Dear Editor: Sorry About Your Arm

Dear Editor:

It is nice to meet you and so interesting to hear about the series of events that led to your success (sorry about your arm!) in coding, website design and eventual creation of two creative writing websites. I believe every decision we make in life changes the course of our lives; however, in your case, it was an injury to your arm that initiated a career change. Turn left instead of right at a traffic light, or slip while attempting to put out a dumpster fire, injuring an arm in the process, and the course of one's life could take a drastic turn.

Had I not gone to that totally rad party back in 1985, I wouldn't have met the man who became my husband. The man who turned me inside out, and over the course of time, broke me into a million pieces and was eventually clinically diagnosed with narcissistic personality disorder, with a couple of additional addictions thrown in for good measure. Knowing what I now know regarding how my life would be for the over three decades I lived with the man without a conscience, would I still go to that party? The answer is a resounding YES. I have two amazing kids. Though grown now and leading their own lives, they have already put their mark on the world. I also would not have my stepdaughter. She was born in year seven of my marriage, though my kids and I didn't know about her until she was eleven years old. He had a secret second family. So, to get to the point, one simple act can change everything.

This theory is also true of my writing. I took melatonin as a sleep aid one night, and it induced some pretty funky dreams. I was very emotional upon waking, and jotted down the parts I could remember. Though rough around the edges, I had a fairly good first-ever micro-fiction story. I was 56 years old. I moved on from there by writing The Laundry Room, a story about the time I was nearly abducted from a crummy motel laundry room by Ted Bundy in Pensacola Florida in 1978. I let my daughter, a photojournalist and news editor for a local newspaper at that time, read the story and she passed it up one level to the managing editor, who asked if she could run the story in the paper. Because you see, the Golden State Killer had just been captured that very week. The timing of my story was perfect. My daughter passed along my second story, A Fungus Among Us. This one was about living in the same crummy motel (mentioned above), while my father (an undiagnosed schizophrenic with a gambling addiction), decided to attend Bible College. It was pretty funny, and this set me up with a monthly humorist column for a couple of years. 

I'm still writing! I have stories in twenty-seven anthologies to date with five on the horizon. I hope you like my style, somewhat, because it isn't really literary in nature and after I received my complimentary copy of your wonderful magazine, I kind of blanched. I probably sent the wrong story. The one I submitted is more a combination of light humor and horror, the two genres in which I seem to excel. Oh well! I will know better next month and will write something or choose something more literary to submit. 

Thank you so much for introducing yourself and I imagine this little summary of myself is well over the requested maximum count of 350 words. If you are reading this, it means you plugged along and got through my long-winded monologue. 

Sincerely,

The Author

P.S After some thought, I decided to include my very first short story—the one I wrote following a prebedtime dose of melatonin. As I mentioned earlier, this story being my first, was rough around the edges. Below you will find The Star of the Show, the version I wrote upon waking from that live-altering dream. I don't know whether this will help or hurt my case regarding consideration of my stories for your magazine. I anxiously await your response.

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The Star of the Show

I am walking around Vanderbilt University, looking for something. There is a reason that I am here. Not sure what it is. Walking and walking and looking for a street name I can’t remember. Is there any money in my wallet? I don’t think so.

I look over at a couple of girls standing and giggling while they are looking at another girl standing alone studying her phone. One of the gigglers begins a woeful love song directed at the lone girl. Heartfelt, boisterous and tearful and tone deaf she continues to the end not mindful of the gathering crowd.

When she finishes baring her soul, I say “Bravo!" and move on.

Where is that street? Why am I here? Still walking, I decide to find a close hotel; maybe take a cab. I am still worrying about my cash poor situation and spying a gothic-style university hotel, I pass. Bet it won’t be cheap. Moving on, I see two girls talking and laughing, one leaning on the other in a moment of hilarity.

A cab pulls up. I look hopeful. Maybe I can...

The leaning girl motions me over, “Are you looking for someone?”

“Not sure, but I do know I need to get to a hotel.”

“Want to share the cab? We can drop you wherever.”

We three pile into the back seat mashed together like sardines.

The leaning girl looks over my way, face joyful and flushed, a small bead of sweat on her upper lip, “I have a big important day today. There will be a gathering like I’ve never seen before. All there just to see me. I’ll be the star of the show.”

Her companion, silent up to this point, smiles at me and nods, a tear forming at the edge of her left eye. “That’s right. A special day. My sister is going to be the star. The one everyone is coming to see.” She is glowing with pride. “This is the moment we have all been waiting for and it could really change her life.”

I am stunned by the beauty of them. The older sister with her arm around the younger who is soon to be star of the day. Star of the show. The Star is weak with anticipation. Is she a budding actress? Is this her big break the one all actors dream of while slinging hash at demanding diners, day-in and day-out, only leaving to rush to the next audition?

The older sister reaches into her purse pulling out lipstick and a tissue to dab at the sweat moustache on the budding actress. Perfectly Pink lipstick is applied next. “You’ll want to look your best for the team.”

The cab begins a right-hand turn into a parking lot. I reach for my bag ready to make my exit and leave these lovely sisters to continue on. Looking over, I see the older sister reaching for the door handle.

The cab driver glances my way. “We’re here.” I twist my head to see. Not a hotel. A hospital. No, a research center. Transplant research.

“I decided to drop them first. Okay with you?”

I nod. They pay and exit; the older sister supporting the Star. As they make their way, a team of doctors meeting them at the door is all smiles.

The glowing Star is ceremoniously seated, a plastic princess crown placed atop her head. Her team begins to push her wheelchair toward a new life.

She looks back at me. Smiles. Waves. Mouths, “I’m ready for my show.”

My reason becomes clear. I reach into my wallet pulling out a mysterious wad of cash. Thrusting it toward the driver, I exit the cab. “Wait up,” I shout, running to take the older sister’s hand.