megatronix

Madeline set her large black case down as gently as possible, off to the side, and got to work adjusting the chairs.

“We’re really looking forward to hearing you all,” said a gentle voice. Madeline turned and saw an older woman, grey curls framing her face. Smile lines nearly swallowed her eyes as she beamed at Madeline, who knew in an instant this woman had been sporting that same smile for decades.

“Oh, thanks!” Madeline said, as she scooted a music stand over a few inches.

Chris and Donnie walked in, set their cases down, too, and adjusted the back row of chairs, before Chris helped Donnie move the piano to just the right spot.

“Wassup!” Ted said as he came up from behind her. “WHOA, is that Maddie I see? In a DRESS?”

Madeline felt a small rush of heat to her cheeks. “All right, all right, yes, I’m dressed up, ok? Get over it,” she laughed.

The older woman beamed at them all coming in. “Thank you all for coming,” she said.

“Our pleasure!” shouted Ted.

Dave had a reed in his mouth, his shiny golden saxophone hanging around his neck already.

Mr. Stewart walked in and said, “Hey y’all, we nearly ready to go?”

“Yep,” Maddie said softly, sitting in her chair, giving her stand one last adjustment. Dave sidled in next to her, and smiled at her. She smiled back.

Abigail entered through the double doors of the large rental hall to join them all, looking like a speedy tortoise, balancing her upright bass in its case on her back. She walked as quickly as she could, breathing heavily. “Sorry! My mom needed the car, I had to call my sister for a ride. Oh my god, I told her I needed to get here today, but…” she trailed off, slinging her bass off her back, uzipping a pocket in the case, rifling through it for her sheet music.

“It’s ok, hi Abbie,” Madeline said softly.
“Hi, Mads,” Abigail said and managed a smile.

“Deep breath, Abigail,” said Mr. Stewart. “You’re here now. It’s ok. Take some breaths, ok?”
Abigail sighed. “Ok,” she agreed and wiped a few beads of sweat off her forehead.

“All right,” said Mr. Stewart in that tone just loud enough for all of them to hear. He adjusted his bowtie, checked his watch, then continued. “We’ll be starting the set in about 15 minutes. So in five, let’s do a quick warm up. Thank you all for coming. These folks have already been telling me as I walked in the door that they haven’t had a concert like this in years. They’ve really been looking forward to it. Now, these songs aren’t as familiar to you all, but these are the songs these lovely older folks grew up with! So, do them justice, as I know you will. We’re gonna take these all to heart and do our best, as always, to play these songs like they’re brand new to you, no matter how sick you are of having practiced them forever. Play it like…?”

“Like we’re playing for the first time!” the band answered in unison.

“That’s right,” Mr. Stewart said proudly. “Also, a few folks from the Big Band High School Association are here. So, let’s play to impress, ok? They’ll be watching, eyeing a few eligible schools for the high school Big Band of the Year awards, and we want to show them what we’ve got.”

A stone fell inside Madeline’s stomach, and she tried to steady her hands, as she pulled out her saxophone and stuck a reed in her mouth to soak it, while adjusting the neck of her instrument. This is fine, she reminded herself. I know these songs. I’ve practiced. It’s no big deal. But she was a terrible liar and while she had practiced, she certainly could have practiced more. And it most certainly was a very big deal.

More octogenerians filled the room, dressed their best, suits and nice dresses. Some in wheelchairs or walkers, ready to bob their heads to the music, and dance anyway, in whatever way worked for them.

Mr. Stewart gave the cue and with everyone now in their places, they played a few notes, then a few bars. A few people had already begun dancing behind him, and one man jokingly called out, “Hey!” when they stopped.

The band members all laughed.
“Sorry!” Mr. Stewart called out to the crowd and laughed, “Just warming up!”
To the band he said, “All right, ready?”

“Where’s Vanessa?” Chris asked.

“She’s joining us in a bit,” Mr. Stewart said.

They all nodded. Vanessa was a senior, and one of four trombonists they had. She also was the singer for their one vocal piece, The Girl from Ipanema. They could spare her as a trombonist but not as a vocalist! Maddie had often eyed Vanessa and envied her, the ease with which her silky tones filled a room, and awed everyone within earshot. Maddie was only a freshman now, and often practiced the vocals at home, in her shower, or in her car. Secretly, she thought that maybe once she was a senior, maybe then she’d be at Vanessa’s level, and she could be the one to do the vocals in Jazz Band. She could hope, anyway.

