8. Insider

They aren’t MY friends. I’m an outsider to this unique group of four who call Michigan home. I didn’t forge a relationship with them at their camp, in their beloved upper peninsula.  I met them sipping cocktails in a corner booth, supporting our friend, their fifth and my only connection, the beautiful bride to be.

I’d heard plenty about them from Linda’s stories both written and spoken, and the pictures she painted of love, affection and edification couldn’t have been more accurate.

Then somehow when I wasn’t paying attention, somewhere between the cocktails and the vows, they welcomed me in.

7. Personal Tragedy

If I saw it in a movie, I’d look away, or cover my eyes.  I certainly wouldn’t fixate on the details, taking in the sights and sounds and smells.

I wouldn’t know the trajectory of her thoughts, or notice the desperation grow as the minutes accumulate more and more rapidly.

No, I wouldn’t relate to this story. I’d be as naïve as the religious folk we all love to hate. I’d be safe and sound and whole within.

But in this nightmare of a dream I get no such luxury. I’m a front row spectator to my own personal tragedy. 

6. Crash

It sounded like a cracking whip amplified by one hundred. Ten fingers and ten toes, no broken bones; Shattered glass strewn about the car and all over my lap.

I ached all over but not enough to want attention, not enough to want your pity. Gotta be strong; be calm, cool, collected.

I made the statement to the police officer and tried not to be angry, tried not to blame her for being careless, young and scared.

A stiff neck brace and seventeen x-rays later I still tried to be tough, but today, I’m not and I refuse to pretend. 

5. Your Hand in Mine

I don’t know that I’ve ever sensed the subduing effect I felt as you ever so intentionally slipped your fingers in between each of mine, piecing me back together.

It wasn’t like the first time as we surveyed the sunset and watched the tide ebb and flow, your fingers accidentally brushing mine, then more and more daringly, no longer unintended. I was so painfully aware of each gentle graze that I swore I could feel each grain of sand fall between the cracks of my fingers back to the earth where they belonged; where we belong, your hand in mine. 

4. Memorial

I’ve wondered lately about the way we memorialize the things we lose, in light of the tenth anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Centers and the opening of the massive memorial at ground zero.

It got me thinking about how I cope with the things I’ve lost. The mementos I’ve kept to remind me forever of all the things that have been ripped out of my life sooner than I was ready. Should they be laden in bronze for the world to see, or should I be resting in the knowledge that His mercies are new each morning?

#3 - 100 words (Restless)

I sat for what seemed like hours, swinging gently in the bright orange hammock on the front porch.  So many thoughts swam through my mind and as hard as I tried, I couldn’t focus on a single one.  I attempted, as I normally do to pick apart the source of all the noise, to no avail.

Oh well, I sighed, and let myself sink into the hammock as it started swinging a little faster than before and the crickets sang me a sweet melody. I’ll let my body rest but my heart, for all intensive purposes, we’ll call it restless. 

#2 - 100 words (Reasons)

He heard there are several reasons that people begin using drugs, loads of extraneous circumstances that cause people to spiral into the depths of substance abuse.

People make it apparent that there are far too many reasons for him to choose from; her and them and all the pressures to perform closing in on him, threatening to throw off his delicate balance.

Just as the reality of his motives begin to sink in so does the plunger of the syringe in his arm, sending him swiftly into his own personal oblivion.

And, he thinks, at this point who needs reasons.