past a small local bakery
On its way toward the nearest town,
And I thought I saw an Amish
Horse-and-buggy trying to make
Its way carefully through the rising waters
I got out of bed and ran downstairs,
To the kitchen where I picked up
The phone and called the farm –
The wife answered – her husband
Was outside, checking on the animals –
The farmhouse was built up on
A small plateau, so it was safe for now
I asked if they needed any help,
She said no, but thanked me
For the offer – if things did get worse,
She'd call me and let me know –
We chatted a little while more
And then told each other good-night
I hung up and went out
Onto the porch – the ducks
Didn't scatter – they just looked up
Over at me and then back to
Where their pond had been
The area beneath the holly tree
Was already underwater, not that
The ducks minded getting wet,
They just needed a safe place
To shelter in, not one that
Might wash them all away
Gradually, as it got closer to sunrise,
The rain ebbed and the flood-waters retreated,
Leaving behind them wet grass, mud,
Gravel, and the like – the ducks simply
Waddled back across the road as a group,
Returning to their pond, and I wished them well
I yawned and stretched, realizing that
It was time I went back up to my bedroom,
Got back into bed, and continued
My interrupted slumbers, no doubt
Wondering when I woke up again
Several hours later if I'd dreamt it all
But there, on the front porch, was proof
That I hadn't imagined it – a basket
Of fruits, vegetables, a pie, and a note
From the farmer and his wife:
“We came through it just fine.
A bit wet around the edges, but otherwise
No harm. Might need to do some repairs
To a hole in the roof above the living room
Where some of the rain dripped through,
But that can wait for a sunny day.
Thank you for being such a good neighbor.
Enjoy the food and feel free
To come over for lunch.” And I did.
They were good neighbors too,
And continued to be so for
The next forty or so years
When, just a few months apart,
They both passed away, leaving me
To inherit their farm (since they
Had no children of their own) –
Where I am currently writing this,
Standing in the kitchen, occasionally
Scratching Tabby's – a calico kitten,
One of several kittens that roam
And play in the farmhouse – chin
And listening to her purr and
Feeling her rub her furry cheeks
And sides against my legs and feet
When the day comes and
I can no longer help out
With the farm's chores,
Thankfully there are several
Younger helpers, children and
Grandchildren who were born
In the years after that
Memorable midnight rain
Much as I love my wife
And she loves me, I will
Never forget the farmer and his wife,
And hope that we have done
Them proud and that the day will come
When I will see them again
And can finally introduce my wife to them –
I think that they will become good friends
And good neighbors in heaven
As much as they were here on earth
Please excuse me – my wife is
Calling me – it's time for dinner –
Our grandchildren race past me on
The way to the dining room –
Our daughter smiles and hugs me,
I nod and clasp hands with her husband,
A gentle giant who when needed has been
The substitute pastor at the local church –
We all sit down and his deep voice says grace
After dinner, I help clear away and
Wash the dishes with the help of
Our daughter – I could not imagine
A place feeling more like home
Than this farmhouse, and those
With whom I share its bounty –
She asks if I've finally written down
An account of the midnight rain
And what happened after it –
I say that it's finished – Are you going
To let anyone read it? she asks,
And I reply, yes, but only after
Your mother and I are gone
Afterward, I head upstairs to my study,
And fold up the papers I wrote
The account on, store them away in
A century-old box about the size
Of one of my forearms, close the box,
And then place the box inside the
Old chest in the attic that used to
Belong to the farmer and his wife,
And close it – after all, neither my wife
Nor I will have any need to read it –
It is a record of what once was –
I have learned over the years that
The present and future will always be
Far more wonderful than the past ever was –
And I would not have it any other way
As I climb back down the ladder,
And lift it back into place in the ceiling
Above the upstairs hallway, padded feet
Approach from behind me, I turn to see Tabby –
