The Dance

The bobby pins in her hair were biting into her scalp, but she wouldn’t complain. Not today. She discreetly scratched her head to adjust the pins that were stabbing into the back of her neck, making her head ache with a sharp pain. She sighed with relief when it tugged free and a section of spiralled hair fell to her shoulders, releasing the culprit hairpin into the palm of her hand. She slipped the hairpin into the pocket of her slacks and tucked the piece of curled white hair behind her ear, hoping no one would notice. Her granddaughter had gone through a lot of trouble fussing over her this morning, indulging her with a trip to a luxurious spa that smelled like caramelized apples and sweet cinnamon spices.  She looked down to her feet and wiggled her toes. They sparkled like they were painted with liquid diamond flecks and red rubies under the candlelight overhead. She smiled with the memory of younger toes in similar shoes, and felt a stirring in the middle of her tummy. Images from many years ago came back to her aging mind.

Her late teens were hard to remember, muddled with so many years of life in between. But this one day, this one memory, glistened in the back of her dark forgetful mind, held in a spotlight so bright she could feel the wet grass caressing her bare toes. It was late in the evening on a hot summer night, but the sun still blazed in the bright blue sky as if it were mid afternoon. There was a pleasant breeze that blew off the water, and the lighted fountain in the middle of lake blew a cool mist over the festival that day. She remembered the wind tangling her hair into a knotted mess;  small wisps sticking to her lip-gloss.

 The music was something she didn’t care for at the time, it sounded like old timers' music to her. The kind with saxophones, trumpets and clarinets; she thought it must have been some type of jazz or swing performance. She was sure it wasn’t the music that drew the crowd in that day; she thought it was the idea of being outside, enjoying time with friends and family that had the downtown core crowded with people. There were food stands on every corner, offering hotdogs, sodas, and cotton candy.  Normally she wouldn’t go to something like that; she only showed up to volunteer her time for some extra marks in her college course.

As she walked through the throngs of people scattered across the lawn, her eyes fell upon an elderly couple getting up from their lawn chairs. She’s not sure why she stopped; there was just something captivating about the couple that grabbed her attention. Maybe it was the way they looked at each other, or the way they held matching smiles when the man held out his hand for his wife. In her young years, she thought the couple was in their nineties, but in the later years of her own life, she realised they were most likely in their seventies.

She could still taste the cotton candy melting on her tongue; the sugary grains sticking to the back of her teeth. She could feel the sun rays heating her exposed shoulders, burning her pale and freckled skin the same shade as her vibrant red hair. She could see the sun and the moon sharing the same sky, even the stars showed up early, twinkling with a softly lit glow. Nothing was more magical than the couple before her eyes. She would later remember them as The Dancers.

The man looked regal, wearing a white dress shirt tucked into his pressed trousers. A new song started and it must have been a special one, because he kicked off his dress shoes and folded up his pants into large folds. She watched with a smile as he bent down to help his wife out of her own shoes. His wife giggled like a teenager, tilting her head backwards with laughter when he pulled her forward into his arms. They were the only two in that moment. She felt it, as she watched him lead his wife into a dance they must have shared a thousand times before this one.  His wife seemed like a magical being; somehow she glowed in her fancy floral patterned dress. When he spun her in his arms, his adoration was clear in his eyes. When he looked at her, his love carried with the notes of the instruments, rewriting the lyrics to their own love song. When he pulled her to his chest, they kicked their feet to an old styled dance, her smile holding onto the memories of years devoted to cherishing only him.  

The song could have gone on all night; she could have watched The Dancers for an eternity. They were the only ones dancing, and she was the only one watching. When the song finally ended, she watched them share a warm embrace, pressed chest to chest in absolute joy. They turned and left her standing there; watching their departure, arm in arm, smiling at each other with a lifetime of faithful happiness engraved in their stare.  

