Thoughts on Coping

Life throws us curve balls. Some of them are thrown with such strength, speed and accuracy you'd think you were facing down the Big Unit (meh, he was a great pitcher of my childhood). How you handle those curve balls however, says a lot about you.

Maybe you run or do yoga. Maybe you hide. Maybe finding the bottom of a bottle of rum is your choice. Maybe you're the whine on Facebook type. Maybe you lean on family and your true friends until the crisis is over. Maybe you find yourself the first thing on two legs that'll screw you. Maybe you drive your car too fast. Maybe you just mope and feel sorry for yourself.

For me, I write. I over think things, and I write.

I write about suicide. I write about death. I write angry. I write tears. I write about real men and tough women. I write about betrayal, honesty, and redemption. (Although, even when I'm in a great mood my writing runs on the dark side.)

This isn't new. I've done it my whole life. The difference is I have a blog instead of a pretty journal.

So read, think, relate. But always remember...

It's just fiction.

A Fall Story

Laughter rang across the open field from the orchard beyond. The source of the sound hidden amongst the changing leaves. Although the sun still shone brightly in the sky, autumn was taking firm grasp of the world. Frost had crept in during the night leaving drooping, dying plants in its wake; wide leaves no longer hiding their bright orange treasures.

Soon wisps of fine gray smoke would waft above the red brick chimney of the small home. Baskets of shiny red apples would be peeled, cored, and sliced. The tangy odor of rising bread would mix with cinnamon and citrus. Cocoa and hot toddies would be savored.

Bright colors would please the eyes. The rich burgundy of cranberry sauce punctuated by bright orange peel, the various golden browns of baked bread, roast turkey and apple cobbler, the creamy white of smashed potatoes with the soft yellow of melting butter, the bright green of string beans, and the deep orange of pumpkin pie.

Most importantly, the home would fill with friends, family, and love as they took time to be thankful for all the blessings they had, big or small.

The writer who held things together, the marine who kept them safe, the niece who made them laugh, the munchkin who made them smile, the corpsman who watched over them, and the friend who loved them all.

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The Rendezvous - Part 2

Hello. If you haven't had the chance, you might want to read Part 1 here first. Happy reading!

The Rendezvous - Part 2

by KK Sierra

He checked the clock on his dash. Thirty minutes before his babe’s plane landed; plenty of time to grab a pack of cigarettes and a can of Skoal. It was a nasty habit he knew, but not one he was ready to give up.

The convenience store was brightly lit and well designed. The aisles were wide, angling out from the counter to allow the clerk to see customers at any location in the store. The glass front ensured visual confirmation of anyone at the gas pumps, as well.

Standing in line behind a woman, he waited his turn to make his purchase. The woman looked like she hadn’t showered in at least a week and the pungent odor wafting from her made him step back a pace.

“Two thirty-two,” the clerk told the woman.

With painstaking deliberation, she pulled change out of her dirty shorts and one coin at a time, carefully counted out a few quarters, nickels and pennies. Stifling a sigh, he pulled his phone out of his pocket to check the time.

The escalating whine caught his attention seconds before the Mazda crashed through the plate glass. He didn’t think, just reacted. With a step forward, he caught the woman around the waist and drug her with him as he pulled them both over and behind the counter, gashing his arm open as they went. The glass in the counter shattered as it was clipped by the passenger side mirror.

A scream was cut off as the car crashed in the back of the store, and then relative silence. The incident had lasted mere seconds.

The scene was surreal as he pried the sobbing woman’s fingers from his arm and helped her get to her feet. She was alright, as was the clerk who was muttering, “oh holy shit.”  Steam hissed from the engine of the car where it rested among the cold sodas and chocolate milk.

His military training had him instinctually aware of his surroundings and he knew exactly where every person had been in the store prior to the car crashing through. Seven people, in all; himself, the clerk, the woman, a man at the soda fountain, two teens in the candy aisle, and a woman at the end cap looking at donuts. He quickly surveyed the room. The donut woman was missing.