She jumps up and I hold her in my arms
You always want to get the last
Word, don't you? I ask her
She just looks up at me and purrs
(written 1-14-2017)
TOGETHER ON A RAINY DAY
I love it when it rains, because
There are all these wonderful puddles
To run across or jump in, and it
Really doesn't matter if I get soaked
I put on my raincoat and my boots,
Grab my favorite clear umbrella,
Then hurry out the front door and
Look for the nearest puddles
I feel like a duck, waving my arms,
And jumping from puddle to puddle,
Sometimes I laugh as I quack, and
I don't care if anyone thinks I'm silly
Sometimes if it rains really hard
The creek will flood, and overflow
The stone walls that it flows between,
Then you can't see the yard anymore
If I just wear my swimsuit,
I can sit down where it's flooded,
And it's like having my own pool,
Only bigger than the wading pool
I used to play in when I was little
But this time I'll wade down
To the edge of the creek,
And watch the rafters go by,
They wave, and I wave back
I'm glad our house is uphill
From the creek, so that the water
Can't go inside and cause
All sorts of problems
But as long as the creek behaves,
And there isn't too much rain,
Then you can have fun all day
Before the creek shrinks back down
Oh, good – my best friend Jenny,
Is also coming out to play,
She waves from her back door
And I wave back to her
We've been best friends since
We were both in Kindergarten,
And I've always been envious
Of her beautiful long dark hair
She told me once that it's not
That special having dark hair,
And that she'd really rather have
Long dark red hair like mine
I know she wouldn't lie to me,
But why would anyone want
Red hair like mine, since it only
Seems to cause me problems
Jenny is wearing her swimsuit
And her boots, but no umbrella,
So her hair is already soaked,
Lying like a rug on her back
We spend the next few hours
Playing in the flooded grass,
Splashing each other and laughing,
Happy to be together again
We pretend that we're searching
For buried treasure under the water,
Or that this is a huge swimming pool,
Or that we've found a frog prince to kiss
We make up a story about a flooded kingdom
That used to be here, but one day it rained
And rained and rained and before you knew it
The kingdom was underwater and forgotten
There was a princess in the kingdom who
Was supposed to watch out for the rising water,
But she started daydreaming about the prince
She hoped to marry one day, and forgot to look
Next thing she knew the moat was a huge lake,
And treetops were barely visible above its surface,
She heard her father calling to her, so she turned,
But he slipped and fell, and she never saw him again
She spent the rest of her life alone, living on
The battlements of the castle, as if it was an island
Surrounded by an ocean, wishing she hadn't
Started daydreaming and could undo it all
“What about the frog prince?” Wendy asks me,
“What happened to him?” and I think and say,
“He visited the castle one day and she kissed him.”
“And they lived happily ever after,” Jenny said
Then I hear her mom calling to her
And my mom calling to me, telling us
That it's almost lunch time and that
We need to come inside, dry off, and change
Jenny and I hug, and before I know what
I'm doing I'm kissing her on the cheek,
And she gives me a surprised look, because
I've never done that before, then kisses me back
Then we separate and run back uphill
To our houses, and go inside to dry off,
Change into shirts and shorts, and then
Have lunch with our parents and siblings
Maybe, if we're lucky, our backyard will
Still be flooded after lunch and our moms
Will let us go back out and play some more,
Because there's always more we can do
And when we're older, hopefully we'll happily
Remember days like this, and tell our children –
If we have any – what it was like when it rained
The creek flooded, we played, and told stories
Until then, though, we won't have to worry
About tomorrow, who we'll fall in love with,
Who we'll go to the prom with, which college
We'll study at, and what we'll grow up to be
For now, we're two girls, two best friends,
Still in grade school; you'll find us at either
Jenny's house or at mine, sitting together,
Holding hands, and watching the rain fall
(written 4-26-2020)
Enjoy.
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Hey Philip! How are you doing? Any ideas for new stories??
