Category: prose

Nicholas
fiction · prose · Short story · The Traveler · Writing

Nicholas

Amy20 Comments
Art by Kevin

This is my response to Kevin‘s No Theme Thursday Challenge, 2/29/24 Edition

Thanks for the art inspiration once again, Kevin.

💫

I’ve been up and down these streets, The fine leather of my boots ruined.

For what? For whom?

Who is this brash American with her strange clothing and even stranger claims that she knows me?

I left her with Mrs. Grant right after we dined. It was no more than half past six. She was going on about frogs in her shoes, but I saw neither frogs nor shoes. What That Woman calls shoes, I have never seen in my life. She’s strange, almost barbaric. The aggravating American accent, the bombastic strength of mind and loose of lip! And her frustrating beguiling face. Pleasant and full of freedom. With a little fear. She frustrates me so!

Enough of that. The storm began at 6:45, as I had just left the drive of Mrs. Grant’s establishment. There was a loud clap of thunder. And then I heard Mrs. Grant screaming, “She is gone, Nicky, she is gone!”

Alarmed, I ran back to the establishment and met Mrs. Grant as she was running toward me. The raindrops began and quickly became torrential. We made our way inside, where Mrs. Grant could hardly get out her words. “She is gone Nicky, she simply…disappeared!” It pained me to see Mrs. Grant in such a state. I rested a hand on her shoulder and asked her to explain. But I already knew who she meant. She said Miss Reynolds went up to lie down, and that was the last she had seen of her.

Lightning struck. Maybe once, maybe twice. Mrs. Grant heard a scream from Miss Reynolds’ room. She ran up as quickly as she could, only to find the room vacated. Miss Reynolds was nowhere to be found. Milton checked the entire property, as did I, several times. I assured Mrs. Grant that I would find Miss Reynolds, that perhaps she had gone down to the place where she had fallen in the road. Perhaps she thought she left something behind there. And as the doctor assessed, Miss Reynolds had suffered a concussion, and may be confused. Perhaps she was not thinking coherently, and would try to go back to that place in the middle of the night. In a severe thunderstorm. This American unnerves me so! Alas, I must find her.

I walked the streets again and again. Searching. She is not here. My whole self is drenched and the storm continues. My stomach in knots. My countenance forlorn. As I continue walking, I start to wonder, Was she just a wish? The storm lights up the night, and there is a figure up ahead. Is it her? Is it my gypsy?

💫

This piece is a blend of three things: Nicholas from my Traveler series; Gypsy, the song by Fleetwood Mac; and a smidge of American Woman, the Lenny Kravitz version. (Yes, I know American Woman is an anti-war song, but I like to use it in this context sometimes. Ok, all of the time.)

Gypsy

Song by Fleetwood Mac

So I’m back to the velvet underground
Back to the floor that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was 
To the gypsy that I was

And it all comes down to you
Well, you know that it does and
Lightning strikes maybe once, maybe twice
Oh and it lights up the night
And you see your gypsy
You see your gypsy

To the gypsy
That remains
Her face says freedom
With a little fear
I have no fear
Have only love
And if I was a child
And the child was enough
Enough for me to love
Enough to love

She is dancing away from you now
She was just a wish
She was just a wish
And her memory is all that is left for you now
You see your gypsy, oh
You see your gypsy

Ooh ooh, ohh, ohh-oh

Lightning strikes
Maybe once, maybe twice
And it all comes down to you
Ooh oh, and it all comes down to you
Lightning strikes
Maybe once, maybe twice 
And (oh) it all comes down to you
I still see your (your) bright eyes, bright eyes
(And it all comes down to you)

Source: LyricFind

Songwriters: Stevie Nicks

Gypsy lyrics © Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd.