Mr. Stewart said, “Ok, here we go,” and waved his hands in that rhythmic way so familiar to all of them after months of rehearsal. “A one, a two, a one and a two and--” He launched his hands and gave a kick of his heel into the stage which Madeline always loved. And they were off. Madeline loved the rumble of her instrument in her hands as she hit the notes, felt them swing, felt the music come alive around her, like tumbling river rapids, wobbling and soaring and sinking low, then rising high again, both in pitch and volume.

The steady beat of Abigail’s bass and Stephanie on the high-hat. The trombones dulcet tones, the high blend of trumpet melody riding on top, the saxophones mixed in, and Donnie’s piano keys providing the perfect blend of energy, melody, and bass within the songs.

As they played through their set, All of Me, Fly Me to the Moon, Sentimental Journey, Mack the Knife and more, dance partners bobbed with each other, some spinning one another, and between every song, they gave eager, resounding applause to the band members, who nodded their appreciation back. Every few songs, Mr. Stewart That symbiosis of band and audience was something that always made Madeline’s heart just flutter with joy and the magic of it all.

During one burst of applause, Madeline flipped the page and saw the title of their grand finale, The Girl From Ipanema. She looked around. Uh-oh.

“Did Vanessa come in yet?” Mr. Stewart asked, voicing Madeline’s worry. “Ted, Eric, Beth, Stephanie?” he asked the trombonists and drummer.

They were the ones closest to where Vanessa would’ve set down her things. They all shook their heads. “No, sir, we haven’t seen her.”

Mr. Stewart looked shaken. “Well,” he said. “We could always just play the instrumental parts. But,” he sighed. “It’s not ideal. Unless any of you has practiced the vocals??” he asked, and gave a half-hearted chuckle.

Madeline felt her heart pounding in her chest. Was… was this really the time? Should she say something? Her hand shook as she saw it float into the air next to her before she could reconsider.

“Yes, Maddie?”

“I… I could sing it,” she said. She said it so softly that a few of her band mates around her gave a soft giggle. Dave didn’t laugh though. “Really?” he asked, his voice filled with nothing but awe and respect.

“You can sing, Maddie?” asked Ted.

“Can you really?” asked Mr. Stewart, a light in his eyes.

She nodded. “I know the song,” she said. “I can do it.”

“Well get on up here, Miss Madeline,” said Mr. Stewart with a wide wave of his hand in invitation. He moved the music stand over for her. The rest of the band still concerned for the missing Vanessa, they knew the core rule of any music performance night: The show must go on!

Madeline cleared her throat, and pressed her sweating palms against her thighs, to dry them, and to not feel their shaking quite so much. She looked at the copy of the vocals before her, now her legs jellying on her. She took a moment and remembered what Mr. Stewart had told Abigail. Just take a deep breath. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath in and then let it out. She opened her eyes to an expectant look from Mr. Stewart. “You sure? Are you ready?”

She nodded. “I’m ready,” she said, with more confidence than she felt.

Mr. Stewart cued the band who played the intro flawlessly.

And then, with a deep breath, Madeline began:

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, each one she passes
Goes "a-a-a-h"

Couples spun and danced before her. Smiles filled the faces of the folks in the room. She made the mistake of eyeing the back of the room too, where she saw two professional looking folks in chairs holding clipboards! She quickly averted her eyes, and heard Mr. Stewart softly guide her by saying, “And, next verse..”

When she walks she's like a samba
When she walks, she's like a samba
That swings so cool and sways so gentle
That when she passes, each one she passes
Goes "a-a-a-h"

She heard her own voice come out with more strength. She let her hips sway and heard the notes ring out on pitch. She was doing it! She was really doing it!

“Now the bridge,” Mr. Stewart whispered.

Dear god. The tricky part. With flats and sharps she didn’t want to get out of tune!

Oh, but he watches so sadly
How can he tell her he loves her
Yes, he would give his heart gladly
But each day as she walks to the sea
She looks straight ahead, not at he

“Nailed it,” whispered Mr. Stewart.

