I've been really hesitant to dive into another short story. Ok, that's kind of a lie. I've been writing little stories here and there for the last couple of months. I've had every intention to share them with you, and then, that voice. I hear the voice. The one that says my writing sucks, that I don't know shit about dialogue, the voice that says, save yourself from the embarrassment. You have that voice too, although, it may not tell you that you are a crappy writer, we all have the voice. Today I finally said eff the voice, and decided to start a new journey with fiction, Short Story Saturday. For now I think it will be a twice monthly thing, so I'm not too overwhelmed. And I'd like to invite any other story tellers out there to join in. If you write a little something, or have something written that you would like to share, share it. Just leave a comment with the link. There are no editors here, no agents, no content police. This is a safe place. At least I hope it is. Let me know what you think and if you look forward to more Short Story Saturdays.
Sure
Elizabeth Calderon was five when Jack Lewis kissed her
square on the lips in the kindergarten lunch line. Why would he do such a thing? Michelle her best friend said it was because
he liked her. Alex Oliver said it was
because he dared Jack to kiss a Mexican,
whatever that was. At five Lizzie was
sure of two things, she wanted to be a ballerina, and she didn't like kisses
from boys on the lips.
When Lizzie turned ten she no longer wanted to be a
ballerina but a lawyer. Lawyers made
money and lived in nice apartments, like on LA Law.
She also noticed that on TV, lawyers didn't have to worry much about
money. A big apartment and lots of money seemed like a a dream worthy of dreaming.
If she had money she could help her mother pay the mortgage, because when her mother talked about the mortgage,
her voice changed, and Lizzie didn't recognize it anymore. At ten she was sure that being a lawyer with
a fancy apartment would solve all of her mother's problems.
At fifteen, Lizzie wanted to go by Liz, desperately. She spent her days slouched, trying to
conceal her chest, ever since Sam Jensen asked if she stuffed her bra in front
of the entire freshman PE class. She
didn't, but no one believed her. How
could she explain that she went to bed one night a 34A and woke up the next
morning a 34C? Her mother was no help either, telling her in a few years she
wouldn't be sorry. But she was
sorry. Liz measured her days in class
periods, mix tapes, and episodes of My So Called Life. She was sure about three things, she hated PE,
Sam Jensen was an asshole, and high school sucked.
The night Liz turned twenty she got drunk and had sex with
Mason Young on the filthy floor of his fraternity house bedroom. Liz had no idea what was really happening
until Mason busted his way in. It was short
and painful, and she was pretty sure there had to be a better way to spend your
twenties.
Three days after turning twenty five Liz met James Walker
Harrington at Melissa Espinoza's engagement party. Convinced she was destined to be a bridesmaid
and never a bride, she wore her black work pants and a ponytail. As she ordered a gin and tonic, she heard a
voice behind her say, That's an old man's drink? When she turned around, she saw the face of the voice and knew she really didn't need one more asshole in her life. Even if that asshole happened to be pretty handsome. Liz realized that the only
sure thing in her life at the moment was the gin and tonic.
Liz celebrated her thirtieth birthday with a breast pump,
dirty diapers, and a screaming baby. Her
birthday wishes included a nap and a shower.
With a four month old at her side she ate a pint of rocky road ice cream
and watched horrible reality television.
She prayed that her husband would leave work early and take the baby for
the rest of the night. He didn't. Liz was struck by the idea that she enjoyed
her rocky road more than Mr. Harrington.
At thirty Liz loved her baby, hated her breast pump, and was pretty sure
motherhood was not her calling.
On the eve of her thirty-fifth birthday Liz typed away on
her laptop, writing a story she didn't know she had. Reflecting on how quickly she hit her scary age. That number had seemed so far away just a few
years ago. With two kids and almost six
years of motherhood behind her, she was exactly the kind of mother she always
wanted to be: good, but not perfect. After eight years of marriage she was exactly
the kind of wife she always hoped to be: supportive and loving.
As Elizabeth Calderon Harrington turned thirty-five she was
sure this was exactly the way it was
supposed to be.