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Just submitted a story, "A Business Proposition". I hope it reads okay. I did some editing, but it may need more.
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Coolio! I'll check it out right away!
I submitted another funny story like my to trap a heart series - its called chain the past - if you're interested!
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Be honest with me: if it looks like it needs rewriting *anywhere*, please tell me so and where. I don't mind going back to rewrite, as long as it improves a story.
I'll read your story as soon as I can. I have the rest of a transcription to type for my boss (my mother), but I'm taking a dinner break for right now before going back to it.
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Haha I will (:
And no problem!! Thanks so much
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I made some fixes to the story, but now I can't copy/paste the new version so that it overwrites the old version. *SIGH* This website can be a real pain sometimes, software-wise. I'll try again. Wish me luck.
Okay. I managed to get the copy/paste to finally work. I hope the new version reads better than the old one did. I incorporated as much of your editing suggestions as I could.
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I am sorry I am so late to reading this, Philip....it's a heartwarming and insightful and inspiring story. I have not yet read a story about a character who has transitioned to another gender and it was such an eye-opener for me. You treated the theme which such sensitivity and really brought home the additional themes of acceptance, love, celebration, identity, family and communication. An important story that should be read far and wide!
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I'm a little behind myself. I took about 2-3 weeks away from this website in January and didn't realize how long it would take me to catch up on messages. There were even some from late December that I hadn't responded to yet. I'm still catching up, but hopefully (someday) I'll reach the point of only being a week behind.
That's quite all right. My mother says she hasn't read all my stories (the ones I've submitted to this website) yet. But at least it means she has plenty to read (along with newspapers, emails, etc.).
This story wasn't easy to write. It began with Bonnie's reaction and statement at the beginning (of course, in the rough draft, she wasn't called "Bonnie"; I also changed the name's of Grace's birth mother and stepmother from what they were in the rough draft). But what happened in the story definitely felt very real to me. It took me about three days to write the rough draft and then I went back on the 3rd day and edited it. I almost gave up on it twice when I was writing the rough draft. I'm glad I didn't, though.
It's probably one of the more personal stories that I've submitted to this website. Not so much in the gender change from male to female, but in Grace's thoughts and feelings and her interaction with her stepmother. High school probably would've been easier to deal with if I'd had a female best friend like Bonnie, but sadly I didn't. I did have a male best friend, whose friendship and kindness really helped me out (and, apparently, I did the same for him). The cafeteria was borrowed from my junior high school lunchroom. The school office is from the same junior high school. But the guidance counselor isn't like the (pretty much useless) one that I had in real life (my middle brother had the same guidance counselor and he thought she was pretty much useless, too). The rest is pretty much fictional. For instance: my birth mother has no twin sister (her baby sister was born almost 13 1/2 years after my mother was). My birth mother is still very much alive (she'll be 79 in August). My birth father, however, died in May 2007 (a week before his 73rd birthday).
One of the inspirations for the story was a transgender transition (male-to-female) video on YouTube (search for "transition story" and "The Real Thing"). Another inspiration was what I went through back when my parents got separated in 1984 and divorced two or three years later. I didn't want the reader to think that making such a huge change was equal to getting it handed to them on a silver platter. Things weren't going to be easy. But, hopefully, over time things might get a little less difficult and the "road" the characters traveled on might be a little less bumpy over time.
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I love this. Good job, Philip!
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I'm glad you liked it.
It wasn't easy to write, but more and more (because of positive reactions to it), I'm glad I didn't give up on it. I'm glad I stuck with it and submitted it. I do wish, though, that it wasn't as personal sometimes as it is. But I wanted it to be as honest as possible, so the personal parts had to be included.