Tall and tan and young and lovely
The girl from Ipanema goes walking
And when she passes, he smiles, but she
Doesn't see. She just doesn't see….


She finished the song and Mr. Stewart beamed at her. Maddie beamed right back, watching people still dancing away, as the rest of the band took over. Every member had their solo, then back to Maddie for the finish.

When it was done the whole place erupted in applause, including the members of the judging board in the back of the room, standing and clapping, clipboards tucked under their arms.

“Amazing,” Mr. Stewart said to Maddie. He motioned to the band. They all stood, and they all bowed together. Vanessa ran up to them. “I had a flat!” she said to Maddie, clasping her hands. “I got here in time to hear you finish, you ROCKED it, girl!” She gave Madeline a huge hug. Maddie sighed a deep sigh of contentment as she thanked Vanessa, and the rest of the people who complimented her that evening.

“Now, listen here, lad. We need this whole thing swabbed today, ya hear?” I say to the young man in front of me.

“Aye, Cap’n,” he says, his voice as sincere as could be. As it always is.

“OK, so, I hear ye saying ‘aye.’ And I feel like ye mean ‘aye.’ But I really, REALLY need ye to work with me here. This ship’s a team effort here, son. Savvy?”

“Aye! It is! Yes, Madame Captain, I’ll do my best!”

“Ok. Because... I mean, last time, I asked ye, and yet, the deck still looked dull as my ol’ Auntie Edith, bless her heart. That is, i' t’weren’t clean at all, if you recollect...” I say. I put my leg upon the wooden crate next to me and lean in against the sway of the boat as it bobs over the waves.

The young lad looks down at his boots. Then his soft brown eyes dare to look up, to meet my own. “Aye, Captain. ‘Tis true. This time, I promise. Naught can stop me!”

“That’s the spirit!” I say with a grin and clap the boy on the shoulder heartily.

The lad beams at me.

“Right, then. I’ll be below deck, fussing with my maps, and doing other such captainly pursuits. You, though? You’re in charge of swabbing this deck.” I grab the mop handle, and thrust it forth.

He takes it into his hand and beams at me. “Aye-aye, Cap’n!”

“That’s a good lad!” I say and pat his shoulder once more before retreating down the narrow staircase to the quarters below.

After a time, I hear scuffling and scrambling overhead. I look at the hourglass I’d set, and the last grain of sand tumbles down. More scrambling overhead. A light crack in the air, and something scratch-scurries its way across the ceiling. Whatever that is on the deck, it is most certainly NOT the sound of steady moppin’ and tidyin’!

I march away from the table. I can feel my face muscles pull into a scowl as I stomp up the steps. “What in Neptune’s great kingdom is going on up here?!” I shout.

“Captain! I’m sorry!” says the lad as he runs over, holdin’ his hat to his head with one hand, other hand flappin’ as he tries to stay upright, slippin’ and slidin’ all the way over to me.

I take stock o’ the ship. There’s dots an’ streaks of black sludge slathered all over the deck, astern to bow. My jaw drops. I gesticulate wildly with my hands, while only sputtering noises escape me.

He cowers. “I- ... I... I don’t rightly know what happened, Madame Captain, sir. It’s... It’s the oddest thing. These kittens. They just... appeared!”

I stare at him, deadpan. “Kittens.”

“Aye, Captain! I know, it sounds crazy, but-”

I cut him off by holding a hand up.

He quietly holds his hat in his hands and trembles.

“This is a right mess. It’s worse than when I left ye! I’m so far past the line of cross I can’t even be seein’ it no more, and I don’t need any fibs about KITTENS.”

“I swear it, Madame Captain!” he cries.

As he speaks, a kind of crack sounds in the distance. A black speck appears in the sky. What is that? A bird? It grows before me eyes! It’s a right large crow, flying straight at us. I duck, but it’s too late. The bird smacks right into my chest. And I feel a pain like I been hammered with a club of sharp nails!

“Mew,” the crow says.

“This is no crow,” I say, pulling the clump away from me, eyeing the teensy cutlasses at the end of its wee paws. I drop it on the deck, where it skitter-scrambles away. “WHY is there a KITTEN covered in TAR on my SHIP?!” I screech.

