All six writers received the invitation on the same day and immediately called each other: “Are you going? Will you bring your ingredient?”
As instructed, not one writer told the other what she was requested to bring.
On Halloween night, a round iron pot sat in the center of the library conference table where the writers met once a week. Joellen splashed in two quarts of Diet Coke. Danielle measured and added a tablespoon of vinegar. Continue reading
When Dorie talked to her minister about the passageway, he pooh-poohed it. “We don’t believe in things like that,” he said in a patronizing tone. “New agey – has nothing to do with religion.” Continue reading
“I’m not sure this is possible,” she says to me in a not altogether nice way. In fact, she’s rather blunt.
“Pleeese?” I plead. “I heard that you’re the best. I wasn’t even sure how to find you. I Googled first, of course, but no answer appeared about how to locate someone with your skills.”
She rolls her large, turquoise eyes. Continue reading
“The writing class dug out my neuroses in 30 minutes,” Susie claimed.
Her therapist nodded, eyebrows raised.
“I mean, I’ve been seeing you for five months and all you say to me is ‘how does that make you feel?’” Susie continued, pushing her bangs away from her eyes. “Yet in the class I attended on a whim, I discovered things I never knew about myself!” Continue reading
I’m alone again. Toby is out on patrol. I accepted that he was a police officer when he asked me to marry him two years ago. I accept that he puts his life in danger every day for public safety. I accept that the men and women he works with on the police department are, as he says, “his family.”
But I am not accepting his third stint in three months of the late night shift.