Skirting the counter, and stumbling around in the debris, he followed the path of the car. Donut boxes, among other things, had exploded on impact with the car. On the far side of the car, he saw an arm. With authority he spoke to the clerk, “Call the police.” He glanced inside the car at the driver. The old man’s face reflected death. He suspected he’d had a heart attack. Reaching through the open passenger window, he checked the man. The old man had no pulse. He knew there was nothing more he could do for him, and instead focused his attention on the woman. “Tell them we need two ambulances.”

Beckoning Soda Fountain guy he said, “Come help me.” On his hands and knees beside the car, he tried to see the woman. He checked her wrist and found her pulse to be weak, but steady. “See if the clerk has a flashlight. I can’t see anything.” He didn’t want to move her from under the car, until he’d checked her out a little better.

With the flashlight in hand, he was able to see her face. She appeared to be unconscious. Nothing jumped out at him to indicate he needed to leave her under the car until she could be better stabilized. “Help me move her,” he asked Soda Fountain guy.

Together they carefully slid her from under the car. “Hold her head,” he instructed Soda Fountain guy. He helped him put his fingers on either side of her ears, toward her body, keeping her head still.  She wasn’t moving, but it was important to stabilize her head to prevent further trauma. "Don't let her move."

Running through a ingrained mental checklist, he gave her a once over. Her breathing was labored and his exam revealed obviously broken ribs. He suspected significant internal bleeding. However, since she was breathing on her own and there was no more than superficial bleeding to stop, there was little else he could do to help her.

The paramedics arrived shortly thereafter and he let them take over. The clerk was still standing behind the counter and handed him a pack of cigarettes as he walked by. Guess he just had “I need a smoke” written on his face. He walked outside. The parking lot awash with the garish flashing of emergency lights. News crews wouldn't be far behind.

The dirty woman came over to where he stood smoking the much needed cigarette. They matched now; his clothes were filthy, covered with the remnants of broken shelving, dry wall, soda bottles, food and blood. “Thanks,” she said shyly. “I think this is yours.” He took his cell phone and grimaced.  He knew not memorizing phone numbers would someday bite him in the ass. These days he didn’t even bother to memorize the number to his work. Why bother when everything was so conveniently stored in his phone and synced with his computer at home.

Now, looking at the smashed face of his phone, he swore. His babe was waiting; probably waffling between worry and anger. He thought about the young woman inside and how she only wanted donuts. He reflected on how short life was and how quickly it could be taken away. He and his babe were going to have a serious talk soon. 

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The Cabin - A Short Story

The Cabin
by KK Sierra

Sydney felt like a bit of a fool but she couldn't shake the sick ache in her stomach or the empty twist in her heart that told her something was seriously wrong in her world.

She thanked the driver and stepped out into the dark, nearly slipping on the ice hidden under the new snow. The steep dirt road that led to the cabin was too much for anything but a four-wheel drive or an automobile with chains to safely traverse. She'd make the last mile to the cabin on foot.

The lights of the car faded long before the sound of its engine. Hugging herself she shivered, not against the cold, but against the sudden realization that she was very, very alone. In the middle of the night. In below freezing temperatures. With only her light winter jacket, a pair of $1 Walmart stretchy gloves, and her tennis shoes. No wonder the driver had looked at her like she was insane when she insisted on getting out.

With a figurative stiffening of her spine, she started to trudge up the hill. The dark was all encompassing and she could hardly make out her next step. She hadn't expected it to be this dark. The moon had been shining at her house. She didn't even bring a flashlight. Her cell phone had no reception in this remote hunting area.

Hunting! Sydney mentally kicked herself. How could she have forgotten about the bobcat she and Michael saw last time they were up here? It was probably tracking her awkward movements right now.  God knew she was making enough noise.

Frightened beyond anything she'd ever known she tried to climb faster. Her sneakers slipping as she attempted to get purchase against the treacherous ruts and ridges. Finally she moved away from the middle of the road towards the edge and dangerously steep hill beyond. The pine needles mixed with the fresh snow allowed her to walk faster. The risk of falling seeming less likely than getting attacked by a wild beast.

The only sound in her ears was the ragged sound of her own breath and the crunch of snow. The sick feeling was being replaced by anger with every change in elevation.