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hi Philip- It's been a minute since I've gotten to read any of your stories. I really loved this one- the humanity is beautiful. I'm glad Grace reunited with her stepmother and that the focus was positive. I only wish all people could find acceptance when push comes to shove. I also enjoy reading your comments and replies just as much. I feel you on imposters syndrome. As much as I have found Reedsy to be a welcoming supportive community, sometimes I feel like I will never be part of the cool kids club. (Hopefully, that makes sense. I'm not bitter, or upset, it's just the imposter's syndrome you speak of lol!)
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Acceptance isn't easy to come by. What I tell people is this: "If I can't accept what I don't like about someone along with what I do like about them, then I have no business being friends with them." Which goes hand-in-hand with "You can choose your friends but not your family".
I live in a family separated mostly by distance but sometimes also by difficult situations in the past. I've had to learn (sometimes the hard way) that the past can't be fixed. But I've also learned that the mistakes in it can be learned from if one is willing to take the time and make the effort. It doesn't make it any easier, though, when the mistakes are my own and I have to face them and accept them.
I didn't know about imposter syndrome (or fraud police) until I watched a video from the 2015 Boston Book Festival when Neil Gaiman interviewed his second wife Amanda Palmer (they mostly discussed her life and her book). It's still on YouTube, I think, and well worth watching.
This website has been far more supportive and accepting than I ever dared to think a website could be. It reminds me of my ex-girlfriend's mother (who died in 2002), when she said to me, "Yes, we know you're weird, but we still love you." I would cry and hug her (she was a great hugger). It meant so much to be accepted, warts and all. I still miss her very very very much.
I'm not sure I've ever been considered cool. I think I've just been too unusual for the cool crowd. Thinking outside-the-box seems to come naturally to me (maybe that's why I'm better at improvising than structured creativity). I remember saying to that same ex-girlfriend, "I get the feeling that I spend most of my time outside-the-box." She paused, gave me an amused look, and asked, "You mean there's a box?" And I sheepishly grinned and said, "Oh. Oops."
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A story about acceptance of a sex change. Very well written and details. I like it.
I am the Theta author, I know I haven't written much to it recently, but I wanted to let you know that I am attempting a different approach to the story and writing like book one from the main points of view of Selena and Lucian...I will have a chapter of Bruce Maxwell in there as well as Salvatore later, but the main two will be Selena and Lucian. First person perspective instead of third. I also renamed the series title to "Reclamation of the Theta." Book one will be refereed to as "Alpha and Omega"
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Glad you liked it. As I told my mother recently, fiction (and science fiction, for that matter) gives an author a way to examine something they're curious about but wouldn't actually experience in real life.
It wasn't easy to write it (especially the scene in the guidance counselor's room). The more personal material tends to be like that, as if I were exposing far too much of myself in the process. I confess that I almost gave up on it. Especially on the first day I was writing it. But on the second day, I decided to go back and work on it some more. And on the third day, I finished writing it, edited it where it seemed to need it, and then submitted it. Since then, I've found at least a few errors to fix (mostly missing words). It seems to be okay overall now. I try not to over-edit, because then I can start making a story worse rather than better.
I remember. I'm sorry for going quiet for so long (at least 2 weeks) last month. Apparently, it was necessary (both emotionally and as a rest break). Being far more introverted than extraverted, I need "away time" to recharge my batteries. I just have to make sure I don't stay away permanently, though, I liked what I was taking a break from. I also noticed that the more I corresponded on this website, the less writing I did (or at least the writing didn't seem to be as good as before). This doesn't mean I don't enjoy the correspondence part. I *do* enjoy it. But I also enjoy the creative writing part, and I'm not quite sure yet how to balance the two, so that they get equal attention. I guess that's something all authors have to deal with (some more than others). George Bernard Shaw, for instance, finally had to hire a secretary and use form letters, because he had gotten so popular that if he answered all the letters, he wouldn't get any creative writing done. I pray that I never get *that* popular. That would be overwhelming.