She learned so much about her self in that five minute dance, at the age nineteen. She knew she would carry that day, the perfect image of love, for the rest of her life. She knew after watching The Dancers twirl into her daydreams, that she would want nothing more in life than to love and to be loved the way The Dancers loved each other. She knew that her priorities had changed; she no longer needed to find the best paying job, buy the biggest house she could afford, or own an expensive car just to look the part.

A balloon popped, and brought her back to her colourful toes still wiggling in her summertime sandals. She hated to leave The Dancers behind, but knew she would see them again one day. She felt a warm hand slide into hers, and she smiled so wide, she was sure her makeup would crack and settle into her deep wrinkles. A wet tear in the corner of her eye slid down the side of her nose as she looked at her husband, remembering her own dance. It wasn’t at a festival surrounded by strangers, or with a sky lit by the sun, moon, and stars all at the same time. It wasn’t about the act of the dance, she realised. It was about the dips they went through together, taking turns leading one another. It was about the twirls in life, moving to the rhythm of the song, side by side.  Every dance slows it pace, or picks up its beat, getting through together, moving at the same speed could sometimes be the challenge. The dance was a long, hard, journey, but it was worth the aches and pains a lengthy song could make you feel.

“What d’ya say, Abigail? You wanna give it a try?” her husband asked, holding out a steady hand.

“Henry, I’m not sure my feet could carry me for a full song,” she replied with hesitation.

“Oh, come on mom. Dad never wants to dance. You can do this. Besides it’s your 50^th anniversary.” Her daughter interrupted, nudging her shoulder.

“I’ll lead, darling,” Henry whispered in her ear. “We won’t fall, I promise. I’ll hold you tight.” He gave her an encouraging smile before helping her to her feet.

“How can I say no,” she laughed, shuffling behind her husband to the dance floor.

The music started with the soft melody of a piano, and she immediately recognised the song, falling into step with her husband. She could feel the notes traveling through her insides, the soft humming of angels dancing on the delicately tuned strings, vibrating with the perfect harmony. She placed her hand in her husband's as he gripped her lower back, and slowly drew her close. The same song played when she twirled in a fancy white gown 50 years earlier in the same hall, surrounded by family and friends. She felt the gentle caress of his thumb on her hand, and she knew he was reminding her of how he'd comforted her on their first dance all those years ago. She placed her face against her husband’s chest, and could imagine he was 22-years-old again, holding her with the strength of a young man. His grip may be slack now, his feet may move a little slower, and his hair may have turned white over the years, but his heart still beat for only her.

Blue Eyes

Since I can't post my novel on here, I thought I'd post my first short story.

Blue Eyes

She sits on the toilet seat, feeling completely numb while staring at the double pink lines in the pregnancy test shaking in her hands. The room spins and her heart pounds so fast, she’s not sure if she’s overheated from her pulse working overtime, or from the furnace blasting hot air on her face. Water drips from the faucet, echoing in her ears, like a low bass drumbeat. She squints as she looks away from the positive test, dropping it to the bathmat on the floor. Her tears are flowing now, running into her open, smiling, mouth. Sarah tries to gain control of her sobs as she licks the tears from her lips and wipes her warm cheeks with the soft toilet paper, closing her eyes from the gentle touch.

She remembers a hot summer day in late August like it was only yesterday. She was eighteen and needed to find out why her menstrual cycle was nonexistent when she was feeling perfectly healthy. Her appointment lasted an hour.  Her gynaecologist sat her down and explained to her that she had Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. As a small-minded eighteen-year-old, Sarah left the doctors office reeling with the news that she wouldn’t need to take birth control because she wasn’t likely to get pregnant without medical intervention.

Seven years later, Sarah finds herself in a ten year marriage, trying to conceive a baby with a totally different mindset. Injection after injection seemed like a fair trade for her own bundle of joy; except the medications weren’t working. Sarah knew her husband, Adrian would have worked three jobs, so money wasn’t the issue when they decided to give up on having children. Disappointment, month after month, year after year, decided for them.