💫

American Woman

American woman
Stay away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door
I don’t wanna see your face no more
I got more important things to do
Than spend my time growin’ old with you

Now woman, stay away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
Get away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

Don’t come knockin’ ’round my door
I don’t wanna see your shadow no more
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes

Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
I said, get away
American woman
Listen what I say

Don’t come hangin’ ’round my door
Don’t want to see your face no more
I don’t need your war machines
I don’t need your ghetto scenes
Colored lights can hypnotize
Sparkle someone else’s eyes

Now woman, get away
American woman, listen what I say

American woman
Stay away from me
American woman
Mama, let me be

I gotta go, I gotta get away
Babe, I gotta go, I wanna fly away
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman
I’m gonna leave you, woman

Bye-bye, bye-bye
Bye-bye, bye-bye
(American woman) You’re no good for me and I’m no good for you
(American woman) I look you right straight in the eye
I tell you what I’m gonna do
(American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, you know I gotta go
(American woman) I’m gonna leave you woman, I gotta go
(American woman) I gotta go
I gotta go, American woman
Yeah

Source: Musixmatch

Songwriters: Burton Cummings / Garry Peterson / Randall Bachman / M.j. Kale

American Woman lyrics © Shillelagh Music, Shillelagh America Music.

💫

Susie’s Origin Story – Part IV- Adulthood
cats · Grief · Love · prose · Writing

Susie’s Origin Story – Part IV- Adulthood

Amy30 Comments

Mama Kitty: she was already an adult when she arrived but the vet guessed her age to be around one. So not a very distinguished adult, but an adult. Mama Kitty enjoyed watching her kids grow up. Susie was her constant companion and this annoyed Mama Kitty, but she never let on – except for a warning bite on Susie’s neck. Then she would go back to grooming her. She enjoyed life inside playing games with her kids, and hiding when anyone entered the house. “They’re gone, Mama Kitty, you can come out now,” was something we said often. She enjoyed spending time with me and my mom. She wasn’t a lap cat, but she was lap adjacent. She was sweet and pretty and a good girl. She came to us in 2008 as you remember, and she did well until the fall of 2016. Over the course of a few weeks, she regressed to a state of anxiety and wouldn’t come out of the guestroom. We weren’t sure what was going on, but we put the litter box in there with some food. Bubba brought toys to the doorway in case his mother wanted to play. But she didn’t. She recognized me and my mom, and Susie. But she didn’t remember her boys. We’re not sure what happened to her, the guess was that she was suffering from thyroid problems, possibly cancer. In November 2016 my mom took Mama Kitty to the vet to be euthanized. I could not go. I have never been able to handle watching my pets euthanized and I have had many pets. My mother always took care of it. It was a tremendous loss for all of us. Susie missed her terribly, and we thought she would die. She was bonded to her mother, and that bond was very strong. The weeks were hard for all of us. The dynamic among the cats changed. Susie became more reclusive. She hid from her brothers. But Bubba was her protector from Rafa, just as much as he was an annoyance to Susie. As time went on, the new normal became just that, but with a hole where Mama Kitty used to fit.

Mama Kitty, Fall 2016
Nana Kitty and Susie, BFFs
Mama Kitty watching over us

Bubba:

If a person can have a soulmate in an animal, my soulmate is/was Bubba. The big headed kitten who caused his mother hours of labor stole my heart. I still haven’t gotten it back. He grew from a tiny bean into a fat gray cat. His belly fur was a soft as velvet. Bubba’s hobbies included: teasing his sister, playing with his brother, trying to nurse off his mother for nine years 🙄, watching TV (wildlife shows and tennis matches were his favorite), getting belly rubs, being a pain in the ass in general terms, assisting repairman as if he were a tiny apprentice. Bubba was afraid of no one, and everyone was his friend. When he grew up, he wanted to be a trashman, a UPS man, or any other type of truck driver. The problem with him wanting to succeed in an industry is that he was too lazy to work. There was a dichotomy there, and it was not going to be traversed. Bubba started losing weight gradually. In 2019 we had some tests done and it showed a thyroid condition. Hyperthyroidism is common in cats. There is a medication given to cats as well as humans for this condition. Unfortunately, Bubba was allergic to it. There was nothing else we could do except a total thyroidectomy. The surgeons warned us that cats with hyperthyroidism often have cancer of the thyroid and it could’ve already spread. So we didn’t go through with the surgery. I was devastated, but my holistic nutrition training had me studying for ways to treat his thyroid naturally. I found an online veterinary supply site that sold L-Carnitine. It was a liquid and we mixed it in his food. It wasn’t a miraculous cure. It was biting time. On December 4, 2019 in the early morning. My mom woke me very upset. “Bubba is in the bathroom and he’s dizzy and he doesn’t know what’s going on and we need to take him to the vet right now.” It was 2 AM, I think it was a Wednesday. We got him in the car. He was wailing; terrified. Bubba has sat with me often when I had vertigo spells. He would be right by my side the whole time. And I felt like I was failing him because I couldn’t fix it. He was too young to die. We walked in and they assessed him. His heart rate was well above what it should be. They said he would have a heart attack if they didn’t get his heart rate under control. There was nothing they could do. They came in and gave him some sedatives and the euthanasia dose. I pet, cried, and told him I loved him until he died. Then my world fell apart. It was not the first loss, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was so hard. And as I write this, I’m crying. I love that cat, and I always will.