“This is what I’m sayin’, I don’t understand it, I started moppin’, and next thing I know, these landed, and I been trying to grab ‘em, and there’s not just one, Cap’n, there’s loads...”

“Stop! STOP! Lemme think and stop runnin’ yer mouth, lad!”

Another crack sounds in the air.

“Cap’n, watch out!” the lad cries.

I duck again, and another mass of black hits the deck with a squelch, then gives a tiny, happy, “mew,” and that mass scrambles off too. “Huh, they do just land on their feet,” I mutter.

The lad chases after it.

“STOP chasing them!” I command.

“But I’ve almost got them! I can'na' stop now, Cap’n!” he shouts, not even looking back once. He runs straight through the tar, dragging it across the deck, eyes glued to the newest kitten.

“Mew!” I hear from the left. Another, “MEW!” answers in response on my right.

I glower into the distance, and on the horizon, I see it. The outline of... well, of something headed straight for us. It comes closer and closer, at great speed, and as it does, I see a mess o’ mirrors wound up in knotted rope hanging from the mast. Both masts. Wait. Each of three masts?! What am I even lookin’ at here?

Bright colored ribbons of various lengths whip wildly in the wind. A cannon on this odd skipper makes a crack in the air, and suddenly – SPLICK. “Mew!” the black blob announces happily. And that one scuttles off, too. “Mew! Mew! Mew!” the kittens cry, echoes coming from every direction as they sprint around the ship.

I ROAR with all my might – “STOPPPPP!” but it is no use.

“Aah!” I cry and cover my eyes, as the glare of one of the incoming ship’s mirrors throws sunbeams directly into my face. “CURSES!” I cry.

“Is that any way to greet a friend?” a deep voice bellows out. I look up again, and the ship with three masts, a sprinklin’ of mirrors, and a herd of kittens running in all directions, has pulled up just next to ours.

“FRIEND?” I ask, incredulous. “What kind of friend pelts someone with tar covered kittens?”

“Here, kitty, kitty,” cries the lad as he runs past me. *stick stick stick* His tar covered footsteps are destroying my current patience AND any spare wells I might’ve had for at least the next fortnight!

“LAD! STOP!” I cry, to no avail. He doesn’t even hear me. Sometimes I think I’d’ve tossed him overboard ages ago if he weren’t me own kin!

The tall man on the other ship chuckles to himself. “He won’t stop,” he says, and strokes his long black beard.

“Why are you doing this to us?” I ask.

“I am Captain Aydee, Hinderus Distractora, ruler of these seas. I need no reason to do as I please!” He set his hands on his hips, proud as a peacock. “You can call me Captain Aydee, H.D., if you please.”

“You... You must have a reason for launching these kittens over here, surely?” I pry.

He smiles widely at me. “I don’t always launch them from a cannon. See?” He picks up a kitten, dunks it in a bucket of tar at his feet, and tosses it toward me. It lands on the edge of the ship’s railings. “Mew!” it announces and jumps aboard.

“That doesn’t answer me question at all!”

Cap’n Aydee laughs heartily. “What? Anyway! I just do what I want. And right now, I want to do this!”

“You right bastard,” I sneer.

“I know, right?” he says, with a pompous air about him.

“GO AWAY!” I shout.

“Oh, ALL RIGHT, I will. But... I’ll be back. And you’ll never guess when. I just come and go as I please.”

“Just GO!” I shout.

He shrugs. “Fine, fine,” he says. And he calls to someone to steer the ship a different direction. Is that-? Is that a monkey at the helm?? Before I can rightly tell, the ship pulls away, and I watch him go, rainbow ribbons, shiny mirrors, and sails pointed every which way.

I shake my head. I survey the damage, then take a deep breath. I call out to the lad.

“Yes, Cap’n?” he asks. He’s holding 4 sticky kittens in his arms as he runs up to me.

“Wash these kittens. There’s a good soap should do it downstairs.”

“By myself?”

“Nay,” I say. I reach out and ruffle his hair and give him a wee smile. “I’m afraid to leave ye alone after that. Weird things like this always seem to occur around ye, lad.”

“That weird Captain guy, I maybe’ve seen him before? I reckon he follows me.”

“Aye,” I say with a nod. “Methinks ye may be right about that, lad. Come, let’s wash up these kittens.”