The snow made everything look different and she almost passed the long drive on the left that led to the small meadow cleared below the cabin. It was only a barely visible reflector on the old growth douglas fir that caught her attention.

Another ten minutes found her staring at the soft glow escaping the large, recently installed, picture windows. Her Uncle was renovating the cabin a little at a time. She could smell the comforting apple wood smoke of a warm fire escaping the chimney. Now that she was here she was afraid to continue. She really should have brought her burly Uncle along.

Michael's truck was there, as was Paul's. Making her way across the meadow she quietly stepped up onto the old porch and opened the screen door. It made a slight squeak, but there was no change in the music she heard playing inside.

With her heart pounding in her throat, she twisted the door knob and stepped inside the kitchen. Sure enough a toasty fire burned merrily in the cast iron stove enveloping her in its warmth. She slowly slid her fingers down, letting the screen door close behind her and was closing the inner door when she heard a breathless feminine giggle and a masculine moan. The door thunked behind her.

Seconds later Paul's large frame and spiky blonde hair filled her vision, "What the fuck? Sydney? Oh, holy shit, I thought you were my dad." Paul then grew very pale. "This isn't what it looks like."

She pushed around him and into the main cabin area. A red headed teen was on the couch, her double d's out for the world to see. Sydney ignored her. Her attention instead captured by the man in the loft frantically trying to get his pants back up, while a woman pouted on her knees beside him.

Picking up the key's to Michael's truck and the cell phone lying on the near-by table she said, "Next time you decide to cheat, don't butt dial your wife."

With nothing else to say, she turned and walked out the door.

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The Rendezvous - A Short

I haven't been doing enough writing lately. So, for fun, here's a fictional story.

The Rendezvous

by KK Sierra

She stepped off the plane onto the jetway; the oppressive humidity making her gasp for breath. She glanced down at her sweaty, rumpled clothes, and made her way up the boarding ramp to the closest restroom.  The air conditioned terminal bringing her momentary relief.

Secured behind a stall door she removed the plastic cover from the mint green dress with its narrow, braided straps and cluster of flowers at the right side of the waist. Stripped down to her panties, she balanced on her flip flops to keep her feet from the dirty floor as she refreshed her deodorant and swiped some lotion on her legs and arms. The light scent of mango danced around her.

Excitement that had been building during the flight threatened to bubble over and she could not help but smile. It had been weeks and she missed her love. She was looking forward to the look of affection in his eyes and hoped he appreciated the effort she put forth to look special. It had been a long day, followed by a long drive and an equally long flight. The clothing she wore was far from her normal attire.

Slipping into her beige peep-toed heels, she smoothed the front of the airy dress. It swirled around her, the skirt ending just above her knees. Quickly she repacked her things, momentarily wondering why she hadn’t gotten the usual, “you land yet?” text message. The better to surprise him, she surmised.

A minimalist, she ran through her hair quickly with a brush and freshened her breath. No need for makeup. She loved her bright red lipstick but only when she didn’t plan on kissing anyone, and tonight, she definitely planned on kissing someone. Anticipation made her shiver. With a final, satisfied glance in the mirror, she grabbed her bag and headed out.

Foot traffic in the terminal had diminished quickly, as would be expected for a late evening flight. She nodded to the now familiar, aging security guard as she passed TSA’s point of no return into the unsecured part of the airport. He smiled in return and gave her a thumbs up. She was confident in her pretty, flirty dress and high heels.

The hall, however, was quite empty. No tall, smiling man. No sweeping embrace. No phone call. No text message. Her walk slowed, her gait faltered, her posture drooped, the confidence gone. Stunned, she stands in the corridor, lost.

A text sent, “I’m here.”

No response is received.

She wanders down the corridor for some sign. Finding none, she walks out into the still hot night air. Traffic whooshes by as passengers arrive and depart. The tweet of the policeman's whistle mingling with the hydraulic lift of the nearby bus. Alas, no sign of whom she seeks.

Forgotten.

Alone.

She sits.

The pretty dress is wrinkled.

Her face tear streaked.

And she sits.

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Update 9/27/11:  If you'd like, read part 2, here.