Ella, Sarah’s golden retriever, whines at the bottom of the bathroom door, bringing Sarah back to reality, reminding her that she was sure this was never going to happen for them.

Sarah stands up, her legs feeling like jelly as she places the pregnancy test in the vanity drawer for proof; she knows Adrian is going to want to see it for himself. She opens the bathroom door and sees Ella sitting on her haunches, her head cocked to the side and her eyes round with silent questions.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” Sarah says aloud, rubbing Ella’s ears in gentle circles.

Ella licks Sarah’s hand and Sarah wonders if Adrian is reminded of the earlier dark days when he looks at Ella. She tries not to remember; Ella brings her such happiness now. Adrian brought Ella home on Valentines Day two years ago with a velvety red bow tied around her wrinkly neck. He had to have known it could never take away her pain, yet he had to try something. He told her sometime later that he couldn't stand to see Sarah struggling with her depression any longer. She had to admit, he did leave her alone for months, watching her slip into a dark void. She would sleep all day, or cry all day; she was a zombie that complained of body aches and pains, and ultimately lost her job because of it.

Sarah looks at the clock and realises she doesn't have much time until Adrian is home from work. She has time for a quick trip to the mall and maybe to the grocery store. There are a few things she needs to pick up.

An hour later, Sarah has Adrian’s favourite lasagna cooking in the oven and sparkling apple cider chilling in the refrigerator. She knows it's probably going overboard; a small glass of wine likely won't hurt, but with this blessing they've been given today, she wants to make sure she does everything right. No wrong turns. She hears the snow crunching under the tires of Adrian's Volkswagen, and her heart immediately starts to pound again. The diesel engine idles with a comforting rumble as she watches him through the kitchen window. Looking through the frosted glass with her stomach in knots, she regretfully realises she'll never forget the plop of bird shit on his windshield as she tries to see his handsome face through the white splatter.

She watches him as he hurries to the front door with his face buried in his bright red scarf she just got him for Christmas, and hears the front door open a moment later.

“Jesus. It’s cold out there, love,” he yells into the foyer, kicking his snowy boots onto the doormat. “We really should move somewhere warmer.”

Sarah takes a big gulp of air, trying to calm her rampant heartbeat as she swings her head around the corner, meeting the surprised eyes of her husband. She hasn’t had her stomach flip flop like this since she was in her early twenties and they were first together; she likes this distant, familiar, feeling. 

“Hi, Honey. I’ve been saying that for years,” she says, taking his coat and hanging it up on wooden coat rack.

“You look good today.” He smiles as he nuzzles into her neck, shaking the snow from his hair down the back of her bare neck. 

“You did that on purpose,” she yelps, jumping from his embrace with a smile plastered on her face, lightly punching him in the arm.

“I cover you in snow and you’re still happy. What gives?” he asks with a grin, finding her playfulness irresistible.

“Come with me, and I’ll show you,” Sarah whispers, pulling on his hand, grinning from ear to ear.

“I can smell the lasagna. What is this? You trying to soften me up for something?” he laughs, but follows Sarah to their bedroom without pushing for more answers.

“Here, have a seat,” Sarah says, turning to Adrian and patting the side of the bed.

“All right,” he agrees with an inquisitive gleam in his dark-brown eyes. He watches her with adoration, loving the way her back arches when she bends over.

“I got you this today.” She smiles so wide her mouth hurts, handing him the present she picked up this afternoon at the mall.

Sarah notices Adrian looks happy already, and he doesn’t even know what’s going on. He’s like that, always so eager to please her. She sits on the bed beside him and can hardly contain her emotions as she watches him tug the yellow sleeper out of the delicate tissue paper.

She loves the way Adrian’s cheeks flare with an instant red heat, and she loves the smile that takes over his face even more. He stares at the sleeper with a tear running down his cheek, rubbing his fingers over the embroidered words, world’s best daddy. He surprises Sarah when he jumps up and grabs her, spinning her in a fast circle, all in the same fluid movement. Her feet don’t touch the ground; he has her held so tight to his chest. She can feel his heart beating in rhythm with her own, knowing this day, this moment, will forever be the brightest moment of their lives.