We scrub and wash and scrub some more, and it’s hours that go by before we’re through. But at last, the kittens are all clean, and all tuckered out. It’s time to turn in, but I don’t know that I can. Not just yet. I tell the lad to turn in while I go to the deck to throw down soapy water mixed with the ol’ deck shinin’ oil, and scrub heartily to clean up the footprints of so many kittens and one excitable lad. I do what I can under the light of the moon before heading back below deck.

I feel the ache in my bones. I make sure the young lad is tucked into his bed, soft quilt wrapped around him. His rosy cheeks and long lashes give him the look of angel. It’s been a long day. A pile of kittens sleeps soundly on the bed with him.

I sigh, and strip down to me skivvies, and crawl into me own bed. I watch the kittens, and me boy, and smile. What adventures will tomorrow bring? For now, it’s quiet, and at least I know whatever may come our way, we’ll face it, and we’ll do just fine, as long as we do it together.

I am already gripping the bony hand to steady myself when it occurs to me to wonder how I got here. I look up to face whomever is helping me onto the boat, wobbly in the unsteadiness of wood on water. A tall shrouded figure seemingly grows taller as I sink onto a creaking plank of a bench. The robed figure looms over me, meets my gaze, but within the hood, there is only black, inky darkness, a gaze with so strong a pull that I am nearly lurched out of my seat into infinite oblivion. I somehow tear my gaze away, rest my hand on my heaving chest, panting to regain control of my breath.

The figure faces away from me now, and I know it is only by the grace of their decision to release me that I am still sitting here in one piece. My hand trembles, and I take a long deep breath, feeling the dank air in my lungs, as vague memories of an attic, or could it have been a basement?, drift to the surface, stirred up by the scent of this place.

The figure holds a long staff, and pushes it into the water. The boat gives a small heave forward and the current ushers us along, slow and steady.

Mists crawl along the water’s surface, and the lapping water sounds like whispers; secrets determined not to be uttered, yet yearning to be heard.

I dare to risk a glance beyond the shores to our left and right as we pass. I see only swaths of darkness, with the barest hints of light, a mere suggestion of the concept.

"Here," says the figure, and each of my bones rattle at the sound of this utterance.

I raise my eyes just enough to see that he has extended something to me, a stick perhaps? I take hold of the gnarled twisted thing, and notice the splintered frayed bits at one end. The waters move us and we round past a pile of boulders, through a low hanging stone arch. I pull my head down low, and feel my hair brush lightly against the low ceiling of the tunnel. Sounds of water rushing grow louder. Our skiff moves through the tunnel, and jerks forward over a small wave, picking up momentum, as we enter a more open cavern, with tall walls and high ceiling. Stalagmites and stalactites surround us, reaching out for one another like hands across a divide. Perhaps even they seek each other’s comfort in this place.

The shrouded figure still impossibly standing, turns to face me, black cloak flowing around him, like the river itself.

"Choose," he states with a voice that is at once nowhere and everywhere.

Once again, a shudder flows through the whole of my being.

Just beyond my guide, there are two tall towers of calcification, and atop each one, a fire burning bright, beacons lighting the space, illuminating two potential paths. For beyond the towers sit two cavern entrances, each entry a precipice as dark and black as the shrouded figure's faceless void.

Our craft travels straight ahead, surging toward the rock wall separating the two caverns. Now I understand. My eyes dart back and forth and I yell, “That way!" and point with my gnarled frayed stick to the cavern on the right.

My guide barely waves his hand, and the boat changes directions, flowing toward the path I'd chosen.

Then, a voice from the left cavern rings out. And I know it. I know the voice! "Stop!" I say. But the shrouded figure has turned away from me and does not look back. Our boat stays the course. I stand.

"STOP!" I scream. The boat goes on.

I stumble with the pitch and toss of the wooden craft over the current. As we pass the large stalagmite torches, I make another decision: I leap!

I land hard against the stalagmite tower, and my hands struggle to gain purchase of the calcified tower. I desperately grasp at it. My fingers and wrist find their place among the many levels of tiered rock. I cling with earnest. Granules like salt sift beneath my fingertips, tiny bits and shards fall between my fingers and disappear into the waters rushing just below my feet. Even my feet and knees now grip with everything I’ve got as the mists snake around my ankles.