Bubba
Under there
Best buds.
You may hold up my head.
🩶
Bubbie.

Rafa:

Rafa was all black. We had a black cat before, a long time ago. Almost in another life. Rafa was gentle, clumsy, and he was a lap cat. Next to Susie, he was my mom’s favorite cat. He was easy-going and played with his brother. He did not like Susie. When they were little they got along fine, but as they got older, their relationship became strained. When Mama Kitty became ill, Rafa wanted to attack her. After she died, Bubba became Susie’s protector. He would sleep at the top of the stairs just outside of the guest room where Susie would be sleeping and he would guard her. He would stop Rafa from being able to come up the stairs to get Susie. The boys got along fine otherwise. After my mom died, it was just me, Rafa and Suz. You can imagine the situation I was put in. I was in the middle of two fighting siblings. They never did warm up to each other. In early 2021, I noticed Rafa was losing weight. I kept an eye on him for a few months. He started to develop bumps under his skin. I suspected he had lymphoma, but I wasn’t sure. I just knew that he was 13 years old and was declining in health. I was not going to put him through what Bubba went through, so I found a vet practice who would come out to the home and euthanize in a place of comfort for the cat. By September I realized his time was soon. So on September 11, 2021, I held Rafa as they administered a sedative. I told him I loved him and that he was a good boy and that he would go see his brother and his mommy and his Grammy (my mom). I cried so much. And I left the room before they could euthanize him because I didn’t want to see him that way. And so it went.

Silly vampurr
Precious guy
The purrfect portrait

Now it is me and Susie. For now. She will turn 16 in April. I cherish each day that I have with her. I could not have imagined back in 2008 when they were born how much things would have changed by now. Everyone gone. When it is her time, she will go be reunited with her Mama Kitty. And they all will wait for me there.

Mama Kitty, Bubba, Rafa, Susie – bird watching

©️2024, itsamyisaid.com, all rights reserved

finding the muse · prose · Writing

Finding the Muse

AmyLeave a comment

There are many ways to acquire a muse, and just as many ways to lose one. I’ve gone long stretches of time without a muse, and it does impact my desire to write.

Muses don’t have to be external to one’s self, they can be a self driven motivation from deep within I suppose, but in my case, the muse is external to me. Whether it be a person, place or thing, my muse is not a part of my consciousness, or subconscious, for that matter.

I’ve been reading about famous writers and artists and how they’ve found their muses. In many of the cases, their muses are a person they know, and more often than not, a person they have a relationship with. But I’m going to go out on a limb here: a muse is only inspiring to me when the person, place, or thing is not part of my everyday life, or anyone that I have had a relationship with. Diving deeper, I realized I employ limerence to allow my muses entry into my thoughts.

Limerence is a hot topic on self-help social media due to it being regarded as a negative aspect of what the brain can do to deal with past trauma – and I am not claiming that it isn’t; as a sufferer of childhood trauma myself, I understand coping mechanisms and I am not here to belittle or in any way discount trauma, and how people cope with it. However, I know the difference between using limerence to gain creative inspiration versus limerence to replicate feelings of love. Limerence is not love, and love is not ever going to be limerence, and there’s no two ways about it.