“Can it be? Is it real? Am I really gonna be a daddy?” He smiles through his tears.

“Mmm Hmm.” Sarah quietly cries with him, wiping the tears from his cheeks.

“God, I want to take you out to celebrate,” Adrian says, rolling his shoulders, trying to get himself under control.

“I made your favourite supper,” Sarah says with a smile. “Then we’ll go out and celebrate. I wouldn’t mind going dancing tonight.”

“Anything you want, love.” Adrian rubs Sarah’s cheek with a gentle caress.

“Was that the buzzer I heard a few minutes ago,” he asks, walking out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

“I don’t care if it burns,” Sarah declares. “It would still taste like heaven tonight.”

“I know what you mean,” Adrian agrees, taking two plates out the cupboard.

Sarah pours two glasses of apple cider and silently gazes at the sparkling bubbles, feeling on top of the world.

“You okay, love?” Adrian asks through a mouthful of lasagna.

“Mmm Hmm,” Sarah absentmindedly answers, looking up from the champagne flute in her hand, and into her husband’s concerned eyes.

She smiles as she gets lost in her own thoughts, admiring Adrian’s striking features. She knows how lucky she is to have him by her side, never having to second guess how he feels for her. She knows without a doubt, he’d run to hell and back just to make her smile. She leans over her plate of lasagna, and he knows what she’s looking for. They’ve been kissing for so long; it feels like their lips have been designed for one another. The warm touch of his lips on hers radiates with more love than she deserves. She pulls back from his embrace and wonders if their baby will have her small round ears, his soft full lips, his dark curly hair, or the ocean blue eyes of her boss. 

Holy wow, I suck at keeping up on a blog.

I hadn't realised how long ago it was I last posted.

I've finally got a few queries out and got a few rejections back. It's strange, but I kind of even liked my first rejection. I smiled when I read the words "I don't think I would be able to place this project." I think the happy feeling actually surprised me. I realise now, it's because I liked knowing that I was finally doing this thing. I was finally sending off my work to be read by the people who know what they're talking about.

I just wish when an agent sent a rejection they would say why. I know they don't have time; what with weeding through email after email after email. It would just be nice to see "Your writing is solid but your plot needs work, or, this might have potential but your query letter needs work."

I do however like when an agent takes the time to put my name at the top of the email. I suppose it goes both ways. They don't like "Dear agent" and I don't like "Dear author".

I understand why they say to start a new book or work on something else while you wait. You could drive yourself insane checking your email for new messages.

Gold fish? Guppy? I don't know.

I'm really starting to feel like a teeny tiny little fish in a really big freakin' pond. Sooo sooo many writers out there trying to get published. What an impossible hill to climb. I hope I'm one of the lucky ones!

Why Oh Why?

I think my book is almost ready to send out. See how many times my heart can be crushed, over and over and over again. I can't believe all the things a new writer has to learn. So much, too much really. Weeks and weeks of research. How to write the best query letter. How to get your manuscript ready, (if your lucky enough that someone wants to see it). This font is better than that font, don't write "dear first name" only use Mr or Miss. Right sized margins, double spaced lines. Most of all, I wish I would have known before I wrote my book not to go over 120,000 words. Now I've been working my butt off to cut 15,000 words so my book isn't trashed right from the get go.  Geesh.  Remind me why I'm killing myself to get this right?

Here I thought writing the book was the hard part. Apparently not.

Who Knew?

I thought after writing my first book it would be so easy to get it published. Boy was I dreaming. I had no idea the hell I was going to have to go through. I haven't tried sending out my query letter yet. Of course I want to make sure it's perfect. After reading all of the do's and do not's, I've realized this is going to be a whole lot harder than I thought. Why do they suggest a new aspiring writer have a blog?

Are we getting too connected?

My boyfriend thinks so.