What have I done?

What do I do now?

Just then, from straight ahead, from deep within the cavern I'd chosen, I hear it - music. The darkness emits the most beautiful sonorous melodies I have ever heard. Without even thinking, I reach a hand towards it as if to grab hold, so compelling is the force of its beauty. And it is then that I see that I'm still holding the twisted stick in one hand. Tears fall down my face as I listen to love and life in keys and chords. I soften my grip and lean toward the music, filled with it, yearning to be closer to it, to become it.

And then... I hear it again. That voice. I know nothing… But I know that voice.

The left cavern is fading into darkness, and with it, the voice. I lean that way to listen, to make out the words. What are they saying?

In front of the dwindling torch, the darkening entrance, fading as the torch fades, the flame dwindling down, down to an ember, and then, to nothing.

It's gone.

The tower, the cavern, disappear from view, and the voice along with it.

Something stirs within. NO! I can't, I can't just... I won't let it... be gone!

I thrust my hand upwards and jam my stick into the fire overhead. I reach as high as I can and within moments, a flash. The frayed ends ignite.

Before I can change my mind, I release the rock beneath my grip and slide into the misty waters, hand held high. The icy current pushes me, stronger than I even expected, and I stretch my hand upward to protect the flame. My head bobs under the water, and my lungs burn as I try not to gasp against the cold. I hear a rush of voices, so many sounds, an onslaught of hopeful tendrils of longing. They reach for me. I kick hard and get my head above water and take a deep gasp of air. I kick as hard as I can, and sweep my arm through the water, with willing my one armed swim to be enough, to get me where I need to be.

I feel for it in the darkness and my hand grabs at anything, grabs at hope itself, but slips off of smooth wet stone.

This is it, though, it must be it. The dark tower.

I search desperately with my fingertips as my head goes under again, the cold water stinging my face. I hold one hand and torch still above the water, but only just. My other hand wildly attempts to swim upwards, to rise above the river’s surface.

I open my eyes wide against the darkness, and kick against the current. I do it! I breach the surface again, another gasp, and grab tight with fingertips and fingernails. I pull as hard as I ever have for anything.

There! I have it! I grab hold of the base of the rocky tower.

I latch myself onto the tower, still gripping the torch. I work my way up, inches at a time. With one hand I grip my other wrist, so that I can keep hold of the torch, still lit. I raise my feet, grab a new toehold, and push my whole body higher up, then readjust my arms. Higher, a little higher, until, with my raised torch, I see in the glow the blackened top of the extinguished torch. And I thrust my hand towards it. My torch touches the end, and slivers of black smoke unfurl from it, and roll away. Then, a spark. A flame. The torch is lit. And there is the entrance to the left hand cavern once more.

"HELLO?" I call into the void.

"Lacey!" I hear the voice say.

I look around for the boat. "Come back! I want to go this way!" I shout. But my captain is long gone.

"Laceyyy..." the voice says, quieter this time. The music, the indescribably lovely music calls out to me too, from the opposite side, though I hear that quieting as well.

I look at each cavern, the music, the voice, both fading. The two towerlights fading, the torch in my hand, dying out.

There is no more time to waste. One last look at the direction of the impossibly beautiful melodies, and tears fall as I turn away from it, release my grip, and dive into the frigid water, toward the cavern on the left, and swim as hard and fast as I can, even as the waters push me that way. There are a thousand voices in my head as I swim these waters, an abundance of memory and hope and hopelessness coursing around me, but only one voice I ache to reach...

and then...

Am I swimming in cotton? Am I even moving?

"Lacey? Oh, Lacey! There you are! My god!"

"Mom?" I say. I think I say..?

There are other noises, beeps, muffled things, none as important as the voice I'd heard, now right next to me. Mom's.

"Lacey, no, no, lie still..." Mom says.

“Lacey, can you hear us?” an unknown voice asks.

I watch my mother's eyes, so tired, so happy, as they fill with hope and tears that overflow down her cheeks.

She's holding my hand, the way she always has done when I've had a rotten cold, or any time I just felt sad. She holds my hand now, tight, and kisses the back of it, never loosening her grip, even as the other voice continues to speak.

Then a bright light shines into my eyes, first one, then the other. Ouch.