Interesting titles for the Selena/Lucian story. I'm guessing that Lucian is doing the reclaiming, since he's already captured Selena. (I just started getting back into corresponding on this website yesterday, so I've probably forgotten much of what you've told me about your Theta story. Sorry bout that.) Are you going to be using any of the other letters of the Greek alphabet as titles? Btw, if it's not too much trouble, would you be able to give me a paragraph-length summary of the overall plot of the Selena/Lucian story? A quick overview, if that's possible. That might help me to better remember what's happening in it.
I'll try to get back on this website on a regular basis (not just to submit new stories) so that I don't fall behind too much. But don't be surprised, though, if I have to take a break every so often. I'll also try not to make the breaks too long, because (I've learned) the longer they last, the harder it is to return to what I took a break from.
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Theta was basically the name of the ancestor of Lucian's that was forced to create the Theta blood line. In Selena's case, she is one of the Archetypes and the one who is his fated mate in the process. Lucian being King of the Lion Shifters and was named over all leader of the Shifters. He of course is refereed to as the King Alpha of Shifters. In the case of Selena, she is the Omega Theta Hunter of the Midnight Order with Bruce Maxwell being her handler because she has a defiant streak.
Because I am taking things in the different perspective, the New Prologue is actually interactions really between Selena and Bruce in route to New Orleans by Plane up until the plane lands and they split off. Selena goes to the French Quarter like the good vampire hunter and he is doing a minor scouting mission in Baton Rouge which leads to his capture and interrogation and eventual death by Lucian King and his Lions. In turn this will now leave Selena vulnerable.
I may be taking things very easy in the near future. From all indications I just might be pregnant. The only thing I haven't done yet is a test, but everything else is about right. One indicator is the weird things I have been eating and craving. Another is mid afternoon naps, I did that with my last one.
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Okay. That sounds familiar. I think I remember saying that Lucian had better be careful of Selene because she isn't a pushover. If they could manage, somehow, to be equals, that might benefit them both.
Ah. Selena wasn't alone on purpose, then. Still, I'm not sure I'd call her "vulnerable". Not from what you told me about her in earlier messages (before mid-January, I mean). Alone, yes, vulnerable, no.
Oh my. I haven't interacted with someone who is (or might be) pregnant in a long time. I will definitely empathize with your emotional ups-and-downs during your pregnancy (if you are pregnant). Since this isn't your first pregnancy, at least you have some memories and experiences to help you guide you this time. I've heard that the first pregnancy can be the most difficult, and it gets a little easier (not "easy", but "easier") each time after that. I would definitely get tested and if it's positive, congrats, and if it's negative (and you wanted a positive result), at least you and your spouse/partner/etc. can try again.
I've never been a father (but I've been an uncle and a step-uncle). My female best friend said once that I'm not parent material. To which my male best friend asked me, "Would you kill to protect her daughter?" ("Her" being my female best friend.) I looked annoyed (after all, why did he have to ask in the first place, since the answer should've come as no surprise) and said, "Yes." He said, "Then you're parent material."
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I added a small part of the new version of the story line thus far. It is more interaction between Selena and Bruce and creates a back drop for things in the story "Plane Rides". You actually get some feel for Selena in the early running and Lucian King is mentioned. It is up now if you would like a look at it.
So far the stick test said no, but my body still says otherwise, Am looking into the possibility of a blood test check, but right now a tinsey bit of money is an issue there. So if I can look into the blood test and it says no, I will let it go. Until then I am still treating myself as if it is the possibility. My cats are even doing the same thing they did with my first one..cuddling my stomach and what not. They even come to me and yell at me, looking at the bedroom if they notice me tired. Probably saying NAP.
I have always been protective of those close to me, so I guess that is motherly instinct. My husband hates the state the world is in and how younger kids act...proof of his instinct.
I made some cinnamon bread today..a bread loaf kind of thing. Now I am eating melted Sharp cheddar on it...lol
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I'll try to read your story "Plane Rides" once I respond to your message. I just hope that Lucian learns to appreciate Selena (and not just for her body and DNA). Otherwise, she'll probably find some way to remind him that she's her own person, not his property or his slave.