But utilizing limerence to find and keep a muse? You’d be surprised how many creative ideas start to form. In fact, I believe if you get too close to your muse, you’ll actually lose the creative force that limerence offers. It is an idealized way of seeing someone and romanticizing that person (if your muse is a person, that is) in your life. The less I interact with the person, the better for my creative process.

I like to keep my muses as long as possible, because there are stretches of time where the Land of the Muses is a parched desert with tumbleweeds blowing all around and nothing but mirages for miles. Some interaction with the muse is helpful, otherwise, what can one use as inspiration? But too much of a good thing is not always a good thing. The more you get to know a muse personified, the more the gold shiny coat wears off and underneath it really is only nickel and it starts itching your ears and your neck and you’re allergic to it and you’ve got to throw it away.

I just recently realized that I use limerence to obtain my muses and it surprised my brain, which is confounding, because Brain is in charge of that stuff. Brain should be better organized, but Brain also uses sticky notes for everything, so…I get it. That said, even my tree, William, is a muse. He’s quiet, we don’t talk a lot, and he inspires me.

What works for you? How do you obtain a muse? Is your muse internal or external? How do you keep a muse and how do you lose a muse? Have you ever thought about limerence as it relates to letting a muse twirl around and be lazy and fabulous in your brain? Are your muses people, places, or things? How and when do they strike? It’s all so very a-musing, don’t you think?

©️2023, itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.

chick lit · fiction · Love · Nature · prose · Short story · spring · Writing

Bliss

AmyLeave a comment

Bliss. It’s what I would call the feeling I had from the moment I woke, that day we went to that small town, walking up and down the street, looking for the shop that wasn’t there. The wind swept us both like a wide, cold broom aimed high, and we cursed about the damned map. Bliss told me to wear the flowing red top I bought in the kids’ department at Kohl’s because I needed to feel the freedom in the flowing. As we drove around trying to find the miniature golf course, Bliss told me I was on an adventure, that it was time, my old nemesis anxiety would not come knocking that day. Bliss knew.

Bliss led us to play both courses that day. With tempered excitement novelty brings, we curiously looked ahead at the direction of each hole, the layout of the greens, discussing and preparing exactly how to make the shot under par. It worked for me. It didn’t work for you. But you weren’t bothered by it; you had Bliss, too. I eagerly kept score as we made rules for what happens when your ball flies out of the green into the water two holes over (do-over, from the tee), and I blissfully juggled my purse, the scorecard and that little pencil over 41 holes of golf.

Then there was the moment, which passed, just as time did those two weeks, far too quickly. The sun was shining through the tree canopy above, an early spring sun, peeking in and out of the clouds, as we played each hole and I continued to win, my Bliss increasing. It was among these tree shadows where my brain’s camera takes a still and it leaves me at a cliffhanger. You stand in front of me, the sun peeking down on your red-blond hair, in this deserted, tree-covered miniature golf course, smirking at me as you do, sunglasses hiding your eyes, but I can see them when I close mine. We are close, close enough for me to see my own smirk in your glasses. Bliss tells me to kiss you, and I think in that moment, you were expecting it.

A kiss lands. Just to the left of your mouth.

“That’s for losing,” I said cheerfully, trying to evoke Bliss about what I’d done, but feeling as if I’d plotted the wrong point on the map, instantly realizing I should have aimed for the lips and may have missed my chance forever. “Good,” you said with unusual inflection, still smirking, seemingly expecting something else, something more.

When we embraced earlier in the week, soon after you had arrived, Bliss was with me then, and I said quietly, “I’m so glad you’re here.” I meant something else, something more. When you replied just as quietly, “Me, too,” Bliss wants me to believe you meant something else too, something more.

Dedikert til A.

©2023, itsamyisaid.com, All Rights Reserved.

Autumn · chick lit · Fall · fate · fiction · Humor · Love · prose · Relationships · serendipity · Short story · Uncategorized · Women’s literature · Writing

September 27, 2033

Amy3 Comments

Do you believe in fate?