"Pupils responsive," the voice said. Then continued, "Lacey, can you blink for me, please?I'm Dr. Vanessa Easton. Please don't try to speak. There's a tube in your throat helping you breathe. You've been in an accident.”

I blink.

“It's good to have you back with us,” the doctor says with a smile. Then, to my mom, she adds, “She is strong. This is a very good sign that she pulled through that. We’ll keep monitoring, of course. I think she's really turned a corner. You’ve got a fighter, there.”

My mom nods, and tries to speak. She smiles, tears fall, and she manages, “Thank you..”

I think I like Dr. Easton.

My mother kisses my hand again. “Lacey... you came back to us... Oh, I love you so much. Thank you, thank you.....” she says and sniffles.

It's ok, Mom. I'm here, I say. In my head, anyway. I'm right here.

I give her hand a soft squeeze.

"Oh!" she says and squeezes back so hard it hurts. But I don't mind.

A suggestion of a memory of a melody floats faintly in the back of my mind. What is it?
I'm not quite sure. It just feels like... like some day, I’ll hear it again. Perhaps a long, long time from now. But not yet.

Not yet.

This is an incredibly good read and made me feel a lot better. I mean, if Maya Angelou can feel like a fraud when it comes to writing, then.... we self conscious, doubtful writers are in good company!!

How to Overcome Imposter Syndrome

Heading to the doc to get this splint off my hand!!

I have my first carpal tunnel surgery tomorrow. First up - right hand. It's the more damaged one. Good luck, right hand! (I'm so glad I'm left handed. Not that the left hand gets out of this either - just gotta wait about 6 or so weeks for that one...)

I'm trying not to be nervous, but OMG IT'S SURGERY!! ON MY HAND!!!!!!

Sure, it'd be scarier if it were my brain or my heart. But fuck... my hand! I need that! Deep down, I really do feel that it'll go great, and my hand will be better off than it even is right now. I'm just a little freaked out. Because, that's just how it is!

Deeeeeeeeep breaths are the name of the game today. And watching Lizzo's inspirational talks before concerts and getting all teary-eyed. hehe!

Joe ordered food on Amazon Prime yesterday so we got a bunch. I'm going to go get even more today so I just don't have to think about it for like a week or so. Joe got mostly snacks. Popcorn does not a dinner make. So I'm going to get meal stuff today.

I did the dishes already. I'm going to put fresh sheets on the bed today. And I'm going to sit on the couch and watch a LOT of TV over the next 48 hours while I recuperate!

I'll see y'all sometime next week once I feel comfortable typing again. Have a wonderful week, everyone!

Facebook Memory from Aug 4, 2015, which makes Homer 4 years old when I wrote this:



Lately when I ask Homer a question..

"Hey Homer can you please hand me that?"

"Yes, my lady!"

Or sometimes he says, "Yes my darling!"

Then the other night we were watching Toy Story 3 and talked about growing up. (He didn't know why Andy's mom was crying.) We told him he'll grow up and move out one day too and then Joe added "and Mommy will probably cry a lot." Homer said, "When I grow up, I don't want to be a daddy."

"Why?" we asked.

"I want to be a *mommy* so that I can drive!"

We laughed and explained that Daddy *can* drive, he just doesn't drive this car very much, because he wants us to have the car so we can go places during the day.

So that was a few days ago. Then today, Homer said to me, "I don't want to grow up. Because I love you."

I said "Oh Homer we'll always love each other no matter what, no matter how old either of us gets."

He said, "But Mommy the reason I don't want to grow up is I don't want you to cry!"
(And cry is pronounced with a "w" : cwhy :) )

I love those super sweet moments! I told him I'll cry a lot in life, because it's just how I am. I'll cry when I'm sad but also when I'm happy and the times I'm super proud of him too. And told him he could just hug me when I cry and that'll always help. He said "okay!" all cheerfully and sounded reassured.

I love this little guy.

This is how it works: Those who wish to participate - say so in the comments, and I will give you three topics, or spheres of interests, which I think you are not interested in, or maybe I will be surprised to learn that you have an affinity with.