Maybe the test result was a false positive? I figure that your body would know if you were pregnant or not, no matter what the test result was. Is there some way to get an X-ray or sonogram or something to try to spot where the fertilized ovum might be (if there is one lurking inside you)? Since your cats are reacting like they did the first time around, I would conclude that your test result was a false positive. Maybe you should get another test? If the second test is positive, then maybe the first test should've been positive also? But if the second test is negative, then I don't know what to say. Maybe because you want another baby so much your body is acting as if it was pregnant when it really isn't? I'm not trying to upset you. I'm making guesses here based on what you've said. I really hope that it isn't a miscarriage. I can only imagine how awful that would make you feel.
As far as how kids act ... I grew up mostly in the 1970s (I was born in 1967) and definitely made my share of mistakes (some really dumb ones, while others were more understandable because they came from ignorance). Not just back then, but over the decades. And I wasn't one of the rebellious ones while I was growing up. I tried to be a good kid to my birth parents and later to my birth mother and stepfather. I think there needs to be mutual respect between parents and children (not a one-way street from one to the other), but it has to be earned not handed out on a silver platter. If a child refuses to behave (when it's in the child's best interest), then I really don't think it's the parents' fault. And if one or both parents turn out to be terrible people (not just to their kid(s) but also to each other and to other people), it's not the child's fault. I remember one couple (I knew the wife because I would hang out on her BBS back in the late 1980s and early 1990s; but I didn't know the husband) who gave up their son for adoption when they realized that they were terrible parents. I wish that they'd done it sooner, because I think the son was about 12 at the time and the son might've been raised by better parents had he been given up for adoption sooner.
The biggest problem with children's actions and attitudes is that they don't always turn to the people with the best knowledge and experience (adults, I mean). They tend to turn to their peers, who rarely know enough and have experienced enough while growing up (but sometimes try to act like they're experts ... when they usually aren't experts). It wasn't until college, I think, that I had enough friends of my own generation that were worth trusting and being friends with. Wisdom comes from experience and learning from mistakes. The older you get, usually the wiser you get (but not always; there are always exceptions). To ignore sources of wisdom is (to put it bluntly) unwise. While growing up, I would turn to people of my parents' and grandparents' generations if I needed help and support. I hope this made sense.
Not sure if I've ever had cinnamon bread, but sounds delicious. I used to love cinnamon shortbread cookies (and plenty of other sweet desserts and cereals with plenty of sugar and starch in them). Not a big fan of cheese, though, unlike the rest of my family, relatives, and friends. I would probably put melted butter and sugar on the cinnamon bread instead (so that it was sort of like cinnamon toast). If you can find a recipe for it online, I highly recommend Russian tea cookies. Very tasty, very addictive. Especially if they have powdered sugar sprinkled on them. I first discovered them at Sluy's Bakery in Poulsbo, WA, and have loved them ever since.
In case you're wondering, I not only missed getting the artistic (as in, drawing and painting; though I can do pottery as long as it isn't on a potter's wheel) gene from my father, I also missed getting the cooking gene from my mother. My two brothers are great cooks and so are both of my nephews. I do okay. Simple stuff. I can follow a recipe, find and purchase ingredients, mix them, etc. but I usually don't try to make complicated stuff. And I can't put together wonderful meals like my mother, brothers, and nephews can. My oldest brother's second wife once told me, "Ever since your brother and I got married, I almost never cook meals anymore." I asked why and she said, "Because about 20 minutes after he gets home from work, he has a delicious meal ready to be served." The same might also be true for my middle brother's wife (though they might usually cook together). Another dessert that used to be a family favorite is: sour cherry pie. My late father used to make them and they were soooooo good. My mother would make pumpkin pies, so Thanksgiving meant having to choose between two pies, both of which I liked. Talk about not fair!
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