In 1999 I was several years into a habit of staying up late to listen to Art Bell’s voice echo through my AM radio. His show, which normally spanned a wild array of paranormal and conspiracy theory topics, was largely one-note that year. His guests were scientists, analysts, technologists, and psychics, who were all poked and prodded for their expert opinions and predictions about Y2K.

During the day I sold shoes for minimum wage– a job that was better than it sounds– but I lived for the nights, when the kettle was whistling on the stove of my closet-sized studio apartment. I called him most nights, as my tea steeped and I burrowed deeper and deeper under the blankets, privileging the long-distance phone calls over the heating bill.

We talked late into the night, often circling back to the state of the world, the end of civilization, and a potential technology-mandated return to simplicity. Over time, the fear of the unknown turned into excitement as we dreamed, awake and aloud, about what life would be like without computers. We fantasized about the world returning to its natural order and nature taking the opportunity to thrive unscathed.

As our dreams became lofty, so did our plans. Before we knew it we were buying camping gear, studying edible plants and working out the logistics of moving him to my small town in Vermont– a location we deemed more apocalypse-friendly than where he was living in Indianapolis. On my days off, I hiked deep in the woods, searching for hospitable camp sites– just in case– and returned home long after my cheeks were ruddy from the cold.

The apocalypse, of course, never happened. The year 2000 rolled in with no glitches, no crashes, no simplicity. But as my new sub-zero sleeping bag sat coiled up in a corner of my closet, our friendship unfurled with the realization that if the world was going to burn, we wanted to stand on a mountain and watch the flames rise, together. The clocks, for us, had reset.

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This piece was originally posted on the Literary Traces site.

“It was a moth. And a man. At the same time.”
“That isn’t real,” you insisted.
“But the book is based on a true story. It says it is.”
“That isn’t real.”
“Still, it freaked me out. Walk me home?”
“Of course. But that isn’t real.”

You pedaled your bike home a little faster that night. The Mothman Prophecies, real or not, had gotten under your skin, just as it had gotten under mine.

We spent most evenings together during that scorching Pensacola summer. You’d bring a sack full of baguettes from the bakery dumpster near your house, I’d splurge on 49¢ Faygo (cola for me, grape for you) and we’d follow the train tracks over the bridge to a small beach that overlooked the bay. The water gently ebbed and flowed around our ankles as we laid in the sand, searching for the UFOs that were often spotted in the skies above neighboring Gulf Breeze.

That’s how we stumbled upon the meteor shower. 100 per hour, at the peak. There were no words to describe the magic of being on that secluded beach with stars falling all around us– in the sky, but in the water too– so we laid in silence that was broken only by the whistle of the train, as it rushed along the tracks above our heads.

The wind from the train whipped through the humidity and rustled the leaves of the bushes behind us, startling you. You hoped I wouldn’t notice, but when you turned your head to look at me I grinned and squeezed your hand a little harder.

“The Mothman isn’t real,” I teased. Still, that night, we walked home a little faster, stealing looks over our shoulders.

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This piece was originally posted on the Literary Traces site.
All week, on the site, different writers will be exploring a theme of ‘evenings’. Don’t miss it!

I used to wait for the mailman every morning. From my porch, I could see the boxy white truck from three blocks away, inching slowly towards me, house by house. I wrote a lot of letters that year, valuing the intimacy of handwriting, coffee stains, and accidental run-on sentences. It’s true what they say: you have to write letters to get letters. And, my mailbox was overflowing.

The letters I loved most were from Daniel. We shared a city for years, but didn’t really know each other until we became penpals. He moved away for art school, I hitchhiked my way to Florida, and the weekly letters began.

His letters were easy to spot from the porch; the envelopes were handmade with any combination of intricate collage, paint, screen printed images, or stitched edges. Watching the letter pass from the mailman’s hand to the metal box on the curb made my heart race every time.

The envelopes were breathtaking, but what I craved most was inside. I had a ritual for reading, which started with retrieving the letter from the mailbox and retreating to someplace quiet. Sometimes it was the porch, sometimes my bedroom. Sometimes I walked all the way down to the park that cuts Palafox Street in half. First I would read the letter quick, devouring it. Then I’d read it again, slowly, taking in every word.

That night, after soaking up all of the excitement, passion, and ideas from his letter, I funneled them into a response, which found its way into the mailbox the next morning; flag up. Quick turnaround times were crucial.

After all, he was waiting for the mailman every morning too.

Flora’s feet barely  touch the floor of the filthy south-bound bus. Despite her stature, she’s thick, strong-legged, full of piss and vinegar. Her flesh colored stockings sag and hang off her knees and ankles, full of runs, mended over and over with clear nail polish. Her grey and white striped dress, thin with wear, sits just above her knees, lined with careful, hand-hemmed, red stitches.

In her weathered, leathery hands she holds a photograph; it’s wrinkled, dog-eared, and loved. Dark hair hangs loose from her bun, falling wildly around her face, but beneath it she is beaming.

The girl sitting beside her is no older than seventeen. She’s wearing nonfunctional strappy shoes, freshly manicured nails and an attitude that says she couldn’t possibly care less about anything or anyone. She’s chewing gum and staring out the greasy window– anything to avoid eye contact. She’s trying to appear confident and mature, but she’s insecure and scared and everyone knows it. The daily commuters can smell her vulnerability.

Flora rocks back and forth in her seat, clutching the photograph so tightly that her fingertips turn white. Finally, she turns to the girl and boldly holds out the photo exclaiming– nearly screaming– “This is my granddaughter! She was born last week! I’m going to see her!”.

The girl looks uncomfortable for a moment, her face filled with hesitation and dread. With wide eyes, she scans the bus to make sure nobody is watching before she takes the photograph. Holding it up to the sunlight, she stares at it for a moment. All she sees is a wrinkled and hairless lump, wrapped in a yellow blanket.

Their eyes meet and Flora’s are welled with tears. She is so filled with life and hope that she is shaking and grinning.

The girl looks at the photograph once more, and with a sincere and childishly innocent smile says

“She’s beautiful”.

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This piece was originally posted on the Literary Traces site.
All week, on the site, different writers will be exploring a theme of ‘flora’. Don’t miss it!