My unexpected topics were given to me by the lovely bsgsix:


1)Red apples

For ages I thought there were only two kinds of apples, red and green. That's it! And I thought both were a little "blah." Apples are ok, I would say. But I preferred apple juice, apple sauce, apple pie. :D Then I got older and realized there are bunches!! (So to speak, ha!) I like Gala, Pink Lady, and especially Honeycrisp apples. Jazz apples are good, too. Granny Smith I have to be in the mood for, and Red Delicious apples just aren't as delicious as the others, despite their name. But they are pretty, I'll give them that, and they'll always remind me of fairy tales!


2)The Attractiveness of People Who Wear Glasses
A lot of people look really good in glasses! It doesn't make a huge difference to me, though. I wonder if people think I look more attractive when I wear my glasses? I hadn't really thought about it much. I like having nice styles, though, and fun frames. It's no fun to have glasses that are too simple or not colorful. It's been several years of wearing them, but I spent the first decades of my life not wearing them, so it's still new to be wearing them full time, relatively speaking.

Anyway, if I find someone attractive, I won't necessarily find them more attractive if they put glasses on. But I have friends who feel that way, and the other night, we were out at dinner, passing my glasses around to other people to wear, and it made a close friend of mine extra happy and overwhelmed by the cuteness of especially one person who looked great in the glasses, which then made said friend very blush-y, which was both funny and cute. XD

But like people I find attractive like Kevin McKidd and Samira Wiley, would I find them more attractive with glasses...? Hmm. Upon imagining these scenarios, I actually think both of them would be extra hot in glasses. Mmm-hmmm. Yes. WHY IS THAT?! That's so funny. Glasses for everyone!!


3)Amazon (specifically, the global company)

I feel like maybe we're supposed to hate Amazon, as a huge mega company that is taking over everything, or something? But I actually really like it. It's right here, maybe a 15 or 20 minute drive from me. My brother works there!! And when we order things from Amazon Prime, it comes so quickly! We use it a lot. I still like going out and shopping for books in person most of the time. But if I want something on Kindle, or if I want breakfast sandwiches quickly, I can just hop on Amazon and have it in no time. We also have an Amazon Echo, which is odd but cool. Like having a weird little sentient robot living with us. I know she's not, but when you talk to it, and she has a name, and you're like, "Hey Alexa, what time is it?" and she tells you, or you say, "Alexa, can you play [specific song]?" and she does, you end up being like, dang Alexa is the best roommate! hehe So yeah anyway, I'm pretty much in the yay Amazon! camp of life.

Interesting thing to reflect on: Trying new things requires a lot more brain energy.

It gave me one of those "of course that's true, and I know I knew that, but YEAH, wow, that's so true AND applicable to my life" kinds of moments.

In this sense: No wonder I am afraid to learn to cook. It's ALL new recipes to me!!!

This is why you should learn this shit when you're a little kid, because then you don't have to be an adult with adult responsibilities trying to learn cooking for the first time at 30 and 40 years old.

But also, as someone with anxiety, who gets overwhelmed easily - this is why I avoid new things. It takes more energy. And I already have very little energy!!

Just an "aha!" moment, if you will.

XD

On a recent facebook thread, someone asked for contemporary middle grade horror titles. Since that's kind of what I'm trying to write, I thought I'd list them here, as a to-read wishlist, so that I can see what other middle grade authors are doing and how they handle giving spooky-fun materials to kids!! :)

Here is a small snippet of my miles long to-read list! ~~



Meddling Kids by Edgar Cantero
Doll Bones by Holly Black
Rise of the Jumbies by Tracey Baptiste
The Night Gardener by Jonathan Auxier
Lockwood & Co. series by Jonathan Stroud

Classic past titles might include Coraline and The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman
ParaNorman by Elizabeth Cody Kimmel


Small Spaces by Katherine Arden - coming soon, not released yet

Thomas Templeton and the whispers of Branson Manor

Robert Beatty's Serafina and the Black Cloak

Dan Poblocki (author of several titles)


Mother's Sea

THE AVIARY by Kathleen O'Dell

The Hunt for the Seventh, by Christine Morton-Shaw


Lucy Boston's Green Knowe books




younger age books:

Pippi Longstocking
Trumpet of the Swan
anything by EB White
Violet Mackerel
Joan Aiken Necklace of Raindrops
Nesbit
Lucy Boston's Sea Egg