“Why do you keep looking at the time?” my colleague asked with squinted, suspicious eyes.

I thought about it for a minute before I answered, knowing how bizarre my answer might seem. I continued typing as I pondered my response. “I’m supposed to meet a guy at the park today,” I replied as nonchalantly as possible.

“Oh, really,” she replied, suddenly interested and rolled her chair up to mine. “Do tell.”

“There’s not much to tell. I received a text about ten years ago and it’s stuck with me. The guy thought he was texting someone else. Once he realized I wasn’t the intended recipient, we continued texting with playful banter. It was fun. He was fun, and smart. Also really quick-witted. You know how that hooks me every time. He said we should meet at the park on September 27, 2033. As a joke, of course. But then I started to think about it – and I’ve had ten years to think about it. What if it’s like, some kind of serendipitous experience or cinematic romcom situation?”

She sat there, staring at me blankly. “You’re saying you received a text ten years ago from a guy you don’t know, and you are going to meet him at a park today? Because he said to show up at the park on September 27, 2033? I have questions. What if he’s a stalker? Or a creep? Or 78 years old? Or 17 years old? What if it’s a catfish? And let’s say it’s not: it’s been ten years. Don’t you think he’ll have forgotten your text exchange by now? And since it was said in jest, he’s not going to show up, even if he recalls. Finally, how will you know who this guy is when you see him at the park?”

I shrugged off the first thousand questions. “I won’t,” was my response to the final one.

Her face scrunched. “This is clearly a joke. If you didn’t exchange photos, and haven’t texted since that one mistaken identity thing in 2023, then no, this is not happening. Like, at all.”

I turned back to my screen and continued typing. “I’m going to the park at lunch, sitting on the bench, and I will see if there are any guys loitering around looking at me.”

She ran her hand down her face in a sweeping motion of clearing out the annoyance that was me. I was not dissuaded. “What you are describing is a normal occurrence at the park. Do you know how many random guys loiter around and look at us every day as we walk through?”

I kept typing, keeping my eyes on the screen. ‘Yes, I know, but those are weird guys.”

“What separates this guy from those guys?”

“This guy told me to meet him at the park today.”

She sighed heavily. “I sure hope you have your Suspicious Persons binder up to date before you head out on this bad chick flick adventure of yours, because there are so many ways this can go south. You don’t know who you’re looking for, you don’t know what his intentions are, AND it’s been ten years since this occurred. He may not even show up, and I hope for your sake he doesn’t.”

The sky started taking on a strange darkness as we sat there, our cubicles next to the large window. She kept talking, mostly telling me not to do it, with me mostly thinking about what I could grab for lunch to take to the park. When I defiantly told her I was going, regardless of her lecturing, she waved me off dramatically. “Do what you want, but I’m going to send the police in an hour, and you know I mean it.”

I headed out at around 11:45. I stopped by the sandwich shop at the corner, ordered a croissant – because Paris is always a good idea. I could pretend that this was a Parisian park, and the guy would show up in a raspberry beret, the kind you buy from a secondhand store.

I took off my shoes and walked my way through the soft grass to the bench where I could see everyone in the park. There were kids playing nearby, giggling. There was an older woman sitting on the nearby bench. She smiled and nodded, and I returned her kind acknowledgment. So far, no weird guys had appeared, and no normal guys, either. The sky continued to darken, and I recalled the text exchange from ten years prior. “That’s right, there is a solar eclipse today,” I whispered to myself as a squirrel stared at my croissant, tiny arms pulled up to its chest.

I’d been at the park about fifteen minutes when my phone rang. It was my coworker. “What is happening? Are you insane? Are you safe?” She was bordering on hysteria.

“I’m fine. I’m sitting here talking to a squirrel actually. I’m eating my lunch, and if he doesn’t show up, I’ll just—”

It was at that moment I felt a light tap on my shoulder. “Gotta go,” I said slowly, and ended the call. With a deep breath, I turned slowly toward the direction of the tap. I looked up and I felt a wry smile form. My smile was returned to me tenfold. The sun was blocked out, but not by the eclipse.

The shadow spoke.

“Hey, kiddo.”

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